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The third-worst pain Tetsurou has ever experienced in thirty-two years of being alive is when, at twenty-seven, he'd slammed a drawer shut on his hand with a certain awe-inspiring strength. He'd screamed and cursed, stomping around the bedroom as if being angry about it would fix anything. The agony seemed to twinge stronger and stronger with each new flow of blood to his fingertips, and he was convinced he would never forget what it was like to be in such pain. Only a theatrical gasp, a here, let me see that, you poor brave soldier, tell me where it hurts, and a kiss on the first joint of his index that he held up with a petulant aquí, had made life worth living again.
Twelve hours later, when the baton hit the base of his skull and the street sparked like a frayed wire before going dark, his last conscious thought was about that drawer and that kiss, which should have been enough to make it the most significant happening of an already-eventful life. But not even Tetsurou had been glib enough to dismiss the week that followed that concussion— the unique experience of losing two teeth for the camera, and, of course, the fight that followed, one for the ages. Not the one between his team and the syndicate whose protection racket they had busted well enough to warrant revenge— but the one that followed four months later, when he was back on his feet with his molars in place, and came home one evening to find all his things packed into three black bags and four brown boxes.
-
He looks nothing like the Tooru that Tetsurou saw that first time. Nothing like the one from the second time either, or the twentieth. The face he’s wearing on top of his own is new, or so old that Tetsurou, in all that time, never got to see the collection cycle that far back.
The Buenos Aires sunset is one of Tetsurou’s favourites. Not the pastel periwinkle of Paris, not the blue streaks of Tokyo. The sunset here is an act of arson. Flaming red clouds layered over a violent, quiet wash of orange. And through it a streak of all-knowing gold, because of all the farewells the sun bids them, this one is all Tooru’s. The one that turns his skin iridescent like flames under a stream. The one that was watching over them the afternoon Tetsurou fell in love with him, sweaty and golden and burning, and nothing like what he would look that night, and the next day, and the day after that.
But no, he looks nothing like the Tooru in Tokyo, the one Tetsurou first met. Back then he was in tactical gear, hair short because at twenty-four he was young enough to take that seriously, elbows still bony though his grip on his knife was already practiced. Tonight he's in a silk shirt and perfect shoes, hair in place, wrist bare of the watch that Tetsurou's wearing instead, smile in place as he spins a woman towards himself, then steps away before she can touch him, laughing.
His skin is iridescent. Everyone around him is red and orange under the open sky, but only he is gold, glimmering like the river beyond the patio, the only two things worthy of the sun’s attention. It catches on him in ripples when he moves, and he has, at least, always moved like that. Hips like water, arms lithe and gorgeous. His bad knee— bad for as long as Tetsurou’s known him— all but invisible. Head thrown back to catch the last of the light before it turns to the aquamarines and violets that colour the summer nights, mouth open in an endless laugh that makes Tetsurou's fingertips pulse with pain.
Dancing accident, he’d always said. It sometimes happens that even one so perfect as me gets ahead of himself, you know. And Tet-chan, you know how seriously I take tango.
Even three years in, when they knew each other like the backs of their hands and had perfected their own dance— one that involved headsets and stitches and uppercuts— Tetsurou had refrained from pointing out that he didn’t know of a tango that involved bullets. He was, after all, no stranger to dance himself, even before Tooru. No one who joins the PSIA is.
-
It isn't a coincidence; they're both after the same man. He isn’t here yet, but he will be in half an hour according to Kenma, who's never wrong. Hinata Shouyou might not be a relevant name here, not yet, but Tokyo's seen enough of him; sent its best on his trail the moment his stay in Rio passed the three-month mark. Tetsurou’s only had brief encounters with his syndicate, but he’s never needed to get his hands on something to understand how it works, and word goes around. Japan to Korea, France to Portugal, Brazil to Argentina, apparently, sneaking in between a hundred dancing patrons under one of the most beautiful views Buenos Aires has to offer, one that only gets prettier, with the advantage of alcohol on its side.
The music will change once the sun is gone entirely; generic, bubbly tunes switched out for something everyone can actually dance to, get drunk to. For now Tetsurou is surrounded by a casual conviviality, conversation and laughter louder than the beat, and more beers than Fernet; Friday night in Buenos Aires. It's so familiar that it makes his left palm ache, and then again, nothing is familiar about it. Not the fact that Tetsurou is only here on a mission, not the fact that Tooru is here on the same mission and yet they aren't working together. Five years and still nothing is familiar about seeing Tooru in a crowd and not thinking there he is, here he comes.
No guns will be drawn tonight, though Tetsurou’s is snug under his shirt, and he knows why Tooru isn’t getting cosy with any of the patrons despite being on the dance floor. Tonight is only for information, and a nightclub as exclusive as this one trims the list of suspects down for them, makes their job easier. Only the best of the best get in, and only five of those best will settle down at Hinata’s table. The club photographer will not dare approach them, and security footage will be erased before Tetsurou can get his hands on it, but it's not for nothing that only he and Kenma were sent here last Monday. Between Tetsurou's memory and Kenma's laptop, they've never let a name slip by. They'll be back in Tokyo this time next week, ready to switch with Akaashi and Bokuto before anyone can start noticing Tetsurou's face too much.
And Tooru, he knows, likes to get the job done all by himself now, trusting only his own eyes and brain. And just as well; if he dared have a partner now, Tetsurou would strangle them both with his bare hands.
-
Two years on the job were enough to iron out the last of Tetsurou's expressiveness; he'd started practicing his poker face well before he took the first civil entrance exams barely out of college, and thought himself the master of deception for it until he met Tooru. Tooru didn't wear his heart on his sleeve, but he wore his mind in his eyes, the kind of double-edged sword no one knew how to watch out for. Where Tetsurou pulled information out thread by thread with his careful regard and calculated smiles, Tooru had this way of dropping the face he had on that day, of looking into someone's eyes with his own wide ones, something so direct in them that it was unsettling. Unnerving like a December heat wave. Uncanny, like some part of him had never learned to act as lowly as a human being. Unpredictable until Tetsurou realised, too late, that Tooru removed all his faces for that last one only when something mattered to him.
Tetsurou had realised, too late, that a hundred thousand things mattered to Tooru. He continues to pay the price.
But tonight, if only for a few seconds, so does Tooru: a minute before the sun goes down, and three minutes since Tetsurou first spotted him and made it the only purpose of his life to stare, enough dancing bodies between them clear the way. Tooru senses a gaze, and turns.
Five years have loosened his grip; for a few seconds, Tetsurou is something that matters, and Tooru is an animal. The same one Tetsurou saw on that balmy afternoon in La Boca, sprayed with lime and water; the same one he was the night he knocked on Tetsurou's hotel room door armed with a bathrobe, a gun, and a bottle of wine, one they didn't get to the bottom of because it fell to its death long before midnight. That one. The one whose dedication to the hunt makes anyone feel like they're the only prey in the world. The one to whom a hundred thousand things matter, and to whom each one matters just as much. Except Tetsurou, who matters so much that he doesn't matter at all.
He tries to smile, and the way his miserable attempt slides off his lips alerts Tooru back into nonchalance. Down go the eyes with the sun, and up go the corners of his mouth. He turns back to the man he was dancing with, leans in to whisper something in his ear, and, predictably, walks as far from Tetsurou as he possibly can. The rails of the patio stop him; he's leaning against them at an angle that's probably pressing his pistol into his ribs, when Tetsurou reaches him. It's relieving, almost; he knows Tooru would never compromise a mission, but he's never forgotten the last threat that was whispered to him. If I ever see your face again I'll shoot you myself.
Let me just step out real quick and step back in, Tetsurou had sung in response. That counts, right? You'll shoot me then?
Back then, one of his favourite ways to tease Tooru was by being earnest. Every time I see you, you're the most beautiful you've ever been, he'd say, with a straight face and a grave voice. Tooru would flip his hair and lift his eyebrows haughtily, of course, Tet-chan, I'm the gift that keeps giving. But inevitably, when Tetsurou refused to break face, he would roll his eyes and shove at him.
In a way, it was cheating, letting Tooru think it was an act within an act. Because the truth is that he has never been as beautiful as he is right now, leaning over the rail away from the music and the world. His vesper profile, the sweep of his chestnut hair. When the lights come on and he's bathed purple and blue, he will be, again, the most beautiful he has ever been. By extension, the most beautiful thing Tetsurou has ever seen.
'I wasn't told you were here,' Tooru says to the glowing water. The night spreading over the sky has smoked onto its surface, so that the sun, so present only minutes ago, is already beginning to be a distant memory. His voice is steady and hasn't changed a bit; Tetsurou's windpipe is its own noose. 'I did wonder. Should've figured they wouldn't send anyone from Rio if their best Tokyo man spoke Portuguese. Wasn't the flight too long, though?'
Tetsurou ignores the question; they both know how short the flight felt back then, when Buenos Aires was on the other end of it. When it felt like the sun was always out and Tooru was always drunk and Tetsurou was always in love. When nothing could touch them.
'Their second best man,' he says, instead. The best one ran away across the ocean. Tooru graces him with a laugh, though it's barely one. 'It was kind of last-minute.'
Five years haven't dulled his hearing. 'You asked.' You wanted to see me.
'I didn't think you'd be here, either,' Tetsurou lies.
It could almost be the truth— he'd learned, two months after being thrown out of his own apartment, that Tooru was transferring permanently to Argentina. But he'd never, in the five years that followed, learned anything else. No one would tell him, especially his own team, and while Tetsurou could have— would have— done anything to find out, it was that benevolent betrayal that convinced him to stop. Bokuto's eyes, a shade away from pity when he said don't undo his work, Kuroo. Kenma's silence, always followed by the spinning-metal symphony of a bottle cap, and the heavy, anxious pour of whiskey.
Worst of all, Iwaizumi, who had met up with him in the largest Starbucks in Minato, paid for his coffee, and embraced him. Tetsurou hadn't realised why until he felt a weight fall into his coat pocket, the metal links of the watch clinking against his keys. He doesn't know what was worse, actually; the watch, the first gift he had ever gotten Tooru, or the look on Iwaizumi's face when he pulled back, that said that Tetsurou would never be getting another word out of him.
Take care of yourself, Iwaizumi had said, almost an order, almost a don't let this be in vain. As if Tooru was the one making a sacrifice, taking over the city they had fallen in love in, making it his own and lining its threshold with salt that Tetsurou was not allowed to step over.
-
The fifth-worst pain Tetsurou has ever experienced is when he was twenty-six, and Tooru stumbled home drunk after a high school reunion somewhere in Ikebukuro. Tetsurou had stayed up to make sure there was a meal to eat, or Tooru would make a mess of the kitchen only to end up eating something stupid like half an orange and three almonds. And sure enough, not long after the front door closed, he could hear Tooru exclaiming oh thank fuck, Tet-chan's the best, I'm a man fulfilled all the way to the bedroom.
Tetsurou had rolled his eyes, overfond, and waited. It took half an hour, but then Tooru was tiptoeing into the bedroom, then straightening up as he realised the lamp was on.
'You're awake,' he'd accused, pointing with a gasp. 'Did you hear me dropping the plates?'
'I did.'
'Okay, but— in my defence— did you hear the part where I loved the food and we should get married?'
'Also did.'
Tooru had narrowed his eyes, standing in the doorway in bright pink boxers, hair dripping from his shower, the bruises on his torso from last week's mishap not yet faded. The watch Tetsurou had gotten him last year still on his wrist, as if he was planning to go somewhere dressed like this. He looked like he was actually considering marriage. He looked like no one had ever been in love like he was, drunk and disorderly, excellent in everything he chose to do. Excellent, how he tried to amble over to the bed seductively but ended up stumbling, going down on the pillows with a yelp as loud as Tetsurou's laugh. Excellent, his evening shadow, warm skin, searching fingers.
It would have been a disservice, not to put his laptop away and kiss Tooru into the sheets. A disservice to their apartment, only a month old; to their bed, only two weeks old; to the fact of them, two years old but still on its first day, a dance turned so perfect that the wonder never left. A disservice to how excellent the slide of their lips always was, tango, partners, practice. Tooru hissing at the press of a bruise, then sighing at Tetsurou's warm palm spreading over it in apology. A disservice to him, then, to the way he always arched so perfectly under Tetsurou, taking, and taking, as if it was his birthright. To his mouth and ribs and legs, never as strong as when they were pliant to Tetsurou's strength, a strange pride in his fond consent, as if he was congratulating himself on choosing Tetsurou. As if he couldn't believe his luck, which should have been Tetsurou's line to kiss down his chest.
'It was so good,' Tooru mumbled against his lips. 'The soup. The rice was still warm. You always get the timing right. Always know when I'm almost home.'
'I've planted a bug on you,' Tetsurou replied. 'I always know where you are. They taught me how to do that at my workplace.'
'How scandalous. What kind of place do you work at, Tet-chan!' Then, quieter, 'I wish I always knew where you were. I would've found you then.'
'What do you mean?'
There it had been— that look, no less clear for all that his eyes were tipsy-bright. His face half in shadow, bringing out strange colours in his irises, his wet lashes, two spots of red high on his cheeks. He looked like no one had ever been in love like him.
'When I was supposed to have met you,' he said. 'Where were you then? Why did you take so long?'
Tetsurou had stared down at him for a full minute, startled out of his playful lust, absently stroking Tooru's hair off his forehead. It wasn't a rhetorical question, and he didn't have a real answer.
'Sorry for not being born in Miyagi,' he'd laughed. 'You country bumpkin. Growing up in the big bad city made me the dashing man you fell for, you know.'
Tooru asked again. 'Why did you take so long?'
So long for what, Tetsurou never found out. But he'd smiled, leaned down to kiss the excellent lover that Tooru was, ready to turn life into a film at the shortest notice. Part-time spy, full-time Tooru. Full-time ridiculous.
'Well, I'm here now, aren't I?'
Like the flipping of a switch, one of Tooru's faces came back up, one as light as Tetsurou was trying to get the room to be.
'You're right,' he mused. 'And now I don't have to deal with Iwa-chan anymore. He was the worst sidekick ever. It's because we grew up together, you know. He doesn't think I'm cool.'
'Iwaizumi could run circles around you blindfolded, babe, you were his sidekick.' Kiss. 'You're lucky he switched departments.' Kiss. 'And I'm not your sidekick either.' Kiss. 'And I don't think you're cool.'
There it had been. Tooru's face, so hilariously affronted that Tetsurou couldn't hold his laugh in. And the next second, Tooru's arm drawing back, hand positioned before Tetsurou's forehead, and a flick so incredibly strong that Tetsurou swore he saw stars. Perhaps the most violent forehead-flick ever delivered in the history of martial arts. Definitely the most painful one; the fifth-worst pain Tetsurou had ever felt, though he didn't know it then, just like he didn't know that a year and a half later he would be losing this bed and this apartment and this. Just like he knew that Tooru was about to ask does it hurt, then soothe the sting with a kiss, but he didn't know when he would stop. Because Tooru always telegraphed tenderness, but took it away without warning.
-
For the longest time, long enough for the music to twist into something loud and melodious the way everyone here likes it, they say nothing. Tetsurou because he has nothing he could say that he hadn't whispered and snapped and yelled out that evening in their apartment five years ago, in a December that actually meant winter. Tooru, he imagines, because he has forgotten how to speak a language that isn't the one he sought refuge in when threatened. One that used to be the most musical sound, now become quotidian. He can still hear him talking to locals and friends and baristas with that singing smile of his, sí, sí, y qué mañana tan hermosa. Next to him Tetsurou's Portuguese always fell short; it lacked in love.
Or maybe there's too much to say. Too many languages learned, too many missions run, too many people met. Tooru doesn't know Akaashi; Tetsurou doesn't know anyone from the team here well enough to guess which one is Tooru's favourite. The thought of it is so insulting, even all this time later, to think he doesn't have a right to information that he would've divined in a second, had they stayed together. To think that Tooru might have a favourite, someone who isn't him, only because he isn't here. To think that he would, if he opened his mouth, have to tell Tooru things that they were supposed to live together. The new place in Ebisu with floor-to-ceiling windows that would earn him a scolding; you're just some man working for the government, you're not James Bond, you can't afford this. The new ink in an old place Tooru always loved to kiss, under a shoulderblade. Tetsurou, all of him, chiseled into someone else by the knife that was Tooru's absence.
'About Hinata,' Tooru says suddenly. Tetsurou clears his throat, straightens up, leans his back against the rail. The crowd has separated; those not ready to dance on the side tables, the rest concentrated on the middle of the patio, cheering, moving, laughing. The VIP lounge upstairs won't be full enough yet; they need to wait a little longer before moving in. 'He has no plans until next year, at least, is my bet. Everyone here's going to forget about him six months from now. Then—'
'He'll strike,' Tetsurou finishes. 'Though I don't think the diaspora will forget him. I saw at least two names on the guest list—'
'Courtesy,' Tooru cuts in. 'I know the two you're talking about. They're harmless.'
Silence again. Tetsurou has been doing this for nearly a decade, his responsibilities growing by the year so that reconnaissance missions are about as interesting as going to a coffeeshop and ordering his usual, but never has work felt as unworthy as it does right now, when they're using it to hear each other's voices. And it feels humiliating like a slap to the face, when he remembers how fascinating every word that came from Tooru's mouth was to him back then. When they could stay up till five in the morning arguing about films, when even the smallest of missions was coloured with the naïve excitement that came with being new to it all, with having a partner to share the work with. Back then they thought themselves the best conspiracy theorists the agency had to offer, self-important and self-aware and self-obsessed.
A blow to the back of his head had been enough to rid them of it. Tetsurou has wondered, often, if he should've gotten hit earlier, to shock Tooru a little sooner, so that instead of breaking both their hearts like a bone that would never set, he would've simply chosen not to love Tetsurou. And then again, if not for Tooru, Tetsurou would never have gotten that blow to the back of his head. That's where his daydreams always bring him— to the reminder, if only brief before spite erases it again, that he will never be able to fathom what it must have been like for Tooru to shoulder that door open and find him on the floor, after a week of not knowing. No longer important or aware. Only obsessed.
'I need a drink,' he says, running a hand down his face. Tooru laughs again. 'You still don't drink on the clock?'
'I'll save you the small talk,' Tooru replies. 'Nothing about me has changed. Get me my usual, if you don't plan on poisoning it. Actually, get me one either way.'
Nothing about me has changed. Tetsurou doesn't want to poison his usual— tonic with a twist of lime— that would be harmless. He wants to ask, instead: nothing? Absolutely nothing?
But between the two of them, he's always been the quieter one. So he only smiles, strange and burning, and starts to make his way to the bar. Then freezes.
His body hears it before his mind. The first notes ring out, and the hair on Tetsurou's nape is rising, heart leaping to his throat even as an intolerable heat lances through his stomach, sickening, demanding. By the time he's turning around his memory has caught up to the lyrics. If Tetsurou's life depended on putting his best face on right now, which it often does, he would be dead at the bottom of the river.
And so would Tooru. He has a hand to his forehead, slumped uncharacteristic over the rail like the lanky-limbed thing he once was. His laugh half-disbelief, half-resignation. All pain. When he looks up, there is something honest on his face, nothing like the hundred honesties Tetsurou has seen on him in the past. Nothing like them; something new, because after all, Tooru has only ruined their lives once. It follows that he can only apologise for it once.
And it would be a shame to do their favourite song a disservice, so Tetsurou doesn't try to put his best face on. Lets his worst one stay in place instead, a pathetic, praying thing. One he's been hiding all this time; ten minutes on top of five years.
Please, he says. The night darkens, then blooms.
-
The fourth-worst pain Tetsurou has ever experienced is when he was twenty-four, and Buenos Aires had opened up to them like a secret only Tooru could decipher, a translator beyond any other in the world. It was only Tetsurou's second day; Tooru refused to wait any longer for the jet lag to wear off. Bokuto had been up for it as always, and even Iwaizumi seemed resigned to a night full of disaster.
You just have to party until the sunrise and reset your clock that way, Tooru had beamed proudly, and Tetsurou, after six entire months of knowing him— and after a week and a thirty-hour flight of being a little infatuated with him— realised that he had yet to discover the worst. Because here Tooru was off the clock, and in the city he'd spent his university years in— a city, then, where he knew all the cheapest haunts and best liquor, and was armed with nothing but good memories, with every intention to create more.
On their first night out in Buenos Aires, Tetsurou, trying to open a bottle, opened his hand on it instead. It was his first beer of the evening; he didn't even have the excuse of alcohol to shield him from Bokuto's shriek of laughter and Iwaizumi's disappointment. To save face in front of all of Tooru's university friends, whose concern was embarrassing, he pretended to play it up. Clutched his bleeding palm to his chest and mimed dying, and Tooru joined the act, throwing himself on top of Tetsurou and weeping a lament in Spanish. Oh no. Dios mío, Dios mío. Amor mío.
Still, when Tetsurou straightened up, ears going warm, it was Tooru who had bandaged his hand from the kit Matias fished from his bathroom. And if only for the show, he had left a kiss to the centre of Tetsurou's palm, then dropped it with a wink.
'That must have hurt,' he said, still not ready to drop the joke. 'Tell me, will you survive it? It must be the most painful thing in the world.'
'Fourth-worst,' Tetsurou had corrected, choosing a number at random and praying no one would ask what came before or after. 'I stepped on a toy car once. I'm a different man now.'
-
Tetsurou only spoke a little bit of Spanish, back then. Enough to get by the front desk at a hotel and play the tourist with a map, but not enough to make any sense of the glittering nightlife that Tooru had suddenly pulled him into, nothing like Tokyo's, nothing like anything he had ever seen. Suddenly Tetsurou was latched onto Tooru's side, pointing out sandwich and drink orders to him, taking pictures of anything that moved and some things that didn't, killing his battery before they even hit the first real bar of the night, forced to put it away and rely on his simultaneous interpreter to get around.
He only spoke a bit of Spanish, so the song, when it first came on and Tooru exclaimed, was nothing but disjointed words and phrases to him. Noche noche, it went. No puedo explicar.
'I love this fucking song,' Tooru sighed, immediately putting on a falsetto to sing along while Iwaizumi groaned and buried his head in his arms. Something, something, morías por mi.
Valeria rolled her eyes, throwing back the last of her gin and pulling a face at him. 'Of course you like this one, you horny romantic dog. You haven't changed.'
'Shut up,' Tooru laughed, but then she was singing right along as the beat kicked in, and Tetsurou could only sit entranced as they both got into the spirit of the performance; hands pressed to their chests, leaning towards each other, eyes wide with false sincerity. Dime papi, dime mami. Bursting into laughter, then laughing harder as they spotted Tetsurou gaping.
'Let me translate,' Valeria had said, then gave up immediately. 'Never mind, I don't speak enough sexy English for that. Sorry, Kuroo.'
'I definitely speak enough sexy Japanese,' Tooru volunteered. 'I'll translate— on one condition.'
And he had smiled, as if he expected Tetsurou to know the condition already. And Tetsurou did. He did.
-
So he takes Tooru's hand, leads him into the middle of the crowd, some place the night might have more trouble reaching them. Under the strobes Tooru is turquoise, teal, lapis lazuli. His eyes are unblinking, lips parted around the dissent he never managed to give, and his hands, when they curl over Tetsurou's shoulders, are not tight enough.
Still, it's enough. Even as Tooru's eyes close at the first beat, as he takes a deep breath and surrenders to the sound, it's enough. Because Tetsurou only has to close his eyes too. He closes his eyes and he's at Maldita at one in the morning; he opens them and he's in La Boca, the walls painted in colours he didn't know existed back then, ones that Tooru named for him, a sore thumb between them all in his mismatched clothes. He opens his eyes and Tooru is mouthing to lyrics to him with a smile so tragic it's prophetic, because it was already tragic back then too, when he wrapped his arms around Tetsurou's neck and looked into his eyes with almost-wet ones, singing. Not noche noche— la noche de anoche. That night, last night, was—
Algo que yo no puedo explicar, Tetsurou had sung back, finally catching onto the lyrics, and Tooru had blinked, thrown out of the moment by surprise, before laughing high and pleased. Nodding along, approving, perfect, Tet-chan. Yo encima de ti, tú encima de mi. Oh, don't get ideas, now. If you want this body you'll have to win my heart first, you know? I'm a romantic.
Tetsurou closes his eyes and Tooru is perfect in his arms, the mission and the crowd and the world all but forgotten, the stretch of space where their feet move so timeless that five years of distance disintegrate out of shame. A lifetime crumbles, a lifetime of not knowing Tooru. Why did you take so long?
Why did you take so long, he wants Tooru to ask, whisper the question into his mouth, a possessive accusation. He wants Tooru to be selfish and unfair, to have been waiting to be chased. Tetsurou opens his eyes and Tooru hasn't been waiting, hadn't expected him, doesn't know what to do other than dance.
So they dance without a word. So he closes his eyes again, and when he dares to reach, he can't feel Tooru's bones under his shirt, only the fabric of his holster. The only skin of Tooru's he will ever be allowed to feel again, because Tooru is selfish and unfair and still in love with Tetsurou. Because if he wasn't, he would've pressed their lips together already. If he wasn't, he would sneak closer, force Tetsurou's eyes open, press a thumb to his jaw. Take like he'd never forsaken his birthright. If he wasn't, he wouldn't move his hand down Tetsurou's arm to circle around his wrist, lifting it up to smile at the watch looped around it, twisting it this way and that to make it catch the light.
Tetsurou pulls his wrist free. Looks at the dials pointedly— one set to Tokyo and one to Buenos Aires, since seven years ago— then back at Tooru, raising his eyebrows, smiling. I took too long.
-
The second-worst pain Tetsurou has ever experienced is the week that followed the baton crashing into his head. He'd never had a concussion before, and while he'd already lived through more than one pounding headache, he'd never had one that lasted so long. Never one that he wasn't allowed to sleep off or swallow a pill for. It had lasted long, so very long, and made him feel like he was floating through the days in that plain room with its single door and dim light. No idea when he would drown or be pulled to the surface, or which was which.
He'd missed all of the fight, though he heard it, even curled up on the floor, arms over his head. Doors bursting open, shouting, gunshots, canisters hitting the walls. Through it Tooru's voice, raw like he'd spent all week screaming himself hoarse and wasn't done yet. Like he'd screamed his share and then Tetsurou's, the share he refused to scream out of pride, refusing to be the blackmail they wanted him to be. Yes, Tooru had screamed for them both, and screamed one last time when he shouldered his way into the room, gun cocked and ready, eyes feral like he hadn't eaten in days, like the only thing that mattered in the world was before him, concussed and bloody and missing two teeth.
He's here, Tooru had screamed after a second, then slumped against the door for another one. Fuck, fuck.
The concussion had lasted long, and would creep up on him when he least expected it. He was able to get through all the questioning in the ambulance with whatever smile he could manage through his swollen jaw— yes, I know who our prime minister is and I'm not very happy about it, no, of course I don't know what the date is, do you think they let me keep my phone in there — but had melted into embarrassing tears beyond his control when Tooru's arms finally came around him for good.
'Sorry,' he'd sniffled, inhaling sweat and dust and metallic blood. 'God, I can't believe this. I know they warn us about concussions but holy shit. Just sedate me. And throw me in a bath. Fuck.'
'I can't understand a word you're saying,' Tooru had said into his hair. And he wasn't concussed, but his voice wasn't steady. 'We need to get you some ice for that jaw, handsome. And don't you vomit on me.'
Tetsurou had managed not to, and once he was dismissed from the hospital, he got the bath he wanted. It had hurt then, too, but much less. There was morphine in his system and Tooru had turned the lights off, pulling out every single candle— of which they owned a lot— in their apartment to make the bathroom into a field of soft flames, a date worthy of Valentine's. Then he had dropped every face to lean his cheek on the edge of the bathtub and stare, disconcerting eyes roving over all of Tetsurou's wounds as if he could cauterise them with his regret.
Where does it hurt, he seemed to be asking, but didn't say the words. Tetsurou smiled and pointed to his forehead, and Tooru laughed, wet and ugly and relieved.
Still, for weeks, he kept watch, with a vigilance that suggested he hadn't realised danger existed until that moment Tetsurou was swept off his favourite street in Shinjuku. The danger had passed, but not for Tooru. It never would, now. And only later— too late— would Tetsurou learn how many of the shots fired the night of his rescue had come from Tooru's gun, and how close he had gotten to suspension for his bloodlust.
Had Tooru only brought that up while throwing Tetsurou out of their apartment and his life four months later, Tetsurou would've gone without a word. Had Tooru been selfish in a way he could understand, Tetsurou would've gone without a word. Instead, through the dizzy roar in his ears, he only heard safety and revenge and intel, and something somewhere that sounded like they knew you mattered, it was personal. And at that he'd tried to argue, tried to say of course I mattered, I busted them the same as you did, I'm your partner, God damn it, but he knew, as the words left his mouth, that he was wrong. That even if he were right, Tooru would never have listened.
But Tetsurou was wrong, knew it was personal. Knew it from the moment they trained the camera on him after tying him to the chair, because negotiations never ran nasty like that, not in their circles. No, it was dirty and nasty and personal, no doubt because Tooru had wreaked dirty and nasty and personal terror upon them too, the way he was always in the danger of doing. The thing Iwaizumi had warned him about the day he retired and left the reins in Tetsurou's hands; watch out for that streak of his. Not a mean streak, just a streak, his talent for making enemies unparalleled. Watch out for that look, he'd meant, the one Tetsurou had never gotten used to and never would. The one he would pay the price for.
He'd caught it one last time, too, that look. Not when Tooru was being his laughing self, dismissive and lighthearted, saying besides, we never even got around to adopting a cat or anything, so I don't see what the problem with breaking up is. Not when his voice started getting strained, as if he was surprised that Tetsurou wouldn't accept his arguments, neat and laid-out and farcical as they were.
No, it hadn't even been then. Not when Tooru said you almost died. They know where we live. They know who you are to me. Don't play stupid.
'You're so full of yourself,' Tetsurou had replied, and Tooru's jaw had clenched. 'I could've died a dozen other times, because that's what my fucking job entails. Would you have let me do this if you were in my place? Would you have left?'
'I would never be in your place, Tetsurou,' he'd growled. 'They're never going to try to get back at you. You're too good for that. They'll only ever try to get back at me.'
It hadn't been then. It had been just after, when Tetsurou retreated to his worst self, the one who tried to navigate everything from awkward dates to mafia kidnappings to breakups with an attempt at a joke. The one who was so horribly mismatched with Tooru's own personality that they both loved and hated each other for it in equal measure.
'Oh, great,' he had sneered. 'So they might keep trying, and you'll still go just as insane if something happens to me, but we don't even get to fuck in the bargain? Sounds like a shitty deal if you ask me.'
It had been then. They were in the living room, Tetsurou standing by his stupid bags and boxes, and Tooru pacing before the balcony doors, Tokyo a hostile, sparkling minefield behind him that only he could see, terrified as he was. He had stopped in place then, turning to blink at Tetsurou, before throwing his head back and laughing.
It was bone-dry brittle, sending goosebumps down Tetsurou's arms. When it stopped, Tooru's eyes on his were petrifying.
'You,' he said softly, 'are going to get out of my life, Tetsurou.'
-
Between sweating off the hangover of one jet-lagged night out and gearing up for the next, Tetsurou had discovered something new. It never turned old— it would be a discovery he would make for years, maybe never stop making, but he didn't know it then. Just like he didn't know that when people said everyone here loved to dance, they meant it. Just like he didn't know how seriously Tooru took tango, how high up it was on the list of the hundred thousand things that mattered to him.
It was four in the afternoon, and La Boca was full of colours Tetsurou didn't know existed. There was music in every street, the temperatures kind at the tail end of a pampero, but they had all sweated through their shirts anyway. Tooru's T-shirt was sweaty, his jeans fitting wrong, a pair he had borrowed from Matias. He didn't care in the least that he was the only one out of place, unkempt next to Tetsurou's white button-down and Ray-Bans. He didn't care about anything other than the woman he was dancing with, who was holding him with the same serious attentiveness with which he was moving his feet, as if the two of them were trapped in a gravity only they could feel.
It was four in the afternoon. Music was overlapping, milonga over milonga, but Tetsurou only heard the melody that mattered, the one Tooru was dancing to. One of his knees the slightest bit stiff when he lifted that leg, but his moves all the more beautiful for it. His concentration breaking for a smile as they pulled one off perfectly, like nothing mattered more to him than getting it right. It was always how he did things, Tetsurou had realised long ago; devastatingly or not at all.
It was then that Tetsurou had first discovered it— when struck, stomach sinking, he had realised just how irreparably in love he was with Tooru, who, not knowing that he had the option to do nothing, always devastated. Tooru who was spinning a silk-skirted woman around like they were king and queen, all the while himself in ill-fitting jeans and a sweaty T-shirt, strange and dull between the new colours of La Boca, hair short, elbows still bony. Tetsurou had discovered it then— a new kind of pain, one that came from loving without knowing, without having. Intrigue and defeat all in one, reconnaissance. One that only just disappeared when Tooru first kissed him in a dark hotel room the night before their flight back; one that reared its head the moment he left in the morning, and only for twenty minutes, only to pack. It was already unbearable, Tetsurou had decided; he tagged along.
It was unbearable, because it didn't lie dormant for the time they were together. Maybe if it had, Tetsurou could've recognised it when it came roaring back the night Tooru left him; it would have been familiar, if terrible. Nostalgic, if disorienting. Instead, over time it disappeared, so that only a memory of it remained. Of that first time, seeing Tooru dance in the city of his— and then Tetsurou's— dreams, and falling in love. Not the moment itself, only a memory of it. Phantom pain, the kind that would never disappear. Tooru's laugh echoing in stairways and marbled halls. His unending, unblinking gaze in the mirror when Tetsurou raised his head from under the tap after yet another nightmare.
It wasn't loving without knowing anymore— it was having had, then no longer having him. The worst pain Tetsurou has experienced in his life, because it reminds him it's the worst every morning he wakes up to its presence. Because ever since he stepped foot past the threshold here, every pain has flared up in protest— head, hands, fingers— but this one hasn't. It is the worst pain he has ever known, because it hasn't returned on seeing Tooru— it has left. Stopped, so that he only now realises how long he has been living with it.
How long Tooru has been living with it; how he flinches when Tetsurou looks at his watch, then smiles like he deserves it. Like he deserves Tetsurou's gentle reproach, which he does. Like Tetsurou deserves to be selfish enough for both of them, the share of selfish that Tooru refuses to be; selfish enough to cup his face, thumbs stroking under those unimaginable eyes. Selfish enough to press their foreheads together as they sway, noses brushing, breaths crossing. Selfish enough to smile at the way Tooru's exhales shake, as if it hurts.
Where does it hurt, Tetsurou wants to ask. Like Tooru used to when he was in a mood, before giving Tetsurou his lips with laughter and flair. Oh no, Tet-chan, amor mío. Where does it hurt?
Here, Tetsurou would say, always humouring him. Knee, shoulder, forehead. Here, he wants Tooru to say, pointing to his empty wrist, lilac throat, misty eyes. Aquí. Aquí. Aquí.
'They'll be here soon,' Tooru says. 'They can't see us together.'
'They could. We could be partners. Just for tonight.'
'Good partners don't let people know they're partners.'
'Well,' Tetsurou grins. 'Then we've been the best, haven't we?'
He's winning. Tooru opens his mouth, then laughs, the corners of his lips meeting Tetsurou's hands. Then he smiles, eyes closing. Aquí, he says; if only Tetsurou would free his lashes of the wet weight clinging to them.
'I see nothing about you has changed either,' Tooru says. 'You're going to make a terrible sidekick.'
'Partner. Partner, we've been over this.'
'Partner,' he allows, voice thick, then; aquí. 'Well, partner, I'm still a romantic. I need to be wined and dined before I shoot someone for you again.'
'Are you kidding?' Tetsurou's winning. 'I need to be wined and dined before I let you shoot someone for me again. I'm still paying for—'
He wins. The song starts to change, and Tooru— because he is still in love with Tetsurou and no litany, however long, of here aquí here, will make it stop— doesn't kiss him. Simply, his breath catches at the realisation that some kind of timeless time is running out. His eyes grow sharp like they used to at milongas, and in their bedroom, and whenever he decided he was going to be devastating. Simply— Tetsurou holds his breath and waits for Tooru to fall into him, hard enough to hurt, and so, the least painful blow of all. Aquí, Tetsurou wants to say, as Tooru's elbows press into his ribs. Aquí, his lips on Tetsurou's shoulder. Aquí, his hand over Tetsurou's gun.
'You took too long,' he says instead, through the lump in his throat. Sixth-worst. 'I had to come get you. And yes, the flight was long. It's going to be even longer on the way back, so I hope you still have those headphones of yours.'
Tooru doesn't protest; Tetsurou's won. He says nothing at all, only hides his face in Tetsurou's shoulder and lets him lead the dance, even though he's right and they'll have to wash their faces and get ready for work in three minutes. Even though he won't take that flight back with Tetsurou, not yet. Even though they've only exchanged a handful of words, and there's half a decade's worth to catch up on. Half a decade's worth of bruises and breaths and broken bottles.
Even though Tetsurou hurts all over, again, as if the ache knows it only has so long to live, now, and wants to give him one last show. Even so, Tetsurou's won, a victory five years in the making. Because then the song has changed, but Tooru, when he looks up, is still the same. Still the one who is nothing like the one he was, who was nothing like the one he was.
'Tetsurou,' he says, then says nothing more. You didn't take too long. I wasn't waiting, you're full of yourself. I hate you. I love you. Where?
'Aquí,' Tetsurou replies, and touches his lips.