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    Shōta can rationalize the guilt pressing into every corner of his mind by telling himself that he’s never lied to Hizashi before. Not telling someone did not necessarily mean he was lying. He had grown quite close to the DJ over the last year. Heading into this spring Shōta knew he would not be able to not tell Hizashi things for much longer. Each day he asked more questions and wanted to know more. Shōta didn’t dodge the questions and had merely told Hizashi the nature of his work was complicated. Not a lie.

  It still didn’t feel right, though.

  The air on the rooftops is still chilled enough to soak through his usual wear for his nightly activity, and the light drizzling of rain above chills him to the bone. Shōta uses the device around his neck to latch onto the high billboard as he jumps, swinging onto another rooftop and landing in a practiced roll. He had much time before his chosen target would arrive. His climbing on the slippery fire escape is careful and takes him a solid few minutes before he crouches into the deep shadows the apartment complex casts beneath sparse, flickering yellow street lights scattered outside the alleyway he’s had his watchful eyes on for weeks.

  The capture device on his neck slings above into the metal bars silently while he keeps a grip and locks his body into place to prepare for the hero he’s waiting for.

  Hizashi is wonderful. Shōta can’t deny that he never expected to get this close — he never ever thought that he would find someone as wonderful as the DJ. Hizashi is, well, gorgeous, but his personality is another thing that surprises Shōta. He had always thought louder people, noisy people, were obnoxious. Specifically those who centered their lives in an entertainment profession.

  He thought someone like Hizashi would be self-centered and perhaps deeply, blissfully unaware about how the world outside his own social circle was doing. Image obsessed and, perhaps, ditsy. The revelation of the DJ’s deep desire to just keep people smiling no matter what it took, of his immeasurable compassion and stunning intellect with his natural ability to entertain drew Shōta in deeper and deeper each night until he had a friend. 

  And he truly wanted more. He knew Hizashi felt the same. The man was a lightweight among other things and a night to return a borrowed jacket turned into a night of two, dare he think, best friends drinking wrapped in gaudy blankets with terrible American movies illuminating them as they drank.

  Shōta could still feel the tingle of soft, strawberry flavored lips against his.

  But he was only tipsy where Hizashi was drunk and he had pulled the blackout drunk man away. It wasn’t how he wanted to kiss the other man for the first time — not the time nor the place, and Shōta felt his stomach roll thinking about how badly he wanted to kiss back. It didn’t feel right then.  

  Cool flecks of rain blow into his face and tangled ponytail where small flyaways catch into the brick of the building behind him. Shōta can feel goosebumps over the slivers of exposed skin, his breath hot behind the mask covering his stubbled face. By the looks of the semi-visible lights of a nearby store the night was growing closer to the expected time. 

  Fortunately, this was all he had planned for tonight.

  Beyond taking Hizashi home, all he had to do was dole out a beating to a hero who is treading dangerous waters with the beginnings of drug redistribution. This wouldn’t take long when the time came. The warnings never did.

  Hizashi needed to know why he was bloody. Why the devices around the bands on his arms were razor sharp and stained, or perhaps even why he hid his face away. Shōta rolled his shoulders and shifted his position and kept his gaze firmly locked with the opening to the hero’s usual patrol route.

  He wanted to go further with the blond. He wanted to kiss him back instead of pushing him away, to wake up next to him, to share whatever he could offer with him. Shōta just had to figure out how. He has never been good with words — actions are far better and truly speak to someone’s character. Shōta has always thought so, at least. Hizashi needed to hear the truth about his self imposed task to deal with the corruption plaguing heroes and police alike. Shōta wondered if he should tell him a small amount first — perhaps start with I’m a villain. 

  He deserved the full truth and beyond anything Shōta could ever give.

  A dark figure moved through the puddles below with a low grumbling that Shōta could hear louder than his own impending confession, kicking up dirty rainwater and trudging ahead just below the spot Shōta sat waiting. With his grip tight, Shōta swung out from the fire escape and made up his mind.