Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Yoshiki arrives in Kubitachi in late spring.

The sky opens up before him in an endless expanse of soft, watery blue, and the entire town blooms with colorful flowers of varying hues. No one immediately recognizes him as he steps off the train, which is more of a relief than anything.

He takes a taxi to his parents’ house, staying silent the entire ride. The driver doesn’t pester him for being a familiar face, nor does he ask nosy questions about what a city boy is doing in their neck of the woods. Yoshiki is grateful; he’s not sure if he wants to lose the mask of anonymity just yet. He’s used to having one in Tokyo, where he’s lived since graduating from university for the past four years.

He’s twenty-five now, and he’s home for the week to attend Hikaru’s wedding.

His mother weeps when she sees him again.

“You never visit,” she accuses, burying her face into his shirt.

Never mind that she visits Tokyo more often than not. Never mind that, after the divorce, she’d kept in touch with Yoshiki with far more frequency than she ever did when he lived with her. They call once or twice a month now, and sometimes it’s a lengthy video call with a cameo by Kaoru.

Tears and accusations aside, his mother darts into the kitchen to fix him lunch, muttering under her breath as she goes. Kaoru emerges from her bedroom upstairs at this point, and, seeing Yoshiki, her eyes widen slightly as she waves.

“Nii-chan is back,” she says.

She’s taller than the last time he’d seen her. Her hair still falls above her shoulders, and she wears the same passive, indolent expression, her eyes slightly hooded.

They eat lunch together and gossip about the logistics of Hikaru’s wedding.

“I haven’t seen him recently,” says his mother.

“I haven’t seen Akane-san either,” says Kaoru, stealing an egg from Yoshiki’s plate. “She must be nervous.”

“What are you going to wear?” asks his mother, tugging on Yoshiki’s sleeve. “Do you need me to iron your suit?”

“I’ll wear this,” says Yoshiki, gesturing at his button-down shirt, and both Kaoru and his mother squawk in disapproval.

The next day, Yoshiki wakes early enough to hear the birds singing. He dons his suit quietly and stares at his reflection in the mirror. His mother had ironed it, as promised, and now he looks prim enough to be a butler. Later, his mother also helps him comb his hair out of his eyes and apply some hair gel, so he’s never looked more clean-cut and unfamiliar. It’s not that he goes around Tokyo with a scruffy, unkempt appearance by any stretch of the imagination, but he still isn’t used to dressing up in a suit and adding product to his hair.

After they’re done getting ready, the three of them pile into his mother’s car and she drives them to the largest ryokan in Ashidori. It’s a relatively short ride, and the weather is auspiciously perfect today, but Yoshiki still can’t help but feel like it takes a dreary, storm-filled eternity to get there. His nerves ping and prickle in warning, and he takes slow and deliberate breaths through his nostrils to keep from losing himself.

A slew of familiar faces comes into view. He sees the local grocer, Mr. Takahashi, first, and then Mrs. Yamamoto and her daughter amble past in their floral-print dresses, yammering excitedly about the ceremony. No one seems to notice the Tsujinakas, or else they appear to willfully ignore them. His mother holds her head high, though, and wades through the crowd to find them seats at the front of the venue.

While she and Kaoru sit down and bow their heads together to whisper, Yoshiki walks through the lobby in search of the restroom. His mother and sister fare well enough on their own, but Yoshiki feels distinctly uncomfortable with so many eyes flocking to him. He can feel their stares on his back as he walks past them, murmurs trailing in his wake.

He finds the restroom and slips inside with nary a glance back, eager to have some peace and quiet all by himself.

Yoshiki is gripping the sink and staring at the drain with unusual concentration when the door bursts open and someone stumbles inside.

He wouldn’t have looked up if it hadn’t been for the guest’s inelegant, noisy entrance, but he does, partially because he’s surprised, and partially because he feels like he’s been caught red-handed for brooding over a sink before his childhood best friend’s wedding.

Hikaru stares at him in the mirror.

Yoshiki stares back.

He’s still short. He’s gained some weight, so he’s no longer a tiny, lanky thing with spindly limbs and a thin chest. He’s filled out considerably, now more muscular than wiry, although his jawline remains sharp and angular, and he looks unfairly handsome in his montsuki. He blinks slowly and blearily at Yoshiki in the mirror, his gaze sharpening when it dawns on him that he’s looking at his childhood best friend.

“Oh,” says Hikaru.

Yoshiki says nothing. His voice has escaped him; he couldn’t part his lips to greet Hikaru if he’d tried.

Hikaru’s face is slightly flushed, a light pink under the bright bathroom lighting. He seems to wobble on his legs a bit, as if gravity were bearing down on him and making him submit to its force.

“Yoshiki,” says Hikaru at last, slurring his name a bit, and it occurs to Yoshiki at once that Hikaru is tipsy.

He steps into the bathroom and slumps against the nearest wall, sighing as he drags a hand through his hair, which is combed and smoothed to sleek perfection. He rucks it up with one careless motion. Yoshiki winces.

“Yoshiki,” repeats Hikaru, his voice low. “It’s really you.”

Yoshiki hadn’t anticipated meeting Hikaru in the bathroom before his wedding. He certainly hadn’t expected to meet a drunk Hikaru, at that, shortly before his san-san-kudo. It’s a bad look for the groom to be tipsy before his big ceremony.

Never mind that it’s been almost a decade since they’ve last seen each other.

“Hey,” says Yoshiki, brow furrowing as Hikaru stumbles a bit. “Are you okay?”

“M’fine,” says Hikaru, flapping a hand. “Ah, ya even sound so different. S’like that in Tokyo, huh?”

It’s as if Hikaru’s accent has thickened over the years they’d spent apart. He sounds unfamiliar, too: older, more like his father, and rougher around the edges. Yoshiki’s clean, neutral accent sounds like a foreign language in comparison.

“I thought ya wouldn’t come,” says Hikaru, fussing with his haori. He fans at himself, plucking at his belt with restless fingers.

“I did,” says Yoshiki.

“Did yer mom make ya?”

“No.”

Hikaru barks a laugh.

“Yer tellin’ me ya planned on comin’ yerself?”

Yoshiki grimaces.

Hikaru tugs the belt of his haori so that it loosens the knot cinching everything together, and he exhales a loud, shaky breath as he lifts up the shirt he’s wearing underneath. Yoshiki sees a flash of his abs and jerks his head back, averting his gaze sharply.

It isn’t lost on Hikaru.

“Still a prude, eh?” he asks.

Yoshiki steels himself to make an exit. He’s had enough.

Before he can march past, Hikaru lays a firm hand on his shoulder and stops him from moving. Yoshiki stays rooted to the spot, his jaw clenching and his hands curling into fists at his sides.

“Leavin’ so soon?” asks Hikaru, and there’s a hard, mean edge to his voice that makes Yoshiki’s hackles raise.

“Yes,” says Yoshiki tersely.

“I ain’t done talkin’,” says Hikaru. “You gonna leave me hangin’ again, Yoshiki?”

It’s as if Hikaru has dunked Yoshiki’s head under icy water. Yoshiki stares at him, eyes wide.

Hikaru laughs.

“What, cat got yer tongue?” he says bitterly. “Ya heard me. Yer always so quick to run, aren’t ya.”

“What do you want,” snaps Yoshiki.

His curt, sharp tone seems to spark something inside Hikaru. Hikaru grins, fisting his suit jacket and pulling him closer, the better to see his snaggle tooth and furious, cutting gaze.

“I wanted you to stay,” says Hikaru.

Yoshiki’s hands feel numb from how hard he’s squeezing them. He keeps his nails trimmed short and neat, but they still score deep into his palms and make his skin hurt.

“M’here now,” says Yoshiki, his accent slipping a bit in his anger and fear.

“No,” says Hikaru, sneering, “yer not.”

He lets go of Yoshiki’s jacket then with a harsh movement. Agitated and jittery, Hikaru rakes another hand through his messy hair and glowers at Yoshiki as he tugs his suit back into place.

“S’yer fault,” says Hikaru, jabbing a sharp finger at Yoshiki’s chest.

“You’re drunk,” says Yoshiki coldly.

“M’fine,” says Hikaru. “Never felt better.”

“Your bride is waiting for you,” says Yoshiki, and apparently this is precisely the wrong thing to say, because it makes Hikaru’s face knit into a harsh, furious scowl as he grabs Yoshiki by the collar.

Yoshiki, furious himself, grips Hikaru’s wrist with one hand and braces himself against the nearest sink with the other.

“You left,” says Hikaru, and the way his voice trembles and breaks reminds Yoshiki so much of the lost, scared teenager he’d once been. “You left me.”

Before Yoshiki can answer, another man enters the restroom and promptly backs out, bowing in apology and coughing as he disappears. Yoshiki takes the opportunity to break free from Hikaru’s ironclad grip, and, spinning on his heel, darts out the door after him.

Chapter Text

Yoshiki doesn’t bother rejoining his mother and Kaoru in their row.

He ducks outside instead, eager to distance himself from what just happened. It doesn’t matter if anyone is actually watching him or not; he feels surveilled and hunted anyway, and he needs to shake off the sensation of being followed by having some alone time outdoors.

It’s beautiful and bright outside, the weather temperate and the flowers colorful: a perfect spring day by any measure. The ryokan is nestled in the rocky mountainside, framed by tranquil zen gardens and thatches of tall trees, and there’s a clearing beyond the entrance where guests go to smoke or observe the passersby below. Yoshiki hurries past little groups of tourists and guests to find a quiet alcove for some privacy.

The san-san-kudo ceremony is set to begin any moment now. Hikaru will have to sober up and face reality very soon. Yoshiki isn’t interested in being there to witness it.

He doesn’t smoke, but as he’s standing in the little alcove where smokers ostensibly hide out, he wishes he did. It would give him the illusion of productivity—of having something to do with his hands. He had university friends who smoked during and after parties, and they always seemed to stand there with purposeful affectations of boredom and indifference, puffing away at their cigarettes. 

Yoshiki, conversely, had been a shut-in at university. He’d rarely partied, instead focusing on his studies with grave determination. It’s what had earned him a scholarship to study in Tokyo in the first place. Rather than risk screwing with his grades, he’d kept his nose to the grindstone and fought tirelessly for stellar scores in all of his classes.

Hikaru used to resent and admire him for it. Back in high school, Yoshiki had tutored him in a range of subjects, but it hadn’t done much to salvage his test scores.

“Yer gonna leave someday,” Hikaru would tell him, wistful and wry in the same breath. “That brain of yours is gonna take ya places.”

It has. Yoshiki lives in Tokyo now and works a white-collar desk job like any other university-educated salaryman worth his salt. His undergraduate degree in biology from a competitive university in Tokyo had opened doors for him; now he has a place to call his own, a job to call his own, and a life to call his own.

Perhaps taking a week off to visit home had been a bad idea. He’d been overdue for a vacation anyway, and he could’ve gone anywhere but Kubitachi. He could’ve hopped on a plane to a neighboring country for a weekend jaunt, and then returned home for a much overdue staycation. He could’ve made it a point to avoid Hikaru’s wedding well before his mother ever mailed him the invitation.

Instead, he’d shown up like a fool.

“Nii-chan,” calls out a voice, rousing Yoshiki from his brooding thoughts.

He turns, watching impassively as Kaoru runs up to him.

“We’ve been looking for you,” she says.

“Sorry,” says Yoshiki.

“Why are you out here?”

Yoshiki shrugs and resists the urge to run a hand through his gelled hair.

Kaoru takes a seat on the lip of the stone outcropping beside him. She sighs, clasping her hands together.

“Hikaru is missing,” she says.

Yoshiki glances at her, unable to mask his alarm.

“What?”

“He hasn’t shown up. Folks think he’s got cold feet,” explains Kaoru.

Yoshiki glances at his phone. It’s been roughly thirty minutes since he’d encountered Hikaru in the bathroom. Could he have fled since then? Where would he have gone?

Kaoru’s probing gaze is heavy on the side of Yoshiki’s face.

“Nii-chan,” she says. “Do you know where he is?”

Yoshiki doesn’t. He doesn’t know this Hikaru anymore; he doesn’t know his haunts, his habits. He could be an entirely different person. He could be anywhere.

“I don’t know,” says Yoshiki.

“If anyone knows, it’d be you,” says Kaoru.

She leaves him alone with that declaration, not glancing back as she heads inside to rejoin their mother.

Yoshiki has no idea where he’s going. Ashidori is unfamiliar territory, despite how he’d used to traverse these paths with Maki, Asako, Yuuki, and Hikaru after school sometimes. But he’d never acquainted himself with Ashidori outside of visiting Maki’s house, in truth—he doesn’t know it like he does Kubitachi, so it’s disorienting to walk its dirt paths and winding roads alone in the middle of the day.

For reasons unknown, he ends up at the entrance to the forest that connects Ashidori to Kubitachi. Not even the bright blue sky illuminates the dense, yawning darkness that lurks inside. Yoshiki squints, trying to peer past the trees into the heart of the forest, but it’s no use—he’ll need to enter it properly to start a search for Hikaru.

He holds his phone aloft and folds his suit jacket over his arm as he wends his way into the forest. The path is littered with leaves and twigs, clearly unattended and unmaintained. Yoshiki’s shiny dress shoes flash like coins as he maneuvers his way over gnarled tree roots and stray fallen branches. He keeps his eyes peeled for anything bright and human-shaped in the distance, but the darkness swallows up all traces of light and makes it impossible to see far ahead.

He’s been walking for roughly fifteen minutes when he stumbles across a clearing with a little cluster of tree stumps.

Hikaru is sitting on one of them.

Yoshiki stops.

Hikaru faces the opposite direction. He’s wearing a white undershirt, his haori shed behind him on the tree stump.

At the sound of a twig snapping underfoot, Hikaru whirls around.

They stare like two wild animals sizing each other up for potential danger. Yoshiki doesn’t move an inch, staying rooted firmly in place, and Hikaru watches him with an intensity that borders on hunger. His eyes are very wide, shining, and rimmed with red, almost as if he’d been rubbing furiously at them or crying himself raw mere seconds ago.

“Should’ve known,” says Hikaru with a bitter laugh. “‘Course you’d be the one to find me.”

Yoshiki says nothing.

Hikaru stands up with a heavy, drawn-out sigh. He folds his haori over his arm, but otherwise doesn’t move a muscle. He gazes at the distant treeline with a musing frown.

“M’not heading back,” he says after a beat. “If they sent ya here to make me—”

“Nobody sent me,” says Yoshiki, cutting him off.

Hikaru’s eyes snap up to meet his. He furrows his brow, clearly unconvinced.

“So ya just came by yerself,” he says flatly. “Ya expect me to believe that?”

Yoshiki grips his phone tightly. He opens his mouth to speak, uncertain of what he’ll say to contradict Hikaru’s stubborn questions, when Hikaru cuts in with a sharp laugh.

“M’not so drunk now,” he says. “I can handle yer crap when sober, y’know. Just be honest with me, Yoshiki. Tell me why yer here.”

Yoshiki’s collar feels too tight. He’d claw at it, but he can barely move.

“I don’t know,” says Yoshiki.

“Bullshit,” says Hikaru. “Ya bolted earlier for a reason. Ya came here for a reason. Don’t play dumb with me now—I know ya better than that.”

Yoshiki seizes on this like a lifeline.

“Know me?” he repeats, his voice raising a bit. “You don’t know anything about me. Not anymore.”

Hikaru’s mouth twists and his face flushes with color. He tosses his haori to the ground, uncaring of where it lands, and stalks over to where Yoshiki is standing.

“An’ whose fuckin’ fault is that,” he snaps, eyes bright with anger.

He jabs a finger against Yoshiki’s chest to punctuate his point. Yoshiki lifts a hand to stop him, but Hikaru swats it away and shoves him instead. Yoshiki staggers back, shocked into backpedaling, but manages to recenter himself before he can topple to the ground. He straightens up and scowls at Hikaru, temper flaring.

“You haven’t changed,” says Yoshiki harshly. “Shoving me around won’t solve anything.”

“Who says I’m lookin’ to solve anythin’,” says Hikaru through gritted teeth. “I ain’t goin’ back.”

“Then you’re a fool,” says Yoshiki.

“Yer not allowed to talk to me about foolishness,” says Hikaru with a humorless laugh. “Not when yer the whole reason I’m here.”

Yoshiki stares in confusion.

“What?” he asks.

Something shifts in Hikaru’s furious expression. It’s as though a shadow has passed over his face, altering his mood along with it.

“Ya heard me,” says Hikaru.

Against his better judgment, Yoshiki ignores the premonitory prickle of fear he feels. He plunges ahead.

“Why am I the reason you’re here?” he asks.

Hikaru’s glare softens a bit. He’s still radiating hostility and defensiveness, but there’s a tremor of uncertainty in his voice when he says, “It’s always been you, Yoshiki.”

It feels like a direct blow to the chest. Yoshiki abruptly cannot breathe; he inhales sharply, desperate for air, and takes an uneasy step back.

“What does that mean?” he asks, before he can stop himself.

Hikaru is close enough to touch. Yoshiki could reach out and lay a hand on his shoulder. He could even inch closer to cradle the side of Hikaru’s face with his palm, and stare directly into his unwavering gaze.

He doesn’t. He can’t.

“Yer gonna make me spell it out for ya?” asks Hikaru with a scoff.

Unlike before, he now seems deflated a bit, more exhausted than indignant and fiery. The banked embers of his fury could be fanned back into a roaring fire at any moment, but for now, at least, he seems calm.

Yoshiki clears his throat.

“I don’t—”

“I’ve been waitin’ for ya all this time,” interjects Hikaru.

It’s hard to stare right at the pained, plaintive rictus of his face. He’s not quite smiling, but he’s not quite frowning, either. He’s caught in between the two, his mouth a trembling line that matches the dark and stormy intensity of his eyes.

“Hikaru,” says Yoshiki. “I don’t understand.”

“For someone so smart,” says Hikaru, “ya sure do need lotsa hand-holdin’. But you’ve always been like that, haven’t ya.”

He sighs, raking a hand through his hair, and goes to pick up his abandoned haori on the ground.

“You’re not making any sense,” protests Yoshiki.

“Mhm. Just keep tellin’ yerself that,” says Hikaru.

He shuffles past Yoshiki then, his bare shoulder brushing against Yoshiki’s in passing.

Yoshiki unthinkingly reaches for him before he can depart.

Hikaru stares at him, blinking, as he registers the hand on his shoulder.

“You can’t leave yet,” says Yoshiki, when Hikaru falls silent while waiting for him.

“Ya got somethin’ to say?” asks Hikaru, lifting his chin.

Yoshiki’s gaze drops to the ground. Truthfully, he has nothing life-altering or clarifying to add; he’s just seized by an overwhelming sense of dread as Hikaru turns away to ostensibly disappear somewhere unreachable.

“Earlier, you said I—” he swallows, trying to push forward, “left you.”

Hikaru watches him with an unreadable expression, his eyes shining like silver.

“I did,” he says quietly.

“I never meant to,” says Yoshiki.

“Doesn’t change the fact that ya did.”

“I know. I’d say sorry, but—”

“But what?”

“You won’t hear it,” says Yoshiki in exasperation. “Nothing will change what I’ve done.”

Hikaru heaves a very long, loud sigh.

“Apologizin’ has never been yer thing,” he says. “Ya suck at it.”

“Sorry.”

Hikaru snorts. Despite everything, Yoshiki does too.

“Hey now, ya can’t be laughin’ with me,” says Hikaru. “Yer the reason I’m in this whole mess.”

“You can’t blame me for everything, y’know.”

“I can an’ I will.”

It’s easy to fall back into stupid banter with him. Yearslong tension aside, Hikaru has always made it easy to crawl back to him, tail between his legs, and find recognition and acceptance after even the most vicious fights. Hikaru isn’t the type to hold grudges; Hikaru isn’t the type to give up on people. To give up on Yoshiki would be the most unlikely thing of all, but somehow, along the way, Yoshiki had convinced himself that Hikaru would.

“For what it’s worth,” says Yoshiki, “I am sorry. I never meant to hurt you.”

“No, ya just meant to hurt yerself instead.”

It’s unclear if this is a well-meaning joke or a cruel jab, but Yoshiki doesn’t think too hard about it either way. There’s a grain of truth to it, regardless. His masochism had led him to bury himself in Tokyo and start anew, a fragile sapling with transplanted roots.

“I gotta go back now,” says Hikaru, folding his arms behind his head and exhaling noisily.

“I’ll go with you.”

“‘Course you are. Yer gonna be the one to tell her,” says Hikaru, flashing a grin for the first time since Yoshiki has reunited with him.

It makes Yoshiki feel a bit faint. It’s such a nostalgic thing to see his eyes crinkle and nose scrunch like that.

“Tell her? Tell who?”

“Akane.”

Yoshiki stares.

“What?”

“Yer gonna tell her it’s off. No weddin’.”

“Hikaru,” says Yoshiki, his voice dripping with irritation and disdain, “you’re going to do that yourself.”

Chapter Text

Back in his room at the ryokan, Hikaru slips into sweatpants and an old T-shirt. Instantly he feels more like himself and less like a caricature of a groom in stuffy formalwear.

When he shoulders his way out of the bathroom, he’s confronted at once by Yoshiki, who’s still dressed in his fancy, distracting suit. It’s not just the suit that snags Hikaru’s attention, though; it’s his face, his hands, his everything. When they’d first met in the bathroom earlier, Yoshiki’s face in the mirror had silenced the static running in his mind. He’s always been annoyingly handsome, with his dark hair and darker eyes, his pale skin and perfect jawline. He’s taller than ever now, slender and svelte where Hikaru is buff and angular. He’s an objectively good-looking guy, and in his suit, he’s probably drawn so many appreciative stares from passersby.

He honestly looks like he belongs in Tokyo. Beautiful men are wasted out here in the boonies. Beautiful men deserve beautiful lives in beautiful, booming cities.

Before Hikaru can spiral down that train of thought, Yoshiki clears his throat. He stands by the window, hands in his pockets, and stares expectantly at Hikaru.

“What?” asks Hikaru, self-conscious.

Yoshiki gives him a once-over.

“That’s what you’re wearing?”

Hikaru shrugs.

“No use wearin’ a lie,” he says.

“So you’re gonna go tell your fiancée in sweats and a ratty old T-shirt that it’s over?”

“Pretty much,” says Hikaru.

Yoshiki’s brows knit together. He glances at his fancy smartwatch like a fucking tool.

“They’ve been waiting for an hour,” he says.

“Yeah, well.”

“Hikaru.”

Hikaru slants Yoshiki a look. He sighs and throws himself down onto the bed, ready to succumb to a long sleep.

Yoshiki hovers over him.

“Hey, idiot,” he says.

Hikaru closes his eyes.

“Yer free to go, if ya wanna,” says Hikaru.

Never mind that he’s likely to kick up a fuss if Yoshiki leaves now. It hadn’t taken much convincing to get him to follow Hikaru back to his room, but he’s still liable to leave at any moment—it’s his whole deal, after all. Hikaru won’t let that happen, though.

“You should go find Akane,” says Yoshiki. “Or she’ll come find you, at this rate.”

Akane is probably fine, to be honest. She’s a tough one. Hikaru doesn’t need to hold her hand through any of this. It’s what he tells himself to stave off the guilt, anyway.

“Tell me why yer still here, first,” says Hikaru.

Yoshiki stares at him, his eyes inscrutable in the fading light. Hikaru folds his arms behind his head and waits.

“If I leave, you might just run away again,” says Yoshiki.

“So I’m yer responsibility?”

“You’re my friend.”

It’s an odd, loaded statement. Hikaru’s lips quirk into a faint smile. He’ll have fun with this.

“Friend, huh?”

Yoshiki sighs, glancing away.

“Don’t start,” he says.

“Don’t start what?”

“Your usual crap.”

“What’s my usual crap?”

Yoshiki pockets his hands and frowns.

“I dunno. You lay the guilt on thick,” he says, and Hikaru cracks up.

“Yer too easy to rile up, Yoshiki.”

That much hasn’t changed. It’s gratifying to see more and more of what remains the same, like sifting through storage and finding toys you’d thought you’d lost years ago. It’s delightful to glimpse old Yoshiki, the crotchety nerd who couldn’t look people in the eye, hidden in the midst of present Yoshiki, who stands tall and intimidating in his beautiful suit. He’s still that lost teenager to some degree, and that gives Hikaru a rush like nothing else.

“Hey,” he says, sitting up. “Come here.”

Yoshiki glances over at him again and blinks owlishly.

“What? Why?”

“Just c’mere.”

Yoshiki hesitates. The old Yoshiki would have listened in a heartbeat; he would have trudged over begrudgingly, his head bowed, and taken a seat on the very edge of the bed. Then Hikaru would have bitched at him for sitting too far away, and he would have reluctantly inched closer.

This Yoshiki stays put, hands still in his pockets, arms bent at sharp, neat angles. He’s an imposing figure outlined in light. He’s so fucking beautiful, and so stupidly gorgeous. It’s really getting on Hikaru’s last nerve.

Finally, after Hikaru stares him down, Yoshiki acquiesces. He takes a seat next to Hikaru.

“Take that off,” says Hikaru, pointing at his suit jacket. “It ain’t cold in here.”

Yoshiki’s frown deepens, but he complies, slipping out of his jacket and folding it neatly over the back of the armchair in the corner before returning to sit on the bed.

“Remember the time we—”

“Hikaru,” says Yoshiki, his voice a low warning.

Hikaru blinks.

“Ya don’t even know what I’m gonna say,” he protests.

“Don’t I?” says Yoshiki.

“I doubt it.”

“You’re going to mention some stupid thing we did,” says Yoshiki. “Some awful stunt we pulled, like the time we drank my dad’s stash of alcohol. Or the time we—”

“Kissed, yeah.”

Silence fills the space between them.

Yoshiki’s face looks utterly stricken. He stares at Hikaru, brows knitted together, eyes sharp and sad, mouth slack, and says absolutely nothing.

Hikaru wets his lips.

“Did that shock ya?” he asks. “Say somethin’, Yoshiki.”

Yoshiki’s eyes flicker with light. He bites his lip.

“I thought you’d forgotten,” he says quietly.

Hikaru raises his eyebrows in spite of himself.

“Forget?” he repeats. “How could I?”

Yoshiki looks away.

“We never talked about it,” he says distantly.

Hikaru vaguely remembers that. He remembers waking up the next day alone, a changed person, chest light but eyes heavy. He’d felt soaring joy but also crippling fear.

He’d ignored Yoshiki after that. They hadn’t talked for a full day, if not longer. Asako and Yuuki had asked him what his deal was, ignoring Yoshiki like that, and he’d simply thrown himself into soccer practice with more gusto than usual.

Sometimes he wonders if that stupid, impulsive kiss—one he’d initiated—had portended and prompted the end of their relationship as it was. Maybe kissing Yoshiki had the domino effect of ruining everything they’d built together over the years. Drenched with sleep, hungover, bleary-eyed and cotton-mouthed, he’d kissed Yoshiki right on the lips, a messy, imperfect thing, an act of blind faith and desperation. Curled up in Yoshiki’s bed with him, heart aching, hands fisted tight in the sheets, he’d covered Yoshiki’s mouth with his own, face hotter than the sun outside, and prayed for some kind of reaction—any kind of reaction.

And Yoshiki kissed him back.

Now they’re here, a decade later, as changed people. Adults. Men.

“Yer right,” says Hikaru, shaking the memories from his vision. “I couldn’t talk about it.”

“So why now,” says Yoshiki, facing the other direction.

Hikaru huffs.

“Can’t even look at me, can ya,” he says.

Yoshiki rolls over to glower at him. It’s an intense, dark stare, one that grips Hikaru’s heart and shakes it. Fuck, he’s so fucking beautiful, and for what? To torture Hikaru?

Hikaru’s eyes drop to Yoshiki’s lips.

A charged moment passes between them. The air itself feels thick and palpable. A frisson of fear intermingled with anticipation runs up Hikaru’s spine.

“Hikaru,” breathes Yoshiki. “You—”

There’s a knock at the door.

They leap apart as if burned. Or at least Hikaru does. Yoshiki just blinks like a confused deer caught in the crosshairs of some hunter’s gun. Hikaru would laugh, but he’s too busy calming his racing heart.

“Hikaru,” calls a familiar voice. “Please don’t shut me out.”

Yoshiki stares at him, wide-eyed. His face is so flushed, it looks like they’ve been—

Never mind.

Hikaru stands up and crosses the room to the door. He glances through the peephole and, sure enough, Akane is standing on the other side. He grimaces.

“One sec,” he says to Yoshiki, sighing.