a/n: yodelling into the distance because im an unemployed mess dear google how do i get my shit together? just yeet me off this earth pls

disclaimer: i do not own GSNK. this fan work is transformative and was created solely for non-profit entertainment purposes. thank you.


The months fly past and they get along fairly well, well enough that no one says anything.

Hirotaka goes to visit her at work, taking nervous strides through the cool corridors of the fine arts school where she conducts vocal training for a wide variety of entertainment industry hopefuls. It's funny, how he wouldn't have thought to find her in this line of work. Being exceptionally bad at something hardly puts one in a position to help others improve their craft, does it? But that's just one of the things he hasn't yet puzzled out. His footsteps echo through the seemingly deserted building—it's the end of another day, and the sun is sinking slowly in the western sky, stretching a film of smudged reddish-oranges and yellows over the cityscape.

As he nears the practice room that also functions as his wife's office, he can't help but wonder whether she thinks of him at all during the day. Surely she must, because being married to someone rather ensures that they will be on your mind most of the time, and so he supposes that the real question is: in what way does his wife think of him?

He'd texted her earlier in the day to ask if his presence for the drive home would be appreciated and received an answer in the affirmative, but he has no idea what to expect, having never ventured so far as to propose something like this before.

It's new, newer than it should be for a married couple halfway to their first anniversary; for by all rights they should still be floating along blissfully in the honeymoon phase. There's a smidgen of regret that accompanies that thought when it surfaces from the bottom of his mind, bridging the gap between what they are and what they could have been.

The walk to the door is almost interminable.

His palms are warm and sweaty against the cool air, bringing him back to the days where he'd felt the same vague unease just from walking among the rows of lockers after practice and knowing she was doing the same.

Busy wiping them dry on his pants, he almost doesn't realise that Yuzuki is not alone in the room.


The radio is on again, a soft smattering of noise in the background of his messy thoughts as Hori broods quietly on the way to work. The past year has largely been a blur, and he can hardly bear how it makes him feel.

Kashima's temporary exile had meant that she has a lot more time on her hands, but he still hadn't expected to be informed that after so many years of screen stardom, she would finally be returning to the stage. He hadn't wanted to react, had steeled his features against betraying any flicker of wayward emotion; but there had been no helping the double take he did.

The company that's taken her on were being more than generous in offering her a lead role, he'd thought, though he supposed that from their point of view her scandal wasn't much of one at all, merely a fortuitous whim of fate that brought a brilliant thespian to their shores.

They had been more than proactive in liaising with him—proposed collaterals for the play's publicity campaign were sent on to him posthaste for careful vetting but he'd been petty; letting the unopened envelope sit pretty on his desk for weeks before he could bring himself to touch it. Thinking of Kashima all styled and made up and posing in character is enough to raise a flush, dull red creeping up from below his collar, determined not to stop until it stains his cheeks.

Printed as her image had been on glossy sheafs of paper, he could almost pretend that the sparkle in her eyes was real and right in front of him.

The traffic light changes to green, and Hori pulls his focus back onto the road, pressing the clutch and easing the car forward.

It's not like there is cause to worry, he assures himself. As long as he gets his work done, being silly and maudlin for a few moments is absolutely forgivable; his one secret vice.


Hirotaka peers tentatively through the rectangle of glass, newly on edge.

His view of Yuzuki's face is partially obscured by what seems to be the back of a casually attired but elegant man sporting cobalt locks, and for a moment the corners of Hirotaka's mouth are unconsciously pulled down. Then he leans in to listen to the conversation, thankful that the pair remains too absorbed in their conversation to notice him very unsubtly eavesdropping—and all the nascent jealousy building in his bosom is swept away by the tide of recognition and rose petals that accompany Roman High's eternal Prince.

He rather startles when he hears Yuzuki saying the words my husband's coming to pick me up, so you can go on ahead—how the word can fall so naturally from her lips, he would dearly like to know. He hasn't her ease. Inside the room, conversation continues.

"Oh, yeah, I never got to attend your wedding, huh? Seeing as I had that big production coming up, and rehearsals galore under way when it was announced and all."

Kashima twirls a pen between her fingers. "I asked you not to send an invitation, didn't I? Silly of me, really, I only realised that without it I hadn't a clue just who you were getting hitched to." And here she suppresses a snort of some kind.

"You've always been an idiot, Kashima," Yuzuki drawls, flicking some wadded up paper at her. "You could've asked Mikoshiba, I guess. Or Chiyo-chan. Even my brother? They were all invited, you know. And you probably still have their emails."

"Ah, yeah, but I was too busy, too caught up in the practice, the performance. A year gone just like that, by the time I flew back here."

Kashima's voice is tender with fond recollections, but—relieved, perhaps, that no mention of a certain someone was made—when she next opens her mouth it is to steer the conversation in a starkly different direction.

"So, how's it been for you? I mean, no offence, but you're looking a little, uh, under the weather, actually."

Kashima's back is to him, but he can tell by the tone of her voice that she is most definitely frowning. "Is he treating you right? Are you happy? Why'd you get married so suddenly, anyway?"

Yuzuki quirks a half-hearted smile but doesn't reply immediately, and Hirotaka finds that he's holding his breath. The urge to press his face flush against the door is nearly unbearable, and whatever she says right then will definitely go a long way in helping him decide just how he wants to think of her.

A shame that this is how he tailors his behaviour towards her, but an undeniable truth just the same. And who could fault him, when people are all guilty to some degree of doing the same as well—all hanging back, afraid of being hurt. He still feels as though he's done enough wrong from the last time he approached her and set this entire show on the road, but perhaps an overture from her would somehow set things right.

"Well," she begins after a brief pause, "he's nice, but this whole marriage thing. I guess you could say it wasn't supposed to happen—no, you idiot, I didn't get knocked up—but you know, I—kinda wanted it to happen then. When he asked."

Hirotaka's breath hitches in his throat.

The furrow of her brow is something he'd like to smooth a palm over, the sort that male leads in movies would gently erase with feather-light kisses, while tucking stray hair behind delicate earlobes. He has to settle for holding his gaze on her while hiding behind a door.

"Oh," Kashima says, sounding more and more delightedly sceptical by the minute. "So it was on a whim or something?"

"No, no, not really. More like I just went with the flow, maybe? That's really what it felt like." Yuzuki chuckles shortly—and maybe it's his imagination, but it sounds more than a little disbelieving, and more than a little bittersweet.

"Never imagined you could be the sort to go with someone else's flow, somehow," Kashima muses.

"Ah, yeah, but gimme a break. It's been what, more than ten years since we graduated? Loads of shit has happened since then."

"Uh huh. So do I get to hang around and see him or what? Are you chasing me out of here?"

Yuzuki leans back, head lolling from side to side. "Suit yourself, Kashima. He should be getting here any minute now. 'Cause, you know, he's the punctual sort."

Taking that as his cue, Hirotaka barely remembers to double back down the corridor a short distance before he sucks in a fortifying breath, pushes the door open, and walks in. Kashima turns, registers his unexpectedly familiar face, and blinks owlishly. "You? It's you she's married to."

"Yeah," he bites his lip, suddenly discomfited by the undue amount of emphasis placed on Kashima's words. "Me."

And then all of a sudden Kashima is jumping about and squealing at the top of her lungs that she'd totally seen this coming since all those years ago when they were in school together.

She is so animated, so sincere, in all her manifold congratulatory exclamations, that he can do nothing but accept them with equal sincerity. Anything less than that would have felt like a grave affront, even if Kashima knows nothing about the specifics of their arrangement, even though she has accepted it so readily after seeing his face. Especially when he knows that only minutes before she'd been openly sceptical about this marriage.

He is overwhelmingly touched and embarrassed all at once, and simply hurries Yuzuki down into the car as fast as is polite.

The drive home is uneventful in itself.

With the scenery rolling past in the corners of his eyes, he tries his best to figure out how to convey to his wife that whatever they have between them isn't so contractual in nature anymore, without letting on that he has been eavesdropping.

They pull up in the drive, and he pitches himself out of the vehicle's confines, blurts out her name before she can even pull the seatbelt off and step fully out of the car. He pauses hesitantly a moment, staring at the half-open door and scuffing his soles on the gravel self-consciously. "Yuzuki," he asks, "Can I hug you?"

She squints up at him, shifting on his feet as he stands on the driveway, arms pulled behind his back and biting down on his bottom lip. "Okay," she assents as she unfolds herself from the vehicle's interior. "Sure. C'mere then."

Seeing her impassive face above her open arms makes him falter for a second, and just like that he's too slow to move.

Hirotaka feels her arms curl around his waist and apply brief pressure—not too cold, not too warm—and he finds himself wondering where on earth she learned to hug like that. It's such a far cry from the unrestrained enthusiasm and bone-crushing force of yore, and it really speaks to him that he's only thinking wistfully of what she was for the sake of it.

Honestly, truthfully, Seo Yuzuki as she is now is so much easier to pretend with; so much easier to fall in love with; and yet—there's no shaking the feeling that her carefully measured steps somehow rub him the wrong way. She's already done and stepping away from the perfunctory embrace when he finally remembers himself, remembers to pull his hands apart and reach belatedly for hers even as she cocks a brow at him.

Oh, but she doesn't protest when he wraps her arms back around his waist; in fact, she looks rather amused at his attempts to avoid her eyes, and he hopes she cannot tell how much he wants to smile, and how much he's trying not to, under his flaming face. It's a losing battle.

"Thanks," he mutters over her shoulder, as he unconsciously curls further into her arms, a very picture of contentment even as he remains unable to put a finger on the root of his unease.


On the other side of town, Sakura waits over cup noodles in a convenience store, idly taking bites of her food and glancing restively at the passers-by who fill the street outside.

She hadn't said anything out of the ordinary the last time they'd met at Yuzuki's wedding, but the truth is that the matter of Mikoshiba's past marriage has been bugging her incessantly. She feels just like that servant of Midas in the Greek myth did, she supposes, having to hide the fact that the king had donkey's ears. Though of course Mikorin's secret is nothing so ridiculous as all that; to even think of laughing at the situation makes her feel decidedly sick.

To her, it feels like a secret swelling in her blood, tremendous pressure exerted against the thin walls of her veins, threatening to burst through at any moment—she's legitimately afraid she'll end up blurting it out in the middle of some mundane, everyday conversation, in some entirely wrong context.

Therefore, in order to prevent that, she's asked that Nozaki-kun take some time out of his busy days to meet her for a chat. It was a request he couldn't refuse, really, seeing as he'd missed the last get-together with her and Mikorin.

They were, of course, all at ease with each other then but that was months and months ago, before Yuzuki's wedding.

Before.

She stares out over the building tops, cityscape looming way over her head, streetlights shining dully in the nippy evening air; and then suddenly the tall dark figure she'd been inadvertently searching for arrives, pushing through the door of the tiny store with practiced ease and settling into the seat beside hers with a measured exhale.

"No Mikoshiba today, then?" he asks absently, staring into the inside of his instant noodle cup as it fills with hot water, the steam condensing and rising in cloudy tufts to cover his face. Sakura glances up at his profile, silently wondering how to raise the particular issue that's recently been bogging her down; wryly marvelling at the fact that Nozaki is the best person around for her to unload it on.

After that chance meeting with Yuzuki and Wakamatsu-kun (plus the unexpected revelatory bomb), she's really had to rethink her sustained relationships with high school friends; the ones she always has taken for granted, even though other people can't afford to do so.

She slurps up more of her own instant ramen, nodding in reply to Nozaki's question before she realises that he probably would've missed that; he's eating, and anyway it's not as if he was looking at her, was he?.

"Nope, not today," she affirms between mouthfuls. "Actually, Nozaki-kun, I wanted to talk to you about something."

"What about?" he rumbles softly, the barely present edge of concern in his voice not going unnoticed. His companion appreciates it, she does, though perhaps she wishes he'd take it on himself to start the conversation, just this once; instead of just saying "Go ahead, ask away."

Sakura stalls as well as she can, but eventually breaks, just as she knew she would. "Ah, um, well—say, hypothetically—if one of someone's oldest best friends got married and never told them. How-how are you supposed to feel?"

They warily regard each other in the loaded silence until Nozaki tries to make a show of blinking in casual nonchalance—he's never quite been able to lie to her upfront—and then Sakura just knows.

Her voice is hollow, cracked, at the moment of truth. "You…you…knew, Nozaki-kun?"

"I guessed," Nozaki replies quietly, holding his Styrofoam cup of lukewarm tea to his lips. "You know that necklace he got to wearing all the time, back then? He got flustered and dropped something on the floor once, and when he was bending over to pick it up the ring he'd strung through it just fell out of his shirt."

"…and," Sakura supplies.

"And I pretended I hadn't seen anything, naturally," Nozaki deadpans, in a tone so painfully reminiscent of their high school selves that Sakura could trick herself into thinking she wanted to cry.

"Anyway," he picks up the thread of conversation again abruptly, "it's not a nice feeling to be kept in the dark. I get that, Sakura. I do. So I'm not going to hide it like Mikoshiba did, I'll tell you." He stares off into the distance, the very picture of her barely a quarter of an hour earlier, and Sakura cranes her neck to follow his line of sight.

"In fact, you'll be the first one apart from my immediate family to know." Nozaki turns to face her fully, a small, rare, genuine smile unfolding on his face as he does so. He meets her eyes, and her breath catches; she's virtually hanging onto his every word at this point.

"Sakura, I'm getting married. Won't you congratulate this old friend of yours?"

"O-of course," she stammers warmly, desperately trying to regulate her breath, but he—she—there are no words for this moment, she can barely remember to breathe. Nozaki turns back to his cup ramen and starts to drain the soup, hints of a contented smile pulling the edges of his mouth up. It doesn't seem like he has anything more to say.

Sakura's about ready to snap when the steady trill of a mobile ringtone punctuates the now very pregnant silence between them. She flicks her eyes about, hoping that nothing seems amiss; fingers clammy on the lit-up display of her phone.

It's from Mikoshiba.

Surely, surely, he won't be leaving her behind as well, Sakura thinks, as she presses the phone to her ear and slips off her stool by the counter, nodding a quick goodbye to Nozaki as she does. Outside, the night air is cool on her skin and she breathes it in deep, relishes the slight burn in her lungs.

"Mikorin," she says lowly, not quite sure how to approach this conversation. They have not spoken much since the wedding or even before that, what with all that lies between them—every time she reaches for the phone she remembers the raw hurt in his eyes when she'd laughed at him for saying he'd been married once, or him ripping himself from her arms her as fast as humanly possible when she'd so thoughtlessly, foolishly, stepped in to keep him on his feet.

"How have you been?"

Mikoshiba is silent on the other end of the line, and then he sighs.

"I've missed you," he mumbles, barely audible over the crackling of his breath against the receiver; over the wild thudding of her heartbeat; but Sakura can hear him loud and clear.

She's been missing him too, after all.


In the master bedroom, Hirotaka blearily cracks open his eyes. He doesn't want to wake, but there's an uncomfortable knot at the base of his neck that's getting in the way of his sliding back into blissful thoughts of Yuzuki's warmth; her arms around him; palms hot on the skin at his waist; the weight of her fingertips skimming above his belt, edging closer than ever. A sudden jolt and he's falling—and he finds himself stolen from sleep completely, the dream slipping away like sand through cracks, the way his courage does when she looks him in the eyes.

He sighs, and its then that he realises that he's actually back in his bedroom—the one that's supposed to be their bedroom—alone, in the cold white expanse of the daily-changed sheets. That he'd felt more of a connection with her while leaning against her shut study door, backside bruising from the hardwood that lined the hallway floor, than here in their bed says more than words ever could about the dire state of their emotional connection.

Maybe it's both of them, or maybe it's just him being inept. Of course she wouldn't stay, he thinks morosely, since this isn't even real, even though they are husband and wife. Relationships are two way things, and he doesn't know how to get her to reciprocate the feelings that he repeatedly fails to demonstrate.

Sometimes he wishes it was back to the old days, where she was still the one chasing, still the one giving; only this time he would have no problem giving back.

Hirotaka rolls over to bury his face in the covers and block the word from view, but reality rears its ugly head—the tenting in his pants is impossible to ignore in this position. He ungracefully shucks off his pants and boxes, not even bothering to fully remove his belt. His movements are brisk, clumsy, and the belt buckle hits the floor with a loud clank that goes unnoticed by him (but unfortunately, not by her)—he curls cold hands over hot flesh, shuffling to his knees to free up more space as he strokes along the shaft, rubs the head of his erection and spreads the pre-cum at the tip around to smoothen the way.

Pressed into the crease of crisp cotton sheets, he can feel the bed frame against his cheekbones through the mattress; the same cheeks that flame hot, then hotter.

It feels as if there is nothing more natural in the world than for him to moan her name as the pumping of his hands intensifies, and he imagines that instead of him touching himself in this awkward position, he's lying on his back and sprawled out on the mattress while Yuzuki goes down on him from the foot of the bed; that she's taking his entire length in that wonderful mouth of hers, sliding it further down to the back of her throat, the friction of her lips and teeth and tongue playing havoc with his heart rate, his self-control.

He comes hard, movements now sluggish from the exertion and the late hour.

Breath escaping in shallow pants, he rolls over on his side, falling asleep before he can register that the light in their shared bathroom has in fact been on the whole time.

His tongue slips the next morning, when they're both bustling around the dining area completing their toilette and pausing to scarf down breakfast in intervals. "Yuzuki?" he asks, trailing her with his eyes as he wrestles with his tie in front of the wall-mounted mirror; he always watches her in the mornings, he realises, and hopes that she is watching him too. "Do you think we'll ever move into the same bedroom?"

She drops her fork, and they both wince at the clatter it makes against the tiled flooring of the hallway in this part of the house.

"Hmm? Why, you want to?" she asks smoothly, and he almost spits out his cereal. "Did your parents mention wanting grandchildren or something?" – and he blinks, momentarily taken aback by the evenness of her voice.

"N-no, I, this is—purely—um, something I want," he manages to stammer in the face of her impressively impassive stare. He can feel his toes curling in embarrassment against the kitchen tile.

"Something you want," she repeats, though it doesn't escape his notice that she deliberately shifts the emphasis on the words. His words to her at the start of this whole situation, that one line about her not being the one he wants, ring heavy in his ears.

He yanks too hard on the end of his tie.

Breath momentarily stolen, Hirotaka sneaks a glance at Yuzuki from the corner of his eyes, morbidly fixated on her features as she tries to smile, then tries to laugh, before she gives up both and bolts for the door, knocking her chair over backward in her haste.

There's the muffled slam of their front door being shut, receding footsteps, a sigh.

He gives the knot of his tie a final tug before crossing to the table to right the overturned chair, seat still warm, in front of her plate. He moves it to the sink and scoops the fork from the floor, going back to pluck the half-eaten French toast from the china as he walks out of the dining area. It's still warm.


Brief estrangement ends when she gets back home unusually late one night, later even than him with all his hours spent in the office. She marches right up to him, and Hirotaka doesn't realise he's holding his breath until both her palms are cupping his cheeks and the feel of her skin on his makes him shudder.

He exhales shakily.

"I've thought this through properly," Yuzuki declares, words only a little slurred at the edges, "and all right, I can't deny that I want to sleep with you, damn it."

Hirotaka can't help it, he really can't, so he laughs. Cups his hands over his mouth and curves the brightest of smiles into them, because even like this, drunk and belligerently passive-aggressive, she touches his heart in a way that exquisitely hurts. For all it's worth, he's always thought she was adorable when she instantly leapt away from the slightest hint of publicly displayed affection. It has, though, been years since the days when they always found themselves stuck somewhere between desperately cordial and reluctantly intimate.

But now, finally, he can softly mould his mouth to hers, pull her closer and onto his lap, run reverent hands over the curves of her breasts, her waist, her hips.

Hirotaka kisses her slow and deep and languid—she tastes a little of the alcohol she's been drinking, he notes, and he breathes in deep; a heady rush. Yuzuki is a warm weight in his lap, and somewhere in the middle of sampling her mouth his hands have wandered further and further south, wanting to slip under her waistband. Her own are already shucking his shirt off, palms cool against his overheated skin.

Coming together for the first time is sloppy and rough and hurts a little in their haste, but it is still beautiful.


They're sitting together in the living room one evening when Yuzuki gets a call. She takes one look at the caller I.D and visibly winces, hastily picking up before Hirotaka can get any concerned queries in.

"Ah, nii-san," he can hear her say into the phone, "what are you calling for?"

She heaves herself off the sofa and pads towards the hallway, making for the privacy of her own rooms. Hirotaka watches her go from his seat on the sofa, switching his glance to the shaft of sunlight she'd been sprawling in minutes before.

The imprint of her form on the sofa hasn't disappeared yet, and he shiftily leans at an angle to brush his hands over the spot, seeking some remnant of her warmth. It's silly, but any such train of thought is interrupted when his phone rings.

Hirotaka's totally not expecting to receive a call from Ryousuke himself, so shortly after he's supposedly been speaking on the phone with his sister.

"Hey, what's going on?" his brother-in-law demands the moment he answers the call. "Yuzuki's actually crying, and she's the sort that never cries! Okay, not crying out loud or anything, but I could hear it in her voice, you know. What the hell is going on? Is it something you did?"

"Um," is all of Hirotaka's very eloquent reply.

"Well?" Ryousuke prods sharply.

"Um, I actually don't know. That she was crying, I mean. She went out of the room to, uh, take the call. I-I'll go and uh, check on her now. Thanks for letting me know!" And he cuts the call before any more outraged and indignant words can travel down the line to rebuke him further; barrels through the half-shut bathroom door so fast it almost comes off at the hinges.

"Yuzuki," he breathes hoarsely, throat suddenly constricted by emotion. "I—are you alright?"

"Hmm? Yeah, I'm fine." She's startled by the suddenness of his presence, but gathers herself and tries to smile wanly, and he doesn't have the heart to tell her that he can see right through the poor façade. The tear tracks are still on her face, and she isn't fooling even him with her attempts at normalcy. "Everything's fine, Waka. No need for you to worry."

No, it's not, is what he wants to say to her. It's not fine when she refuses to make eye contact with him, or avoids brushing elbows at the breakfast table – it's all these small things he notices, even though he doesn't say anything. The whole situation is made doubly complicated, somehow, by the fact that this probably means it's something he did but has no recourse to finding out exactly what.

Perhaps it is unfortunate that Hirotaka does not think to check the trashcan in the bathroom, where, wadded up tightly at the very bottom, are a handful of crumpled pregnancy test results; or the calendar on her dresser, very conspicuously missing a red mark for this month.

All he can think of is the massive irony that now he wants to keep whatever they have between them together, it seems she's drifting further away — really, he's never felt in greater danger of losing her than right now when he fears it most.


"You okay?"

"Yeah."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really. It's just the damn hormones acting up."

"Oh, right. Good. Mum would be glad."

"…sure, but let me go puke…"

That's more like the kind of conversation Ryousuke expects from his sister.


Miyako Yukari calls, out of the blue.

This is not something Ryousuke expects. She asks if he is planning to attend their college reunion dinner, of all things, and he wonders if she forgot so quickly that he hasn't been attending these last two years—it makes him angry and sad and he's just about to hang up on her with a curt little goodbye when it occurs to him that maybe, just maybe, she hasn't been attending too.

It won't hurt his sorry little heart to listen to her talk, will it?

Ryousuke leans back in his seat as Miyako-san waxes eloquent on recent developments in the manga industry and how exciting she still finds it all even though it's been a while since she left the scene. His fingers idly pick at the old newspaper his colleagues have flipped onto his desk.

Manga, he thinks, soothed into distraction by the cadence of her voice. Hadn't there been some sort of big annual press conference cum fan signing event the previous year? Flipping the paper open gives him nothing, so he turns to his computer. A quick search shows him what he's looking for, and he draws closer to the desk to skim through it.

It's a happy, optimistic essay of a piece accompanied by numerous pictures of dimple-cheeked fans and authors. Miyako-san wouldn't have looked out of place there herself, smiling behind a table next to—if his eyes do not deceive him—that Nozaki-san who knows his little sister, the very same one he'd met over lunch some months ago.

The camera has captured him in half-profile, turning to sneak a glance at the fellow author seated just down from him; and she's looking at him too, the corners of her lips pulled up in a smile; eyes dancing with mirth and full of secrets.

Gazing upon this scene, with Miyako's voice still ringing in his ears, Ryousuke has an epiphany of sorts.


Hirotaka doesn't frequent cheap bars often enough to feel comfortable in them, but to Nozaki-senpai this sort of establishment is clearly familiar turf, and so he simply sits quietly and sips his drink.

Being too absorbed in people-watching makes Nozaki completely oblivious to the stares he himself is receiving, at least until Hirotaka finally calls his attention to them by means of a mildly desperate elbow in the ribs and a few hushed words. He supposes they do make quite a striking pair, especially sitting for so long without female companionship as they have been—but files that away for later and quickly remedies the situation.

"Wakamatsu, move that hand you've got on the table a little. Ah—yes, that's it, into the light." He adds, on seeing the uncomprehending glance sent his way, that "this way they'll not be able to pretend they can't see your ring."

Hirotaka blushes at the mention of it, but deliberately flexes his fingers around the stem of his wineglass. The band winks at him, gleaming even in the low light, and the intensity of the gazes being drilled into his back somewhat diminish. He sighs in relief, flicking his eyes around the room.

Just then someone calls his name and a shock of tousled red hair catches his eye, reflected in the single grubby window pane that's situated on the wall above a rusting tip jar, two half-dead potted plants and the litter bed of an ancient cat. Mikoshiba moves towards them with feline grace, casually pushing his damp hair off his forehead, and greets them with a nod as he slides into his seat.

Hirotaka cannot help but think that he looks as though he's just gotten a huge weight off his chest, what with the way he's carrying himself. The smile in his eyes is also telling, and even though Mikoshiba's lips are pursed it is patently obvious that he has good news to share. When Nozaki directs a questioning look his way, the redhead simply tilts his head to the right and shrugs, silly smile on his lips again; they leave it at that.

It does not escape Hirotaka's notice that Nozaki reads rather more into that gesture than he does.

But it is not his place to pry.


Mikoshiba Mikoto and Kashima Yuu are, contrary to popular belief, very good at keeping each other's secrets. Not that there were many people in the world who knew that Kashima's schedule permitted her to return to Japan for a week after the play she'd been a part of had finished its run, and she'd pleaded for just a little break before jumping into an exhilarating round of post-production interview circuits.

Seeing each other in the flesh again had felt so surreal, they'd both reached out and clasped hands for a long moment, fingers locking tight with emotion.

A passer-by had remarked that watching twins reunite was always so touching and that had made them laugh, pick their things up and weave away into the chaos of the arrival hall.

They'd proceeded to spend the next week quietly sticking close, glad to have a decade-old familiarity back beside them—others might have grown out of it or felt it turn new and alien, but not them, oh no. Knowing almost everything about each other is all well and good, but Mikoshiba hadn't asked any questions when Kashima disappeared one evening before she was due to fly off. Fair, considering that she had never grilled him on the events that transpired at the Wakamatsu wedding, no matter how much he could see that she was itching to at any given moment.

Still, Mikoshiba does wonder what she'd been up to on her own.

Perhaps he ought to try weaselling it out of her when she returns for good, because as comfortable as they are after a decade, it's still a little strange that Kashima takes such great pains not to ever mention certain people in conversation that he keenly feels their absence.


Hirotaka never quite believed what people said about imagining things into existence, until it happens to him one day and he can't find a way to explain the words away or take them back.

In the confines of his mind he has been repeating them for a while, the words don't leave me. Whenever they float to the forefront of his thoughts he shoves them away with an anxious flush; a clearing of his throat.

Until the day his tongue finally slips in a moment of distraction and they fly right out of his mouth. It's one where he's gone to visit her at work again, and just as he shuts the door of her office and turns to face her, too.

So of course she looks over and asks him to repeat whatever it is he just said, making it the best (or worst) possible timing.

No taking it back, he supposes.

Yuzuki's looking at him with a face full of expectation, and he remembers that she's never been one for beating around the bush. He takes a breath for courage and hopes that she will like what she's about to hear.

"Now that I love you," he says haltingly, "don't leave me."

Eyes blown wide, she lets out a strangled sort of half-laugh.

He pats her awkwardly on the back.

"Don't leave you, you say," she murmurs, twirling a strand of her hair around her fingers.

Even through the process of getting attached to him and accustomed to a daily routine together, the exact weight of the commitment she was shouldering hadn't sunk in until her monthly blood failed to start running and instead of excitement and anticipation all she felt was cold fear at the prospect of being even more inextricably tied to him.

She thinks it silly, this fear, when she's more than liked him for so long, but that doesn't make it any less legitimate—it would be only right to fear a world where they'll look at their children and think not about the joy of building a family together but all the chances at leaving that they lost. How to get that across is more the mystery now.

She jumps a little when Hirotaka swallows the lump in his throat and steps closer, putting his frame within arm's length.

It isn't exactly too close for comfort.

His larger hand is warm and comforting on hers, thumb brushing gently over the back of her hand until her knuckles unclench and her fist relaxes, fingers unfurling into his palm to map them. The calluses on his fingertips come from years of playing basketball; the little bumps and scars on his forearms from years of being knocked around by her in high school; and the staccato flutter of his pulse what he gets from being close to her now.

They sit side by side awhile, nodding off into the cool night.

When they stagger out to the car half-asleep and he tucks her into her seat, large hands splayed protectively over her hips. Yuzuki knits her fingers through his when he pulls back from fussing over her, and it makes his heart warm. Then she leans in and whispers in his ear, and that makes his heart burst.

The drive back to their home from her workplace is quick enough, if a little dangerous because Hirotaka's eyes keep sliding close behind the wheel—it's just as well that the roads are relatively empty at this hour, only the occasional cruising cab or delivery motorcycle passes them.

Yuzuki lays back on the passenger seat next to him, lolling limply against the constraints of the seatbelt, the waxy yellow of the street lamps and the changing hues of the traffic lights playing over her face. It's only after he pulls into the driveway and stumbles out into the cold air that he realises he'll have to carry her in.

As he leans over her sleeping form to undo the seatbelt buckle, then heft her gently into his tired arms, the full weight of how much he's taken for granted settles on him. The last time—the first, and up till now only, time—he'd carried his wife in his arms was the day of their wedding, over the threshold of their newly shared house.

The weight of her in his arms is a familiar ghost, but so much else has changed between then and now.

Then, he'd gingerly gathered her into his arms, cheeks blooming with colour, and she'd smirked as he tried to hold her close enough for appearance's sake, but not too close. Man, she'd said to him, partly in jest, you're so eager to drop me. Don't tell me I'm that heavy? He'd flushed even harder. You know it's not like that, he'd replied.

And it had been a little strained after that, because holding her so close physically only served to remind them both that she was nowhere near being important in his heart.

The transition from new bride to expectant mother is unexpectedly heavy on the heart, something he doesn't particularly want to explore. Such a big leap since he last held her in his arms, since he last slipped careful hands around her, cradled her close, smiled fondly down at her when she nuzzled into his chest.

Hirotaka swears loudly when he almost drops her while trying to turn the damned doorknob. Having to manoeuvre his way in without jostling her or pulling a muscle isn't easy, and the resulting strain takes a lot out of him by the time she's safely in bed.

The thought of removing to his own bed is very unwelcome.

So he curls up on the other side of the bed, tucks himself under the covers and watches Yuzuki's chest slowly rise and fall in the dark, holding onto her hand as he drifts off to sleep.

.

.

.

cont.