Work Text:
Hibari does not intend for this to become a thing. That's important. It's meant to be small. Casual. Festive. A little embarrassing, maybe, but in a way that feels private—like an inside joke the universe briefly agrees to participate in.
So when he hangs the mistletoe at work, he tells himself it's fine. Just one sprig. Above the doorway to the shared office space, where people naturally pass through, where Kanato passes through constantly. It's not even that obvious. Thin ribbon. Green muted by fluorescent lighting. You'd have to look up to notice it.
Which is, as it turns out, the fatal flaw.
Kanato doesn't look up. Kanato doesn't look anywhere when he's thinking. He barrels through the doorway mid-conversation, coat half-off, phone pressed to his ear, already talking about logistics and schedules and something that went sideways this morning.
Hibari watches him pass under it, stomach sinking.
He hesitates—just a second too long—then steps forward anyway, clearing his throat. "Uh."
Kanato doesn't hear him. He's already turning back around, doubling through the doorway because he's forgotten something on his desk.
That's when Seraph walks in.
Seraph pauses under the mistletoe like the universe itself has put a hand on his shoulder. He looks up immediately, blinks once, then slowly turns his head toward Hibari.
Their eyes meet. There is a beat of silence so profound it could be weaponised.
"Oh," Seraph says mildly.
Hibari's soul attempts to exit his body.
Akira, following just behind, bumps straight into Seraph's back. "What—" He looks up. Freezes. "Oh."
Hibari opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. "I—this is not—"
Seraph, to his eternal credit, leans down and kisses Akira on the cheek with exaggerated ceremony. "There," he says. "Crisis averted."
Akira's ears turn pink. "We are not—"
"Shh," Seraph says, patting his shoulder. "Let him have this."
Hibari stares at the floor until the heat in his face subsides to a survivable temperature. He pretends to check his phone. When he looks up again, they're both gone.
Fine. It's fine. That didn't count.
The second time is worse.
He relocates the mistletoe. Different doorway. Narrower. Less traffic. Kanato will have to notice this one. Hibari positions himself nearby under the guise of waiting for someone, leaning casually against the wall, hands tucked into his pockets to keep them from fidgeting.
Kanato approaches—then gets intercepted halfway by Akira, who needs help with something urgent and spreadsheet-related. They pass under the mistletoe together, heads bent close, already deep in discussion.
Seraph follows them through without looking, then stops abruptly, glances up, and sighs.
"…Again?" he asks Hibari.
Hibari makes a small, defeated noise. "Please don't."
Seraph considers, then bends down and kisses Akira again—this time lingering just long enough to be irritating.
"We are still not—" Akira protests, flustered and bright red.
"Festive," Seraph says serenely, and steers him away.
By the end of the workday, Hibari removes the mistletoe with the air of a man cutting his losses. He packs it away carefully anyway. He doesn't throw it out. He's not ready to admit defeat yet.
Home will be different. Home is quieter. Home is just them.
Except Kanato does not come home quietly.
Kanato comes home with bags. Multiple. Paper rustling, keys clattering, coat slipping off one shoulder as he kicks the door shut with his foot.
"I found the thing," Kanato announces, already moving past Hibari. "And then I found something else that might work better? And then I remembered you said you liked—oh, wait, don't look."
Hibari doesn't look. He just leans in the doorway between the living room and kitchen, mistletoe rehung above him, heart thudding painfully loud in his chest.
Kanato darts past him once, twice, circling the apartment like a restless comet. He sets things down, picks them back up, mutters to himself. At one point he nearly stops under the doorway, hesitates—and then steps sideways to avoid knocking into Hibari.
"Sorry," he says automatically, smiling. "Didn't want to crowd you."
"That's—" Hibari starts, then stops.
He bites his lip instead, sharp enough that it stings, and turns his face away before Kanato can see the color creeping up his cheeks. It feels ridiculous, standing there under a doorway like a set piece that refuses to be acknowledged. He tells himself to move. He doesn't. He tells himself it doesn't matter. It does.
Kanato doesn't notice. Of course he doesn't.
The night becomes a blur of motion. Kanato moves through the apartment with a kind of restless energy Hibari knows well—half nerves, half excitement, all badly contained. Drawers open and close. Bags are stacked, unstacked, repacked. Wrapping paper makes a soft, constant sound like leaves stirred by wind. Kanato hums to himself without realising it, breaks off mid-note to mutter, "No, that one's for tomorrow," or, "Where did I put—never mind, found it."
Hibari drifts along the edges, pretending to be busy. He rinses a mug that doesn't need rinsing. He straightens a cushion already straight. Every so often he glances up at the mistletoe, still waiting above the doorway, patient and quietly humiliating.
Kanato passes under it again. And again.
At some point, Kanato emerges from the bedroom with a strip of metallic ribbon stuck to his hair, catching the light every time he turns his head. Hibari notices immediately.
"…You've got something," he says.
Kanato reaches up, feels it, then grins. "Oh. This?"
He deliberately presses it flatter, crooked and ridiculous. "I'm festive now."
"You're impossible," Hibari says, but his voice is soft.
Kanato looks at him for a long moment, eyes warm, then suddenly sticks a shiny bow—one of those obnoxiously reflective ones—right on top of his head. He spreads his arms slightly, as if presenting himself.
"Behold," he says solemnly. "Your gift. To mankind."
Hibari laughs despite himself, breath slipping out in a way that loosens something in his chest. "You're not funny."
"I am extremely funny," Kanato says. "You're just biased."
He steps closer then, finally still, close enough that Hibari has to look up at him. Kanato's smile shifts—loses a bit of its edge, becomes something quieter, more intent.
"Anyway," Kanato adds, reaching one hand behind his back. "I think you've waited long enough."
Hibari's breath catches. "Waited for—"
Kanato brings his hand forward, mistletoe pinched neatly between his fingers, ribbon retied. He's watching Hibari carefully now, like he has been all evening and Hibari was simply too shy to notice.
"You're bad at hiding," Kanato murmurs. "When you want something."
Hibari's ears burn. "You noticed."
"Of course I noticed." Kanato lifts the mistletoe and gently tucks it into the leather of Hibari's choker, fingers brushing his throat just briefly, deliberately. The green leaves rest against his skin, intimate in a way that makes Hibari's pulse jump.
"There," Kanato says quietly. "Much better."
Hibari swallows. He feels foolish. Seen. Warm all the way through. "You could've just… stood still."
Kanato smiles, fond and smug all at once. "Where's the fun in that?"
He leans in, slow, giving Hibari time to close the distance if he wants to. Hibari does, hands coming up to rest against Kanato's chest, steadying himself there.
"The real gift's tomorrow," Kanato murmurs, lips just brushing Hibari's. "But tonight…"
He doesn't finish the sentence.
*****
Seraph doesn't bother knocking; it's Akira's place, but he's family by now—close enough to walk in with an armful of gifts and a faint winter chill. He toes off his shoes, drops his bag in the entry, and is instantly hit by a wave of buttery air: Akira's been cooking, obviously, and it's not for himself. No one makes three kinds of potatoes and a honey roast just for fun.
He's halfway through the living room when he sees the cat—black, slim. Hibari would say blurple-eyed. It's sunning itself on the back of the sofa as if it owns the lease. The cat opens one eye, closes it again. Seraph pauses, holding the grocery bag a little higher. "When did you get a cat?"
Akira's voice comes, slightly muffled, from the kitchen, "That's my mother's. She's coming after lunch to pick him up. Don't let him near the chicken. He is a gluttonous beast."
Seraph snorts but crouches down anyway, extending a slow hand. The cat allows exactly two strokes before making a sound that suggests murder, so he backs off, straightening and wandering toward the kitchen, attention still on the cat. So distracted, his forehead snags on something—dismantling a whole flutter of green.
The mistletoe bounces off his shoulder and lands at his feet. He blinks down at it, bemused, then crouches. "Huh."
Akira appears in the kitchen doorway, wiping his hands on a dish towel. He stops short when he sees Seraph holding the mistletoe. "I forgot I put that there," Akira admits, and it sounds like he genuinely did. "I was trying to be festive for once." He purses his lips, sniffs haughtily. Then rights his glasses and makes a show of folding the dish towel into a perfect square. "Don't look at me like that."
Setting the mistletoe carefully on the counter, Seraph squints at the row of vegetables. Cut, no doubt, with Akira's infamous knife grip. Three pots bubbling, and an elaborate stack of bento boxes in the side.
"Festive, huh?"
Akira gives him the flat stare reserved for people who have opinions about his efficiency. "Hibari and Kanato are coming."
"They're making you cook?"
"If you're staying for lunch, you can slice carrots."
Seraph glances back at the mistletoe, then at Akira, then to the cat—who has now sprawled on the only sunbeam in the place, purring. "You realise I got caught under mistletoe twice yesterday because of Hibari?"
Akira's face flushes, turning away. "That was his business."
"This is the third time." Seraph leans against the fridge, crossing his arms. "I doubt you're trying to charm either of the others. You expecting something?"
Akira snorts, exasperated, cheeks pink from the heat of the stove and, obviously, not the question. "I'm expecting you to not burn the carrots. Also, the gifts are for after lunch."
Seraph can't help a smile. He watches Akira focus his energy, nattering on about garlic. Not the worst cook ever. There's something about the scene—the warmth, the food, the sleepy cat, the messy sprig of mistletoe dropped on the counter—that feels like it might actually be Christmas, for once.
Christmas with Voltaction is always warm.
Akira looks up, softening. "Thanks for coming early."
Seraph shrugs, pushes off the fridge, and starts to unpack the gifts—scented candle, new nail kit, acrylic decorations—lining them up on the kitchen table. "Next year, put the mistletoe higher. Maybe you'll catch someone taller."
Akira rolls his eyes at Seraph's suggestion, swatting at his hand with the dish towel. "I don't want anyone new," he mutters, just loud enough for Seraph to catch it.
There's a quick shuffle of pans on the stove—an excuse not to meet Seraph's eyes, but Seraph's always had sharp ears for the little things Akira lets slip.
Seraph pauses in his unwrapping, eyes flickering with interest. "There's nobody taller than me anyway."
Akira makes a face but doesn't answer, busying himself with a stack of plates. The kitchen is full of gentle chaos: utensils clattering, the scent of roasting garlic and caramelising onions, the black cat purring into its sunbeam like nothing in the world could possibly threaten its supremacy.
Seraph sidles over, careful not to block Akira's workflow, but close enough to brush shoulders as he makes for the knife. Time to cut carrots.
"Pass me the carrots?"
Akira slides them over. With a flick of his wrist, and a showy twirl of the knife, Seraph sets to it. Chopchopchop.
"You know," he muses, "it'd be rough if our anniversary landed on Christmas. I'd have to fight half the city for a dinner reservation, buy chocolates that cost twice as much, probably lose a kidney to afford a proper gift. I don't think my three-acorn wage covers that."
Akira huffs. "Not everyone needs to be the romantic sort."
Seraph, undeterred, leans his hip against the table and gives Akira a look. It doesn't read like much of anything, because Seraph's face is not built to be expressive. Akira cocks a brow, and Seraph takes it for cue.
"So, what, we push it to Boxing Day? All the leftover cake, no crowds, you'll let me buy you something half price."
Akira snorts, then blurts, "Fine. Boxing Day, then. If you can survive eating my reheated cooking."
Seraph laughs, deep and surprised, the sound bouncing off the cabinets. "Deal. Just don't put any milk in the microwave again. I want to live for my New Year's kiss."
Akira finally looks up, side-eying. "You're an idiot," he says, but there's no bite in it. "But if you bring that black forest cake from that place in Koenji, I'll think about it."
"Sure. Consider it done."
THe oven sizzles. The cat slinks up to the counter and meows loudly.
"Ignore it," Akira pronounces.
Seraph chuckles.
Gently easing the cat away with his foot, Akira mutters under his breath, "Criminal."
The carrots are chopped, brushed off the board and into yet another bowl. He has to move the gifts he brought out of the way. They're running out of space. Careful not to tip the elaborate centerpiece Akira's set up—candles and holly, probably something Hibari will inevitably set on fire.
"Hey," Seraph says, quieter now, watching Akira wipe his hands and glance over the kitchen, "You sure you're okay with this? Having everyone here?"
Akira gives him a look, something softer in his expression. "It's better than being alone. Besides, you'd all just barge in anyway."
Seraph smiles, then—real, small, honest. "Guess so."
There's a brief lull as the clock ticks toward noon, sun sharpening on the glass, the sound of the city outside barely a murmur. Akira checks the roast, humming under his breath. The cat reclaims its spot on the sofa. Seraph props the mistletoe up on the shelf, this time high enough that only he'll reach it.
"Next year," Akira says, voice wry, "you're making lunch. This is too complicated for me."
"Sure. Just let me borrow your kitchen," Seraph replies.
Akira doesn't say— you can keep it if you like.
The door buzzer rings, and the spell breaks—the noise, the bustle, the warmth of friends arriving. 'Akira, let us in~' and 'Akira, you here?'
Both irrelevant at this precise minute. Christmas could not end sooner.
Boxing Day date tomorrow.