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The Charles de Gaulle International Airport was a sluggish tide of commuters, shuffling a tragically slow, trudge through seemingly endlessly increasing crowds.
Shu stood to the side, as far as he could get from the flow of people, his coat buttoned to the chin despite the mild spring temperatures, looking for all the world like a disgruntled aristocrat. Although he had long since overcome the paralyzing grip of his past agoraphobia, that didn't mean he found being part of a sardin-can-crowd any less stifling.
Shu checked his watch, the rhythmic ticking a small comfort against the loud announcements echoing in French and then repeated in English.
His irritation was two-fold.
First, there was the lingering indignity of the security checkpoint. The sensors had taken offense to the intricate, vintage brass buttons of his jacket (authentic pieces he had sourced from a collector in Lyon), necessitating a pat-down that Shu wouldn't soon forget and a slight against his dignity. Secondly, and perhaps more galling, was the sheer inefficiency of the airline.
First, it had been a fifteen-minute delay—an annoyance, certainly, but within the realm of reason. However, when the digital display flickered with indifference to announce a thirty-minute delay, then ten minutes later—forty, Shu felt the frayed edges of his patience begin to unravel entirely.
Shu had found himself pacing the terminal, his shoes clicking a sharp, staccato rhythm as if the will of his own agitation could somehow pull the plane toward the gate faster. Every minute Mika spent suspended in that pressurized metal tube was a minute stolen from the precision of Shu’s carefully curated schedule, and more importantly, a minute that Shu had to spend breathing the recycled, stagnant air of an airport filled to capacity.
Whilst he was muttering complaints to himself, earning a few sidelong glances from onlookers, the sliding doors of the international arrivals gate hissed open.
Amongst the sea of drab luggage and exhausted businessmen, a familiar shock of dark, messy hair and an unmistakable mismatched pair of eyes appeared. Mika looked positively wilted, his frame swamped by that horrific "fashion statement" jacket of his (was the oversized safety pin really necessary?), dragging behind him a bright purple suitcase littered top-to-bottom in random stickers.
"Oshi-san! Oshi-saaaan!"
His call was loud even over the drone of airport chatter, and drew a few annoyed glares from surrounding travelers with weary faces trying to impossibly sink into the plastic waiting seats. At this, Shu felt a slight flush of irritation and embarrassment.
However, he had no time to linger on it, as before he could so much as adjust his posture, Mika broke into a frantic run, and in a matter of miliseconds, he was a blur of happy, incoherent noises that slammed directly into Shu’s chest.
Shu staggered back half a step, his hands instinctively coming up to catch the flailing weight of the boy.
"Kagehira! Be mindful of your surroundings! You’re making a scene," Shu scolded, though his arms had already wound themselves around his waist, pulling him flush against his body.
Mika smelt like stale airplane-draft softened by a faint, sweet scent of the candy he had undoubtedly used to pop his ears. "I missed ya so much, I thought I was gonna die… I couldn't wait to see yer face..."
Mika pulled back, his mismatched eyes sparkling with a joy so luminous it made Shu want to squint. Although he looked tired, with slight circles under his eyes, he still was radiant.
"You are prone to hyperbole" Shu remared dryly, "Though I will admit the aviation authorities seemed determined to test that theory today."
Mika offered a lopsided, weary grin. "Nhna... sorry, Oshi-san. The flight felt like it went on fer a hundred years. Ya didn't have to wait up, I coulda found my way..."
"Nonsense. You would have somehow wound up in Belgium by sunrise," Shu huffed, deftly taking the handle of the suitcase from Mika’s limp grip. "Now, come. I don't want to spend another second in this crowd."
"Mhm! Lead the way, Oshi-san!"
As they began the long trek toward the exit, Mika’s hand found Shu's. His palm was soft (a victory for Shu’s persistent lectures on skincare) and his grip firm. Shu's fingers reflexively curled back, locking their hands together. At that, the other boy gave a small, contented hum and began to gently swing their joined hands between them as they walked.
Side-by-Side, they made quite the sight. Mika, with his unrestrained, bouncy gait, and Shu, who maintained a rigid, dignified posture.
"Oshi-san? Ya look all stiff," Mika chirped, swinging their joined hands. "Is it 'cause of the crowd? I’m sorry I made a ruckus earlier, I just got so excited seein' ya standin' there lookin' all handsome like a prince."
Shu’s heart did a traitorous little flip. "It's merely the fatigue from waiting, Kagehira. And I am no 'prince'. Do not let your imagination run away with you."
"Nhaa, 'kay. But yer always so stylish. I tried to look good fer ya too!" Mika gestured vaguely at his oversized jacket (Shu tried not to scrunch up his nose). "Naru-chan even helped me pick out some new things to bring!"
The mention of Narukami Arashi and "new things" sent a sharp prick of apprehension up Shu’s spine. He cleared his throat, "I see. I trust her taste is… marginally better than yours, in the very least."
As they walked, Shu launched into a spirited, if one-sided, critique of the airport’s security, recounting his troubles at length.
Mika only listened with a dazed, fond expression, nodding at intervals and offering a few noises of encouragement as he rambled.
"I’m sorry ya had such a rough time of it, Oshi-san," Mika eventually replied, his voice low and raspy with the remnants of sleep. "But I like the buttons. They’re real pretty... they look like little suns on yer coat. It’d be a shame if those guards went and scuffed 'em up."
Shu’s tirade faltered, the sharp edge of his indignation softening at the sheer, earnest simplicity of the observation. He adjusted his scarf, casting a sideways glance at the boy beside him.
"Naturally, they are 'pretty.'" Shu huffed, though the bite was gone from his tone. Mika squeezed his hand and leant his head against Shu’s shoulder as they went.
They reached the terminal’s food sector. Shu had intended to whisk them straight to a taxi, but a glance at Mika’s pale face changed his mind. The boy was practically swaying on his feet.
"We are stopping," Shu decreed, pivoting toward the warm, amber glow of a place with large fancy signage; Bistrot Benoit.
"Eh? But Oshi-san, it looks real fancy... and expensive..."
"It is an airport restaurant, Kagehira; it is by definition overcharged and mediocre at its best," Shu replied, though he steered him toward a table. "However, you look to be on the verge of total collapse, so I shall tolerate it just this once—I suspect neither of us possesses the energy to cook tonight, anyway."
Mika melted into his side, "Nnah... thank ya, Oshi-san," he breathed.
Shu’s expression softened by a fraction as he eased the younger man into a chair with a firm, guiding hand.
Once seated, a waiter draped in crisp white linen presented the menus. Mika squinted at the elegant script, his lips moving silently as he tried to decode the French.
"S-sole... ah... me-me-mun-yere?" Mika sounded out slowly, his brow furrowed in intense concentration. "Oshi-san, is this... a fish?"
Shu watched him over the top of his own menu, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes. "Sole à la meunière, Kagehira. It means 'in the manner of the miller's wife.' It's dover sole powdered with flour and sautéed in butter. A classic, though usually executed with more taste and care than to be expected here."
Mika looked back at the menu, determined. "I want to try. I practiced my French on the plane! Je... je voudrais... le poisson?"
The waiter blinked helplessly. Shu sighed, a sound of exaggerated suffering. "Your effort is noted, but please, spare the poor man’s ears. I shall order for us both."
Shu spoke to the waiter in fluid French, his accent impeccable and sharp. He ordered the Sole for two, adding a firm request for a side of seasonal roasted vegetables (mostly for Kagehira's sake). When the food arrived, the fish was golden and fragrant with lemon and parsley.
True to form, Shu immediately began a meticulous redistribution of the plate.
"Oshi-san, that’s way too many greens," Mika whined as a mountain of roasted gourd and carrots migrated onto his side of the dish.
"I can only imagine the highly processed junk you’ve been subsisting on in my absence," Shu countered, pointing his fork with conductor-like precision. "You will eat the vegetables, Kagehira. It's rich in important nutrients, and god knows your low iron levels need it."
Seeing no room for negotiation in Shu's stern tone, Mika dutifully chewed on a roasted peice of carrot. However, when Shu piled yet another heap of greens onto his plate, Mika shamelessly pouted pointedly at him from across the table. Shu merely looked away, focusing on his own meal.
As they dined, the silence became companionable. He watched Mika eat; there was something captivating about the way Mika’s jaw moved, the way his eyes brightened slightly as the butter and lemon hit his tongue.
The quiet was eventually broken when Mika suddenly reached for his phone, thumbing quickly at the screen. "I almost forgot! Look here, Oshi-san... Naru-chan 'n Ritsu-kun took me out fer a 'send-off' party before I left. They told me to tell ya 'hello' and that I better not come back too skinny."
He slid the phone across the table. The photos were candid but a little blurry—Mika laughing with a mouth full of cake, cream smudged around the edges of his lips, Arashi posing with a peace sign, exaggeratedly puckering her lips, Ritsu looking half-asleep against the couch, smiling blissfully. Shu looked at them, his expression softening in a way he would never admit. He saw the way Mika looked in those photos—loved, looked after—and felt a strange, sharp pang of gratitude for the two knights in the picture.
"They are as boisterous as ever, I see," Shu remarked sardonically, handing the phone back. He caught Mika’s gaze, those familiar heterochromatic eyes searching his expression with an intensity that always seemed to strip Shu of his pretenses.
"I missed ya," Mika said. The honesty was blunt and unadorned. "It just isn't the same without ya..."
"The sentiment is shared," Shu responded, the confession barely audible over the hum of the restaurant, though he felt the slight flush at the tips of his ears betray him.
Shu cleared his throat, "Anyway, my semester break has allowed me some time to breathe. My latest project has been well-received by my professors. I will show you in person tomorrow."
He pulled up his own photos; elegant, sweeping fabrics that looked like frozen water, intricate lace work and hours upon hours of detailed embroidery.
Mika leaned in, eyes wide as he scrolled through the pictures, "Whoa... Oshi-san, that’s real amazin'. You’re really... you’re really doing it, aren’t ya? Bein' a big-shot artist in Paris."
Shu preened, his shoulders straightening. "It is merely the result of discipline and a refusal to settle for mediocrity. I have also mapped out our itinerary. Tomorrow, we shall visit the Musée d'Orsay—early, to avoid the tourists—followed by a walk through the Jardin des Tuileries. I have noted several shops that carry the specific silk thread I require, and we shall conclude with—"
"Oshi-san?"
Shu paused. "Yes?"
Mika leaned his cheek against his hand, his eyes barely half-open as he looked at Shu with a soft, hazy kind of adoration. "It all sounds real nice, and I wanna see 'n hear everythin' ya've been workin' on 'n plannin'... but 'm real tired. Can we go n' talk 'bout it tomorrow?"
Shu’s lecture died in his throat. He looked at Mika, who was now blinking slowly, his head beginning to heavy. "Of course, Kagehira."
By the time they reached the private sanctuary of Shu’s apartment, Mika was leaning heavily against him, his movements sluggish and uncoordinated. He made a faint, habitual drift toward the bedroom, but Shu’s hand on his shoulder was an unyielding anchor.
"Non, Kagehira. Wash first—No outside clothes on the bed." He steered him toward the couch with a gentle but insistent pressure. "Sit here for a moment. Don't let your eyes close just yet; I am going to prepare the bath."
Shu moved into the bathroom, his movements methodical as he gathered the necessities. He knelt by the tub and wrenched the heavy brass tap, testing the pouring water to gauge its heat with a critic’s precision, adjusting the tap until the steam rose in a soft vapour that would help relax the muscles.
He reached for a small amber vial, uncapping it with a few quick twists. A few drops of citrus and cedarwood scented oil (a perferred scent of Kagehira's) fell into the basin, the dark gold swirling into the heat. As the woody, grounding scent began to rise Shu felt the tension in his own shoulders begin to unspool. He gathered the towels next, smoothing out the linen with his palms to ensure they were plush.
When he returned, Mika was a slumped figure melting into the couch cushions. Shu knelt before him, his expression stern but his gaze softening as he looked at the sheer exhaustion etched into the boy's face.
"Let's get these clothes off you," Shu said sofly.
Mika mumbled something incoherent in response.
As the layers came away, his eyes lingered on the curve of Mika’s shoulders and the way his frame had matured. He noted the old small scars, the tension in the muscles.
"You've grown," Shu noted softly, his thumb brushing a faint bruise on the boy's hip. "But you still push yourself until there is nothing left."
He helped Mika into the bath, supporting his weight until he was safely submerged.
The water displaced with a gentle, rhythmic lap against the porcelain, and Mika let out a long, shuddering sigh of relief.
"It’s real warm," Mika whispered, sinking into the water.
"Too hot?" Shu asked, pausing.
"Nah… Jus' right." Mika sighed, pleased.
Shu took his place on the bath-side stool, and reached for a linen cloth, dipping it into the water until it was heavy and warm.
He began at Mika’s shoulders, dragging the cloth in long, sweeping strokes that followed the lean musculature of his frame. He worked with the focused care of a sculpter tending to his most precious work, wiping away the invisible grime and the exhaustion that seemed to have seeped into every inch of Mika’s body.
Shu’s attention turned to Mika’s hair. He gathered the dark strands in his hands, his brow furrowing instantly.
"Your hair feels oily, Kagehira. You haven't been keeping up with the regimen I set for you," he said, his voice a low rumble of disapproval with an undercurrent of concern.
"Mmm... 'm sorry, Oshi-san," Mika breathed, his eyes drifting shut as the warmth took hold.
"Nevermind it for now. Tilt your head back." Shu instructed. He placed a firm, steadying hand against the nape of Mika’s neck, guiding his head back toward the padded rim of the porcelain tub. Mika surrendered instantly, the length of his throat exposed, a soft sigh escaping his lips. Shu reached for the shampoo, dispensing a pearl of the translucent liquid into his palms. He rubbed his hands together to warm the product before pressing them into Mika’s hairline.
Shu’s long, dexterous fingers worked in rhythmic, circular motions, starting at the temples and moving back toward the crown. He used the pads of his fingers to knead the scalp, breaking down the buildup of oils and dust.
As the fresh scent cleanliness in the steam filled the air, Shu’s movements were borderline hypnotic. He dragged his nails lightly across the scalp (a sensation that made Mika’s toes curl beneath the water) before returning to the deep, methodical pressure of his thumbs at the base of the skull.
"Oshi-san," Mika hummed, a sound of pure bliss. "Your hands... they feel like they’re puttin' my thoughts back in the right order."
"Do not lean back so far, you'll drown yourself. Now, eyes shut. Tightly," Shu commanded, reaching for the silver pitcher, his hand hovering near Mika’s temple to shield his brow. Mika obidently shut his eyes close, humming, pleased, as he melted back into his touch.
Shu began to pour, the warm water cascading over Mika’s scalp in a steady, heavy stream that swept the thick suds away in milky clouds. Shu was meticulous, his fingers following the water to ensure no trace of shampoo remained behind the ears or at the nape of the neck, his touch lingering just a second longer than necessary as he smoothed the wet strands.
Once his hair was slicked back and the water ran crystal clear, Shu set the pitcher down with a soft, resonant clink.
"Sit up. You need your teeth brushed."
Mika sat up, blinking water from his lashes and grinning lopsidedly, "Ya gonna brush my teeth fer me? I can do it myself."
"Given the state of your hair and the exhaustion in your eyes, I highly doubt your coordination is up to my standards tonight," Shu countered, his expression a mask of serious focus as he applied a precise amount of mint paste to the brush. "If left to your own devices, you would likely fall asleep with the brush in your mouth. Now, open. And do not try to talk; I have no desire to be sprayed with minty foam."
Mika let out a little huff of a laugh, his shoulders shaking slightly as he leaned his head back against Shu’s steady hand. "You’re just lookin' fer an excuse to fuss over me, I bet."
"Are you complaining?" Shu raised an eyebrow, though the corners of his mouth twitched. "Keep still."
"'Course not, Oshi-san," Mika chirped, leaning into the contact with a lazy, satisfied grin, like a cat that caught the canary. "I'd let ya fuss over me all night if ya wanted."
As Shu began the methodical brushing, Mika’s eyes crinkled at the corners. He was clearly trying to suppress a grin at the sheer, endearing intensity of Shu's focus. Shu moved the brush with a delicate, practiced hand, navigating the angles of Mika’s mouth.
"Mmph... Ohsshi-ssaa..."
"I specifically told you not to speak," Shu warned, his own eyes narrowing as he angled the brush toward the back teeth. He used his free hand to cup Mika’s jaw, his thumb resting gently against the boy's cheek to hold him steady. Shu moved the brush in small, circular motions, the soft scritch-scritch of the bristles echoing through the room.
"There. Almost finished," Shu murmured, more to himself than to his companion. He gave the front teeth one final, light pass before pulling back. He reached for a glass of cool water sitting on the edge of the vanity. "Now, rinse and spit. And try to do so with some semblance of grace."
Mika took the water, rinsed, and spat back into the cup with a flourish that was decidedly not graceful, splashing a few droplets onto the porcelain rim. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, beaming up at Shu with a smile that practically sparkled. "There! All clean. Do I pass inspection, Oshi-san?"
Shu surveyed his work—from the damp, silky hair to the refreshed skin and the bright, minty smile. He reached out, flicking a stray droplet of water off Mika's nose with a quiet, fond click of his tongue.
"It will do. For now," Shu conceded. He grabbed a plush, oversized towel from the rack. "Come, let us get you dried before you catch a chill."
After towling his hair dry and dressing him in a pair of fresh silk pajamas, Shu settled Mika into the bed. The boy tried to curl up, but Shu pressed him back down to lay flat. "Stay still. We're not finished yet."
Shu sat on the edge of the mattress, his capable hands finding the tension in Mika’s shoulders. As he pressed deep into the muscle, Mika let out a low, involuntary moan of relief.
"You really should have taken a larger seat, Kagehira," Shu said, his voice stern. "Your legs are far too long to be folded into such a small space for so many hours."
"Didn't want t'... spend too much..."
"It's worth it for the sake of your body" Shu sighed, his thumbs working a particularly stubborn knot near Mika’s spine. "Next time, I shall handle the arrangements myself."
"Mmmfff" Mika replied.
Shu worked for several more minutes, his movements slowing as their ritual reached its natural end. He applied a final, light moisturizer to Mika’s face, his fingertips smoothing over the boy's rosy cheekbones until he was satisfied with his handiwork.
"Get under the blankets, Kagehira. I shall only be a moment," Shu instructed, already reaching for his own change of clothes.
"Mhm... 'kay, Oshi-san," Mika mumbled, his voice trailing off as rolled onto his side, not even bothering to peel back the duvet before his head hit the pillow.
Shu left for his own bath, the water finally washing away the last of the day's tension from his own body. He took his time, the cedar scent lingering in the air, a quiet reminder of the boy waiting in the next room.
When he finally returned, the room was draped in soft shadows, illuminated only by the faint glow of the bedside lamp. Mika was sprawled atop the duvet, one arm flung out as if searching. His breathing was deep and slow in sleep, the silk of his hair fanned out against the white fabric; perfectly clean, perfectly cared for, and undeniably at home.
Shu stood over him for a moment, a ghost of a smile on his lips as he watched the steady rise and fall of Mika’s chest. He leaned down, carefully tucking the covers around the boy’s frame, ensuring he was warm and secure. He then turned out the lamp and climbed in beside him.
Almost instantly, like the tide pulled by the moon, Mika shifted in his sleep, and gravitated toward Shu’s warmth, murmuring something unintelligible until his head was tucked firmly in the crook of Shu’s shoulder, his forehead resting just beneath Shu’s chin.
Shu didn't pull away; instead, he allowed his composure to fully unravel in the dark with a deep sigh. He rested a hand on Mika’s arm, his fingers curling gently over the soft fabric of his sleeve to pull him a fraction closer, anchoring him there.
"Sleep, you silly boy," he whispered, his voice a breath in the quiet room. His gaze remained soft, tracing the peaceful line of Mika's jaw and the dark fan of his lashes. "You are home now."