"Cheers!"

The clinking of glasses rang out over the background noise in the restaurant. Manjoume had managed to get most of the gang together, even if the party was a few days before Fubuki's actual birthday. He swirled the beer in his glass, watching Fubuki laughing with an arm around each of the Kaiser and Fujiwara. They looked good together, the Elites, all poise and polish, their undeniable struggles laid deep below and hidden to outsiders.

Fubuki looked across the table at Manjoume, catching his gaze. Manjoume dropped his eyes to the beer and took a swig, managing to spill some in the process. He wiped it up with his sleeve. When he looked back up, Fubuki was leaning in close to Fujiwara, talking too low for Manjoume to work out the words.

Manjoume wished Asuka could have made it, despite the distance, and her punishing schedule learning to teach alongside studying for her doctorate. Not only would Fubuki have loved to see her, but Manjoume might not have been stuck in between Shou and Kenzan bickering over the last grilled chicken skewer on one side, and Johan on the other monopolising Judai opposite. He made a blithe excuse and stepped outside to get some air.

It was still warm for the season. Manjoume watched couples come and go from the alley's various small restaurants, their happy chatter filling the air. He huffed a sigh, refilled his lungs, and let the breath go slowly.

A sudden soft pressure on Manjoume's shoulder made him jump.

"Are you feeling ok?" Fubuki asked, his voice low and concerned. As Manjoume turned to face him Fubuki dropped his hand from Manjoume's shoulder to his elbow, gently stroking his arm.

"I'll be back in a minute," said Manjoume, summoning up a smile in hopes of conjuring one likewise on Fubuki's face.

Instead, he found Fubuki's arms wrapped around him and his face pressed into Manjoume's cheek. "Thunder, you know I love you, right?"

That'll be the shochu talking, thought Manjoume, and patted Fubuki's back encouragingly. "I love you too." He held Fubuki tight, hugging him until he felt like his cheeks wouldn't betray him. It really was warm out here, and they were attracting a few stares. "Hey, Master. What are you doing on your birthday itself?"

"I've no plans yet," said Fubuki. His big brown eyes seemed darker in the tight alley as they searched Manjoume's face. "I was hoping to spend it with someone special."

"Oh," said Manjoume, deflating. "Well, if that falls through, my agency's having a party for Hallowe'en. I can bring a plus one."

"I'd love to," said Fubuki, and then that smile appeared, bright as the sun emerging from eclipse. "Will it be fancy dress?"


As prepared as Manjoume was with his outfit, it was still a panicked rush to get ready for the party. His unruly hair was proving the hardest part. The wig he'd bought hadn't worked out so he was trying to persuade his own locks to lie at least a little flatter. A comb and water alone, however, just wasn't cutting it. He wished he'd done this before putting on the costume. Sensing his frustration, Ojama Yellow popped up to reassure its boss, and got smacked into the wall for its trouble.

There was a soft knock at the door of Manjoume's room and Fubuki's voice carried through. "Manjoume-kun?"

Manjoume swore under his breath as he opened the door. "The taxi's not here already, is it?"

"No, you've got a little while yet… Whoah, you look cool, Thunder!" Fubuki looked Manjoume up and down, from his leather body armour and functional utility harness to strapped, overly sturdy boots, and back up to the smudged black around his eyes. "A bit scary, but cool. And what do you know, we both have metal arms."

"Thanks," said Manjoume, momentarily transfixed by Fubuki's gaze. He snapped out of it, only to get caught by the glimpse of bare chest under the double-breasted waistcoat Fubuki was sporting. He turned back to his desk mirror, colouring rapidly. "You look great too. I don't think I recognise the costume?"

"There's a cape to go over it," said Fubuki. "You might then. Are you having trouble? I heard shouting."

Manjoume sighed. "It's my hair. I'm trying to style it like this, but it won't behave." He showed Fubuki a picture on his smartphone. Fubuki cupped Manjoume's hand in his own to get a better look.

"As much as I like to encourage bad behaviour, let me see if I can help. I've got straighteners in my room, come on over."

Manjoume obediently followed and sat on the end of Fubuki's bed while he plugged in the hair straighteners. Fubuki's room smelled fresher than his own. The window was open slightly and in front of it sat a small vase of flowers in pink and yellow.

Fubuki spritzed something lightly perfumed in Manjoume's hair, teasing through it with his fingers. He started to clip sections up, working from the top of Manjoume's head down. Manjoume held his breath until Fubuki reached for the straighteners, fearing that otherwise Fubuki might feel it on his exposed skin.

"Ow-ow-ow!" Manjoume recoiled from the sudden heat at the nape of his neck, and certainly not from the slight dip in the bed as Fubuki sat down behind him. "Watch where you're putting those!"

"I'm sorry," Fubuki checked the area and found the skin unmarked, and cool to the brief touch of a finger. "I'll be more careful." He tried again, starting the straighteners slightly further down the hair. It was more difficult to get it to lie flat this way. He had to hold each section down with a hand until it cooled, and then blast it with strong hairspray.

Manjoume looked enviously at the reflection of Fubuki in the full-length mirror on the wall. His long brown hair was effortlessly swept to one side, bangs peeking over a red bandana. Fubuki looked really good in red and black. He could have gone to the party as Generic Vampire #36 and still had all the girls at his side. Manjoume's eyes flicked to the time on his phone.

"We're going to be late," said Manjoume, though in truth he didn't mind, sat there with Fubuki giving him personal attention.

"Royalty only arrives when everyone else is gathered to applaud their entrance," said Fubuki, continuing calmly and methodically. It wasn't going to turn out quite like the picture, but the character's hair was messy enough that he could get away with not doing a perfect job. The centre parting was the hardest part. He really had to weigh that down with product.

Fubuki shifted off the bed to get a better look at his handiwork from the front. He just needed to clip those front segments back. They kept wanting to fall back in front of Manjoume's face.

Manjoume leaned to look past Fubuki at the mirror. It was a little bushy, but not completely unrecognisable. "It doesn't really suit me, does it?"

"It's not so bad." Fubuki smiled. "It's kind of sexy getting to see your whole forehead."

"Forehead?" Manjoume floundered. In a list of sexiest body parts, he hadn't anticipated that would make the top ten.

Fubuki shrugged. "It's like glasses, you know, when someone first takes them off in front of you. Just a small change that makes your perspective shift." He studied Manjoume's face. "Ah! Just one more thing."

Fubuki grabbed what looked like a pencil and knelt in front of Manjoume, supporting his chin with one hand and making small strokes of the pencil with the other. "You have to have stubble, that'll really amp up the hotness."

"It's Hallowe'en," said Manjoume, trying not to move his jaw too much, and trying to avoid looking into Fubuki's eyes when he was so close. "It's not supposed to be hot."

Fubuki leaned forward and tilted Manjoume's chin down towards him, a mischievous smile on his face. "Since when?"


The party was in full swing by the time the pair showed up. Duelists, managers, administrative staff, all enjoying the fun of drinking and dancing. Manjoume grabbed them each a beer and surveyed the room. Fubuki might be a social butterfly, but Manjoume needed to find someone he knew to start a conversation, and it was hard to recognise anyone behind masks and makeup and nightclub lighting.

"Bucky and Bucky!" A familiar voice hailed them from the other side of the bottle bar. Manjoume squinted. Someone was trying hard, and failing harder, to give the impression of innocence. Beneath the cropped wig of messy blonde curls was Ran's face. As the two started started towards her, the smudges on her face and clothes became clearer. She was covered in what Manjoume vehemently hoped were not live bees.

"What the hell are you supposed to be?" he said, apropos of greeting.

"Lovely to see you too, Thunder. I'm Helen. From Candyman." She registered the blank look on his face. "'It was always you, Helen…' You've never seen it?"

Manjoume shook his head.

"Come over sometime, we can watch it together. You too, Fubuki-san."

Fubuki grimaced, holding up his hands in supplication. "I don't like horror movies."

"It's a romance, at its heart, you'll love it." Ran punched Fubuki's faux-metal arm playfully.

"I'll pass," said Fubuki with a timid laugh.

"So, Manjoume-kun, you're the Winter Soldier. Fubuki-san, who are you?"

"You don't recognise it either?" Fubuki looked disappointed. "It's Vincent Valentine."

"Oh, really?" Ran looked the outfit over again. "I see it now, but… Did his outfit always look like that?"

"Well, I made some modifications, of course. You have to be sexy for Hallowe'en." Fubuki ran his hand through his somehow tangle-free hair and leant against the bar, causing his jacket to offer a wider peek of his exposed chest.

"I'll drink to that." Ran clinked her bottle with Fubuki's and drained the remainder.

"See, Manjoume-kun?" Fubuki patted Manjoume's head. "It's all about letting go of your inhibitions for the night."

Manjoume, eyes averted, wondered whether Fubuki had any inhibitions left.

"Oh, I love this song!" Ran set her empty bottle on the bar and beckoned to Manjoume. "Dance with me!"

"No thanks," said Manjoume. While he could be graceful at times, he didn't think the combat boots and metal arm would aid that, and the drink wasn't yet helping with the inhibitions he allegedly needed to shed.

"Fubuki-san, then," said Ran, putting her arm through Fubuki's and leading him to the dancefloor. "It's your birthday, right? I'll make it special for you!" Fubuki shot a regretful smile back towards Manjoume.

It was an up-tempo song, but that didn't stop Ran from getting up close with her moves. Fubuki, the consummate showman, played along, letting Ran drape herself around him, placing his hands on her hips as she shimmied. Out of the corner of his eyes he watched Manjoume, who seemed intent on something on his cellphone.

Ran pulled Fubuki's head closer as the next song began, her lips next to his ear to be heard above the music. "Smoking hot bad girl right in front of you, and you don't care. At least tell me you two are dating now to save my pride."

Fubuki pouted ruefully. "I'm afraid not."

"It's been six months!" Ran poked a finger at Fubuki's chest.

"It's been longer than that," sighed Fubuki, looking over at Manjoume, who appeared to have been apprehended by a literal bigwig.

"Seriously, if you need a go-between, I'll do it." Ran pressed up close to Fubuki, one hand on his chest, the other cupping his neck. "Or we could pretend to date to make him jealous."

"There's no need." Fubuki gently, but firmly, removed Ran's hands. "I guess I just have to bite the bullet, don't I?"

"No time like the present!" Ran ignored Fubuki's protests and pushed her way through the crowd, returning with an equally complaining Manjoume. "I have to go to the ladies' room. When I come back you'd better be dancing, at the very least." She winked at the pair and disappeared in the throng.

Fubuki offered Manjoume an apologetic smile, and an outstretched hand. "Well? Shall we?"

"I, uh, can't do what she was doing," Manjoume blustered, red-faced.

"I could say I wouldn't want you to," said Fubuki, smiling as he prepared to dive off the deep end, "but part of me wonders what that would be like."

Manjoume dropped his head to hide his face, finding it more difficult with his hair parted as it was. "It's too hot in here. I've got something for you, come outside." He grabbed Fubuki's wrist so they wouldn't get separated crossing the busy dancefloor. Fubuki reached out to counter, sliding his hand down Manjoume's palm and linking their fingers. There was something new in the touch, a hesitancy that sent a soft electricity straight up Fubuki's arm to his heart, and short-circuited his tongue. He followed quietly as Manjoume led him to the atrium.

Regretfully, Manjoume let go, and foraged in a pocket for a crumpled envelope which he thrust at Fubuki. "Happy birthday."

"Manjoume-kun, thank you, you shouldn't have…" Fubuki froze as he accepted the unlabelled envelope. It was a nondescript letter size, in businesslike white, and the flap was unsealed. It seemed most unlikely to be anything approaching a love letter, but there was the possibility that Manjoume might have downplayed the theatrics if he was afraid of rejection. Unsure whether he wanted to open the envelope and dismiss that possibility, Fubuki looked up at Manjoume, trying to discern a hint of his intentions.

"Master?" Manjoume asked, touching concerned fingertips to Fubuki's arm. "Are you ok? You look pale suddenly."

"I'm fine," Fubuki managed a grateful smile and looked around, spotting a bench in the courtyard, under a video screen displaying silent highlights of the agency's duelists. Ran was keeping an eye on him even here, it seemed. "Let's sit down."

Manjoume sat close to Fubuki, watching him. "You should open it," he said.

"Now?" said Fubuki, and at Manjoume's nod he held his breath and slipped the contents slowly from the envelope. A printed sheet of A4 paper, perforated into thirds, emblazoned with the phrase 'Love Life'. Fubuki's eyes widened. He cast a glance at Manjoume, who was sporting a victorious smirk. "Are these…" he started to ask, but it was printed right there, Eurovision Song Contest: Grand Final. "How did you get hold of these? Tickets haven't even gone on sale yet!"

Manjoume waved a hand airily. "A network exec owed me a favour."

Fubuki wrapped his arms around Manjoume and squeezed him tightly, obstructed by the leather of Manjoume's fake body armour. "Thank you so much," he whispered.

Manjoume patted Fubuki's back until he broke the hold. "There's two tickets," he said, and paused, scrunching his nose. "I thought you could take Fujiwara-san."

"Fujiwara-san?" Fubuki repeated blankly.

Manjoume looked down, feeling too hot under his costume and wondering if he could at least remove the arm sleeve. "I thought you might want to get away for a while. Be alone."

"I don't think –"

Manjoume interrupted, the words spilling out aggressively fast. "I'll pay for the flights too, of course, don't worry about money. And the hotel. Would you two need a double bed?"

Fubuki let out a long breath. "Manjoume-kun, you've got this all wrong. Yusuke and I, we're not together."

"You're not?" Manjoume wouldn't raise his gaze from his knees. Fubuki moved along the bench to allow room to lie down, his head in Manjoume's lap, and looked up to try to catch Manjoume's glance. Manjoume looked off to the far wall instead.

"Not any more," Fubuki said softly. "We tried, when he first came back, but… there was too much distance between us."

The pause lasted too long and Fubuki reached up to tap Manjoume on the nose, trying to get him to look down. "My feelings had changed… I found I couldn't love him in the same way. I've moved on."

"Then, there's someone else you like?" The wall opposite seemed about to buckle under Manjoume's fixed stare.

"Yes, there is," said Fubuki. He reached for Manjoume's hand, holding it clasped over his fast-beating heart.

Manjoume finally looked down, at Fubuki's face set incongruously serious against his fancy dress costume. He swallowed, but it did nothing to quell the croak in his voice. "Who?"

The hard bench pressing against Fubuki's back had given way to something fuzzy and thrumming as the room span. He was teetering on a vertiginous precipice, about to plunge, waiting for the hand that would push him over or pull him back. "You… haven't figured it out?"

"Someone who's a close friend," said Manjoume, tentatively.

"Mm-hmm."

"Who's not the Kaiser or Fujiwara-san."

"Mm-hmm."

Manjoume paused, his years spent with feelings unrequited forbidding him from saying what he hoped. "Then… Judai..?"

Fubuki felt the weight of his secret pressing him back down to the bench, the fear that voicing his love would tear apart all they had built together. He pushed away Manjoume's hand and tried to play it off with a laugh. "If I had a cushion right now I would throw it at you." He sat up, and remembered what had got him into this mess. "But about those tickets, I'd like to take you, if you'd be up for it."

"Me? Are you sure?" Manjoume couldn't help but preen at how things had worked out, but still he questioned his good fortune. "What about Johan? He's more into the whole thing."

"And I'm more into you," said Fubuki with a lightness he didn't feel. "Now, you were saying something about a double bed…"

Manjoume clapped his hand over Fubuki's mouth and looked frantically around for eavesdroppers. There were none, but the red tinge was rapidly expanding from the tips of his ears nonetheless. "We should get back to the party."

Fubuki gently lowered Manjoume's hand. "If you want. But you do owe me a dance."

Manjoume bit his lip, weighing his reluctance to be seen as other than the charismatic duelist Manjoume Thunder in front of his colleagues against the countless numbers who would likely hit on Fubuki in his absence. "Maybe just one."