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The arena smells like sweat and disinfectant, the air tight with noise. Fukka sits stiffly in his seat, hands clasped together, unsure where to look. This is his first time watching a boxing match in person. He doesn’t know the rhythms yet, the way the crowd breathes as one, the way violence can feel almost ceremonial.
Then Hikaru steps into the ring.
Hikaru looks nothing like the boy he remembers from high school. His body has been carved like a Greek god, broad shoulders tapering into a narrow waist, muscle packed tight under his tanned skin from years of conditioning. His arms are thick, veined, held loose with practiced confidence. He’s tall now, more than 1.8 meters, and he carries it effortlessly, like the ring was built to fit him.
His hair is pulled into a short man bun, the undercut clean and severe, exposing the line of his neck. Sweat already glistens along his collarbone.
Fukka becomes suddenly aware of himself, skinny, pale, shoulders sloped inward. He feels unchanged, like time passed him by while Hikaru stepped into something larger.
Under the lights, Hikaru looks intense. Hungrier. His shoulders roll loose as he tests his range, gloves brushing together.
He glances once toward his corner, not searching for the crowd so much as grounding himself, then nods to no one in particular, like a habit drilled in long before this match.
When the bell rings, the sound slices straight through Fukka’s chest.
Hikaru fights orthodox, guard high, footwork light. He probes with a jab, snaps it out twice, testing distance. His opponent answers with a low kick of pressure, crowding him, cutting the ring. Fukka learns quickly what it means to flinch without moving.
Hikaru slips a right, counters with a hook to the body. The impact echoes. Fukka doesn’t realize he’s leaned forward until his back aches.
By the later rounds, Hikaru’s breathing is visible. Sweat flies with every exchange. He takes a cross flush to the mouth, staggers, recovers, clinches just long enough for the referee to separate them. His lip splits. Red blooms.
“Stay on him!” someone shouts.
Hikaru does. He always does.
But it isn’t enough.
When the final bell rings, both fighters are marked and exhausted. The judges’ decision comes slow, ceremonial. Split decision. Not his.
The crowd applauds anyway.
Fukka claps too, hands numb, throat tight. He doesn’t fully understand the rules, but he understands this: Hikaru never stopped moving forward.
That’s what stays with him.
~
Just come to the backstage and meet me at my waiting room. I left your name with security. After you pass him, it’s the second door down the corridor.
Fukka reads the message twice before heading toward the backstage entrance. A security guard stands in front of the door, arms crossed.
“I was told to go to the waiting room,” Fukka says, trying to keep his voice steady.
“Your name, sir?” The guard glances down at his tablet.
“Fukazawa Tatsuya.”
A beat. Then a nod. The door opens.
The corridor is narrower than he expected, quieter too, the noise of the arena dulled to a low, muffled echo. He finds the second door easily. Still, he hesitates before knocking, suddenly aware of how loud his heartbeat feels in his chest.
“Come in,” a voice calls from inside.
The room is small and practical, a sofa pressed against the wall, a low table, a single chair. A mirror rimmed with lights. A hanger holds Hikaru’s clothes.
Hikaru looks up.
He’s still in his boxing robe, belt untied, the fabric hanging loose around his shoulders. Sweat darkens the collar, clinging to his skin. His chest rises and falls steadily, breath finally slowing after the fight. But Fukka notices the slump of his shoulders, the slight tremor in his fingers, the way he sits at the edge of the chair like he’s carrying the weight of the entire fight in his bones. His jaw is tight, lips pressed together, eyes fixed somewhere between the floor and the mirror, eyes that usually blaze with confidence now muted, almost haunted.
Fukka doesn’t need to ask. He doesn’t need words. He sees it all, the quiet defeat that Hikaru refuses to voice, and his chest tightens with a mix of concern and helpless admiration.
“Sorry you came all this way and I didn’t win today,” Hikaru says, scratching the back of his neck, forcing a sheepish smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“It’s alright,” Fukka replies.
His eyes slide away immediately, landing on the mirror, the chair, anything that isn’t the open line of Hikaru’s collar or the heat still rolling off him.
“Ah,” Hikaru adds, glancing down at himself. “I should shower first. I probably smell.”
Fukka sits down quickly, as if movement might betray him. “You don’t,” he says, then, softer, “You always look like you just got out of the shower.”
The words escape before he can reconsider them.
Hikaru laughs, easy and bright. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” He says.
He turns and heads toward the shower, robe swaying with his steps, disappearing behind the door.
The room settles into quiet.
Fukka exhales, staring at his hands.
That was a strange thing to say, he thinks.
Not wrong. Just honest in a way he hasn’t practiced.
Fukka usually always knows the right thing to say. It’s part of his job, pitching concepts to clients, smoothing edges, finding words that land where they’re meant to. But tonight, he’s out of practice with himself. Out of rhythm.
He doesn’t even know what he’s supposed to say to someone who just lost a match like that. There’s no presentation for disappointment, no carefully chosen phrasing that makes it smaller.
He wants—more than anything—to step forward, to touch and say the right words, to make Hikaru feel lighter, to somehow take the weight off his shoulders. But he doesn’t know how, and the fear of saying the wrong thing keeps him still.
~
Three months ago, Fukka had almost been late for work. He’d just finished moving his things out of his ex-girlfriend’s apartment, his new apartment is messy with luggage & boxes, his head full and heavy. His mood was sour enough that seeing someone standing outside his office that early irritated him.
But somehow, he knew who it was even before the man turned around.
“Iwamoto Hikaru.”
His high school classmate.
He’s wearing a cap, an oversized t-shirt, and baggy pants that give him a laid-back, effortless vibe. Fukka, on the other hand, is all business.
They hadn’t spoken since graduation. A coincidence reunion, unexpected, slightly unreal. He didn’t expect their paths cross again.
In this life, there are vague memories, and there are vivid ones. Memories of Hikaru have always been vivid.
Walking to school together. Riding the train home shoulder to shoulder. Skipping classes and wandering Harajuku, buying identical T-shirts they never admitted they’d planned to match. Laughing too loudly, staying out too late.
What’s vague is when it changed.
There had been a moment, one night on the school field after basketball practice. The air was cool, the lights half-broken. They’d sat too close on the grass, shoulders brushing. Hikaru had gone quiet, listening too intently as Fukka talked. Something in his gaze had shifted, not friendship exactly, not yet anything named.
After that, Hikaru started pulling away. Slowly. Almost carefully.
Then he disappeared after graduation.
Years later, Fukka saw him on television. Hikaru had become a professional boxer. Not a national athlete yet, but clearly on the rise. Relentless.
And then, somehow, he was standing in front of him again.
When Hikaru said he’d bought an apartment and needed renovations, starting with the kitchen, Fukka agreed to design for him. They went over details in Fukka’s office, then drifted into a nearby café for lunch, catching up in fragments about their lives.
Something between them still felt unfinished. Unresolved.
But Fukka chose not to touch it.
“So,” Hikaru said, stirring his coffee, not looking up. “Did you build your little family?”
“Huh?” Fukka blinked.
“You said it was your dream,” Hikaru said. “Back then. On the school field.”
Fukka smiled despite himself. That night returned clearly, the grass damp beneath them, the school buildings dark and still. The field lights had already shut off, leaving only the faint spill of streetlight beyond the gates. He had confessed about a girl then, about how he imagined a future with her.
“I was supposed to get married in a few months,” Fukka said carefully. “But… I ended things last week.”
“With her?” Hikaru asked. “The one from high school?”
“No. Nothing ever happened with her. This was someone I met 2 years ago. Reina… ”
Hikaru nodded. “I see.” A pause.
“You have your own company now, though. That’s one dream done.”
“Yeah,” Fukka said. “What about you?”
Hikaru went quiet. The café noise filled the space between them.
“I don’t date women,” he said at last.
At first, Fukka almost laughed, ready to tease him, to brush it off like before. Then the meaning settled in, gentle but unmistakable.
“Oh,” he said.
They left it at that.
But something that had once gone unsaid finally had a shape.
~
Hikaru’s apartment is located in a quiet residential area of Setagaya, far enough from the city’s center that the streets soften at night, close enough to the gym that his mornings don’t start with exhaustion. It’s a neighborhood built for people who come home tired, low buildings, narrow roads, convenience stores that glow warmly after dark.
The unit itself is a 1LDK; one bedroom, a living space, and a compact kitchen. Not extravagant, but comfortable. The kind of place that suggests steady income rather than luxury: solid construction, decent light, enough room to breathe without inviting clutter. Suitable for someone who spends more time training than entertaining.
The kitchen, however, is old-fashioned. Yellowed cabinet doors. A counter that’s lost its shine. Fixtures that work, technically, but feel tired, like they belong to someone who stayed longer than they meant to.
When Hikaru moves in, he doesn’t bring any of his old kitchen tools or utensils. No pans. No plates. Nothing that carries a history. He plans to start fresh.
Fukka notices the absence immediately.
It’s familiar to him in a way he doesn’t comment on.
He doesn’t have many things in his own new apartment either. After the split, there wasn’t much worth dividing. But he doesn’t cook, so it’s fine. At least, that’s what he tells himself.
“I want something modern,” Hikaru says, standing in the doorway to the kitchen, arms loosely crossed. “Clean. Simple.”
“Sure,” Fukka replies, already imagining lines and finishes. “We could add some accents, though. Just enough so it doesn’t feel boring.”
Hikaru nods without hesitation. “I trust you on this.”
The words land more heavily than they should.
Fukka turns his attention to the rest of the apartment. The living room is still in its original condition, plain flooring, neutral walls, the faint sense of a space waiting to be occupied properly. It isn’t bad. Just unfinished.
“You’re thinking of doing the other rooms too?” he asks.
Hikaru plants his hands on his hips and looks around, expression thoughtful, almost distant. “What do you think?”
“I can give you some options to consider,” Fukka says. “Function-wise, it’s fine. But aesthetically… it could be better.”
Hikaru hums in agreement, satisfied enough with that answer.
Fukka doesn’t ask where Hikaru lived before moving here. He doesn’t ask why the apartment is so empty, or why someone so disciplined would leave behind perfectly usable things.
He wonders anyway.
Is it also because of a breakup?
As if sensing the unspoken question, Hikaru adds casually, “My previous place was too far from the gym. And this one was pretty cheap. Not too shabby.”
That’s enough.
Fukka nods, letting the thought go. He understands more than Hikaru probably realizes.
When Fukka moved in with Reina, he hadn’t thought much at all. He followed what she wanted. What he thought she wanted. Colors he wouldn’t have chosen. Furniture he never really noticed. A home built around anticipation instead of intention.
Standing here now, in Hikaru’s mostly empty apartment, surrounded by things that could be changed, improved, remade, Fukka feels a strange, quiet awareness settle in his chest.
Starting over, he thinks, always looks like this at first.
Bare.
Uncertain.
Full of possibility you don’t quite know what to do with yet.
~
After Hikaru approves the overall design, it’s time to choose the finer details, the sink, the tap, the pieces that will define the kitchen. They meet at Hibi Home in Shinjuku, a store that seems to have everything a kitchen could ever need. Stainless-steel sinks gleam behind glass cases, knives hang like trophies, and ceramic bowls are stacked in careful, tempting rows, patterns delicate and precise.
This is the kind of place Fukka usually brings clients, people who want to see and feel materials in person, to test the weight of a pan or the texture of a countertop before committing. Some projects absolutely require it; others, less so.
Hikaru doesn’t, really. But Fukka insists anyway.
Officially, they’re here to choose fixtures and finishes, to settle the details that will shape the room. Unofficially, Fukka is extending the process. Giving Hikaru more of his time than necessary. More attention than he usually offers without calculating the hours.
He tells himself it’s professional. He doesn’t quite believe it.
Hikaru wanders a little slower than usual, hands brushing over the edge of a polished countertop, eyes scanning the sinks with mild curiosity. “This one looks… solid,” he says, tapping lightly on a deep stainless basin.
Fukka moves closer, tilting his head to see Hikaru’s perspective. “Good choice,” he says, brushing a finger along the edge of the same sink. “Feels sturdy, holds up over time. You’ll barely notice wear.”
Hikaru glances at him, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You always make everything sound so… convincing.”
Fukka chuckles softly, “It’s called experience. Also, you trust me, don’t you?”
“Mm,” Hikaru replies, eyes flicking to Fukka’s hands, the way they move naturally, unhurried. He steps closer under the pretext of checking the faucet, letting their arms brush. The contact is light, unselfconscious, and Fukka doesn’t pull away.
They linger over the taps, comparing finishes, matte black, brushed steel, polished chrome. Hikaru twists the handle on one, testing water flow, while Fukka crouches slightly to inspect the spout’s reach. Their shoulders brush again; a quiet spark passes, unnoticed by anyone but them.
“This one?” Hikaru asks finally, holding up a sleek, single-lever model. “It’s simple, clean. Matches the vibe we agreed on.”
Fukka nods, letting a smile show. “Perfect. And easy to clean, important for someone who actually cooks, or… doesn’t cook very often,” he adds, glancing at Hikaru.
Hikaru laughs, leaning a fraction closer, “Touché. Just so you know, I cook a very delicious fried rice.” His hand lingers near Fukka’s for a second longer than necessary, almost accidentally, almost deliberately.
By the time they leave the tap and sink section, the rhythm between them is established, easy, playful, comfortable, but with the kind of small touches that leave an impression long after. Fukka carries the checklist; Hikaru carries a quiet sense of satisfaction, and together, the store feels a little smaller, a little more theirs.
“I don’t cook much,” Hikaru teases, holding up a heavy pan, turning it over in his hands. “But I think I need this, right?”
Fukka glances at it. Good weight. Even heat distribution. Overkill for someone who lives on takeout.
“I don’t cook,” he says, then adds, “but yes. You need it.”
Hikaru laughs and, without thinking, pats Fukka on the head.
The touch is brief. Casual. Familiar.
Something tightens low in Fukka’s chest. He doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t lean in either. He just stands there, pretending this isn’t anything more than friendly.
They drift deeper into the shop where they find bowls, plates and utensils. Hikaru keeps calling Fukka over to look at things he clearly doesn’t need.
“This one’s cute,” Hikaru says, holding up a small bowl with a simple, almost childish pattern. Before Fukka can respond, Hikaru grabs his hand, tugging him closer. “Look.”
The contact is easy. Unselfconscious.
Fukka lets himself be pulled.
“Wait,” he says, blinking at the bowl in Hikaru’s hands. “I have the same one at home.”
Hikaru pauses, then smiles wider, pleased by the coincidence. “Okay,” he says easily. “Then I’ll take this.”
“Wait—why do you want to copy me?” Fukka asks, laughing, though his voice comes out thinner than he expects.
Hikaru tilts his head, considering him. The shop lights catch in his eyes.
“So we can be that couple that has matching things.”
The words land softly. Too softly.
Hikaru’s tone is light, almost playful, like it’s a joke he doesn’t need an answer to. He turns back to the shelves, already reaching for another item, as if nothing momentous has just been said.
But Fukka stays where he is.
A warmth spreads through his chest, followed immediately by panic. His mind scrambles for the appropriate response, teasing, deflecting, something safe, but nothing comes. He tells himself it’s just Hikaru being Hikaru. Casual. Thoughtless. Harmless.
Still, his hand hasn’t slipped free yet.
He lets go only when he has to.
And as they move on, shoulder to shoulder, Fukka wonders uneasily whether Hikaru knows exactly what he’s doing.
Or worse, whether Fukka does.
For a moment, he forgets where he is. It feels less like work, less like shopping, and more like—
A date.
The thought startles him enough that he almost laughs at himself.
And then he looks up and runs straight into… Reina.
The moment stretches thin and unbearable. Four months of silence collapse into a single second. She looks the same. Maybe a little sharper around the edges. Maybe that’s just guilt doing the seeing.
“Sorry,” Fukka blurts out.
The word feels absurdly small. It can’t possibly cover the years they spent together, or the quiet ways he failed her. But it’s all he has.
Reina nods, stiff. Her gaze flickers to Hikaru, then back to Fukka, unreadable.
They separate without another word.
Fukka doesn’t realize he’s still smiling, from Hikaru, from earlier, until it fades on its own.
They line up at the cashier.
“Your ex?” Hikaru asks lightly, as if commenting on the weather.
“How did you know?”
Hikaru gestures toward the rack beside them, lifting a ceramic knife. “The tension could cut like this.” He pauses, silently asking if he should add it.
Fukka nods.
Hikaru places it in the basket.
Fukka glances sideways and catches Reina again, standing in another line. She’s looking at Hikaru. When she meets Fukka’s eyes, she looks away first.
The guilt resurfaces, familiar and heavy. He wonders if this is what he deserves: to always be halfway between relief and regret.
Hikaru steps a little closer, close enough that their arms brush.
“Hey,” Hikaru says quietly. Not a question. Not an accusation.
Fukka exhales.
For reasons he doesn’t fully understand yet, being here with Hikaru, surrounded by things meant to build a home… feels less like betrayal and more like honesty finally catching up with him.
And that scares him more than anything.
~
They talk a lot , about the kitchen, yes, but rarely only about the kitchen.
More often, Hikaru sends messages that arrive without warning or context.
Do you think I should get therapy for my insect phobia?
A moment later: In preparation for my marathon.
Fukka smiles to himself, taking a five-minute break from a stubborn 3D render. He can picture Hikaru being completely serious, entirely unaware of how ridiculous he sounds.
Are you planning to team up with dragonflies? Fukka types back. Then no.
Hikaru is a morning person. He’s usually out running by five, streets still half-asleep, while Fukka is deep in dreams. By the time Fukka wakes up, there’s almost always a message waiting.
I’m climbing Fuji today.
Or:
Since when do you model for this company?
Attached is a photo of grinch-like creature he’s found on a billboard.
Fukka groans out loud. “That looks nothing like me.”
Rude, he replies, even as he laughs.
It isn’t dramatic. Nothing is spelled out.
But somewhere between design revisions and careless teasing, between early-morning updates and messages that feel oddly tailored just for him, this becomes their new normal, a quiet presence threading itself into Fukka’s days before he thinks to question it.
And when he finally does, it’s already there, settled in comfortably, impossible to ignore.
Fukka smiles to himself, thinking how funny the universe can be. He even texts Hikaru one day, almost without thinking: “Funny how our worlds still cross.”
He means the time Hikaru showed up at his office out of nowhere, unexpected and impossible to plan. And yet, somehow, exactly where he needed to be.
~
Fukka can’t drive, so he always ends up in the passenger seat. Lately, that seat has almost always been in Hikaru’s car.
Hikaru picks him up, drives him where he needs to go, and drives him home again. On most days, Fukka falls asleep somewhere along the way.
Tonight is no different. They’d had dinner at Fukka’s favorite ramen shop after work. Nothing fancy, just a familiar place and a long, meandering conversation that stretched until the shop began stacking chairs. As usual, Hikaru picked him up from the office, and as usual, he’s the one driving Fukka home.
The car glides through the quiet streets, porch lights and convenience store signs flickering past the windows. Bags from their shopping trip for Hikaru’s new apartment rustle in the back, carrying the faint scent of fresh wood, metal, and something that feels like new beginnings.
Fukka is slumped in the passenger seat, head tilted back, eyelids heavy. The day, long and full of Hikaru, has finally caught up with him.
Hikaru slows as they reach Fukka’s neighborhood and pulls over.
He glances sideways, a small smile tugging at his mouth. Carefully, he reaches out and nudges Fukka’s shoulder.
“Hey… wake up,” he murmurs.
“Five more minutes,” Fukka mumbles, eyes still closed.
Hikaru exhales softly and rests his forehead against the steering wheel, just watching him. The way Fukka’s eyelashes brush his cheeks. The way his lips part slightly as he breathes. Even asleep, there’s a faint tension in his shoulders that makes something in Hikaru’s chest tighten, unnamed and familiar.
After a long moment, Fukka shifts, still not opening his eyes.
“Can I ask…” he says quietly. “Why did we stop talking after graduation?”
He doesn’t ask why Hikaru didn’t reply. He doesn’t mention the messages he sent, the times he reached out and was met with silence. He leaves those words untouched.
Hikaru leans back in his seat, pretending to think, his tone is too light. “Can I get… three working days to reply?”
Fukka lets out a small, sleepy laugh. “You’re impossible,” he mutters, but there’s something soft underneath it.
Hikaru smiles, but the humor fades quickly, replaced by something more careful. “Okay,” he says, quieter now. “I’ll answer. I think… you already know why.”
He hesitates, fingers tightening briefly around the steering wheel.
“I’ve always had this… attachment to you,” he continues. “And I thought you felt the same way. But I was young. I didn’t know how to name it.”
Fukka’s eyes flutter open slowly. The neighbourhood is blurry, all he sees is Hikaru, steady, familiar, and suddenly very exposed.
“When you told me about wanting to confess to someone else,” Hikaru says, voice low, “I thought that was it. I didn’t think I could stay the same around you anymore. So I thought… I had to detach. For my own sake.”
He lets out a quiet, nervous laugh. “Sorry. That came out less eloquent than I meant it to.”
Fukka’s chest tightens. The old hurt resurfaces, piercing and familiar, but it’s tempered now by the honesty in Hikaru’s words.
“You could have told me,” he whispers. “We were young, but we could’ve talked about it. You didn’t have to disappear.”
Hikaru reaches over, brushing his hand gently against Fukka’s arm, not urging, not asking. Just there.
“I know,” he says softly. “I know, and I’m sorry.”
Fukka shakes his head, saying nothing to apologize. He leans back against the seat, blinking slowly, letting the warmth of Hikaru’s presence and the weight of his words settle. He’s still half-asleep, still drifting, but everything feels different. Safer. Less Uncertain.
Hikaru rests his head briefly against the steering wheel again, watching him. It’s quiet around them, and for the first time in years, the missing time between them feels smaller, not gone, not erased, but eased.
~
The vintage shop is tucked between a café and a record store, narrow and dim in a way that feels intentional. Old band posters peel slightly at the corners. Racks are packed tight, cotton softened by years of wear. It smells faintly of dust and detergent.
“This one,” Fukka says, already halfway turned, phone in hand. “I saw it online and thought—ah, it’s better in person.”
He lifts a T-shirt from the rack. Faded black, cracked print. Exactly Hikaru’s size.
Hikaru hums and steps closer, fingers brushing the hem. “You have good instincts,” he says easily. Familiar. Comfortable.
Fukka’s phone lights up.
The name on the screen is impossible to miss.
Reina.
Hikaru sees it before Fukka can turn the screen away. Something subtle shifts, his smile doesn’t vanish, just loosens, like he’s set it down carefully.
“I’ll go check the jackets,” Hikaru says, already stepping back, giving space that feels deliberate. Too deliberate.
Fukka answers the call, voice low and neutral. A few short replies. A nod, even though she can’t see it.
When he hangs up, Hikaru is standing a little farther away than before, pretending to be deeply invested in a rack of denim.
“Shall we make payment?” Hikaru asks. His tone is cool, clipped.
They walk to the car park in silence.
“I’ll send you home,” Hikaru says, unlocking the car.
Fukka blinks. He’d assumed, without ever saying it, that they’d get lunch together.
“Or,” Hikaru adds, glancing sideways, “do you want me to drop you somewhere else?”
“Oh,” Fukka says slowly. “You don’t want to get lunch?”
Hikaru hesitates, then nods as if he’s just remembered something. “Sorry—I forgot to tell you. I’m meeting Haruto. He’s giving me some gym equipment.”
Fukka goes quiet. Hikaru calling someone on first name basis is not lost on him.
“So…” Hikaru asks, fingers tightening briefly on the steering wheel. “Home?”
Fukka cuts in, sharper than he means to. “Is it because of Reina?”
“Huh?” Hikaru frowns.
“She just called about the internet account,” Fukka says quickly. “It was under my name. That’s it.”
“You don’t have to explain,” Hikaru replies, eyes still forward.
Fukka watches him, something sour and unfamiliar blooming low in his chest. “Then why are you sulking?”
Hikaru turns, startled.
“And,” Fukka adds, voice edged now, “who the hell is Haruto?”
Hikaru freezes. Then he lets out a short, incredulous laugh.
A question passes between them without being said.
You’re jealous?
Are you?
“Argh,” Fukka groans, dragging a hand through his hair. “I don’t know what’s going on with us.”
The words hang there, unfiltered.
Hikaru exhales. His expression softens.
“He’s just a friend,” he says quietly. “He wants to give me some boxing gear for the gym, but I have to pick it up from his place.” He glances at Fukka. “Do you wanna come with me?... if you’re free.”
Fukka meets his eyes, searching.
“Everyone else,” Hikaru adds more softly, “is just a friend. Okay?”
“Okay, Tatsuya?” Hikaru repeats, purposefully emphasizing the name. He has never called him Tatsuya. It has always been Fukka, from high school until now, easy and habitual, like it required no thought at all.
So when he says it like that, something shifts deep in Fukka’s chest. Not loud. But seismic all the same.
Fukka swats Hikaru’s stomach. “Shut up,” he snaps, heat creeping into his voice.
Hikaru laughs, relieved.
The tension doesn’t disappear, but it loosens. Enough.
Fukka exhales, long and shaky. He lifts the shopping bag, holding it out.
“This is for you.”
“What is it?”
Hikaru takes the bag and pulls out the T-shirt, not the faded black one he’d tried on.
“I didn’t see you buy anything except that black tee,” he says, confused.
“I paid and hid this when you were in the fitting room,” Fukka admits.
Hikaru unfolds it. His expression lights up instantly, unguarded, almost boyish.
His childlike smile is back.
“I love it,” he says, looking up at Fukka. “You really do have good instincts.”
And this time, when their eyes meet, neither of them looks away first.
~
Sometimes Hikaru shows up at Fukka’s office for no particular reason. Fukka might be buried in drawings or sitting through meetings, but Hikaru never seems to mind waiting. He settles on the sofa with his phone untouched, content just to watch. Fukka doesn’t find the visits disruptive. If anything, their quiet familiarity steadies him, like background noise he didn’t realize he needed.
In the afternoons, Hikaru helps train the younger boxers at the gym. On days when he finishes early and has nowhere else to be, he comes here instead.
“One of the kids won his first spar today,” Hikaru says one afternoon, almost casually.
Fukka looks up from his desk. “You sound proud.”
Hikaru pauses, then nods. “Yeah. I guess I am.”
When the staff heads out for the night, Fukka stays behind to wrap up loose ends. Hikaru stays too. He likes watching Fukka work, the crease that forms between his brows, the way the rest of the room seems to fade from his awareness. They usually end the night with dinner somewhere nearby, nothing fancy, nothing planned.
It feels like high school.
Except they are adults now.
And even so, neither of them seems able to name what they are doing.
Tonight, Fukka finishes early while Hikaru is still at the gym. Hikaru mentions his car’s in for servicing, so he didn’t drive.
I’ll pick you up, Fukka texts.
It’s funny, considering he does not drive. No license, no car. He takes the train to Hikaru’s gym anyway, the message lingering in his mind as the stations pass.
The gym is nearly empty when he arrives. Most of the lights are off, leaving the ring glowing at the center. The air smells of sweat, rubber, and metal.
“Fukka!”
Hikaru calls from the ring.
He is wearing a black tank top, damp with sweat and clinging to his shoulders and chest. His arms flex as he moves, muscles defined under the harsh lights. A sheen of sweat traces his collarbone.
Fukka slows without realizing it.
Hikaru is mid pad work with his coach, focused, breathing hard but steady.
“Give me ten minutes,” Hikaru says.
“It’s fine,” Fukka replies. He drops his bag on a nearby stool and leans against the ropes.
The coach glances over, amused. “This guy’s been whining you haven’t shown up.”
“I did not,” Hikaru says quickly.
Fukka laughs.
“You ever tried boxing?” the coach asks.
Fukka blinks. “Me?”
“Just the basics.”
Fukka hesitates. He looks at the ring, then at Hikaru. “I don’t think I’m built for that.”
“You don’t have to be,” the coach says. “It’s just movement.”
Fukka exhales. “Okay. But if I’m terrible, you’re both pretending not to notice.”
Hikaru smiles.
The coach nods at him. “Your turn to teach.”
He grabs his towel and heads off. “I’ll let you two have fun.”
“Hey, where are you going?” Hikaru calls.
“Adios,” the coach says, waving as he disappears.
Hikaru turns back. “Okay. Let’s try this.”
Fukka rolls up his sleeves slowly, still half-considering backing out. Hikaru steps closer with the gloves, motioning for Fukka’s hands.
“Hold still,” he says.
Hikaru slides the gloves on, fingers firm as he tightens the straps. His touch lingers longer than necessary, thumbs pressing at Fukka’s wrists to test the fit. Fukka becomes painfully aware of how close he is, of Hikaru’s breath, of the warmth coming off him.
“Too tight?” Hikaru asks.
“No,” Fukka says. “It’s fine.”
Hikaru adjusts them anyway.
“Okay. Stance,” Hikaru says, stepping behind him. “Feet apart.”
Fukka mirrors him, a little awkward.
Hikaru reaches out, nudging Fukka’s shoulder back into place. His hand stays there, steady and grounding.
“Relax,” Hikaru murmurs. “You’re locking up.”
He demonstrates a basic stance. Fukka copies him, overdoing the posture just enough to be annoying.
Hikaru taps his head lightly. “Focus.”
“Ouch” Fukka exaggerates. “Is this how you teach the kids?”
“They usually listen,” Hikaru replies.
“Okay, sensei.”
Hikaru pauses, clears his throat, and steps back without comment.
They start slow. Footwork first. Guard up. Hikaru circles him, correcting angles, occasionally stepping in to adjust Fukka’s elbow or tilt his chin. Each touch is brief, purposeful, but none of them feel rushed.
Gradually, Fukka loosens up. Then he steps in closer than he should, dropping his guard on purpose.
“Hey,” Hikaru says, amused. “That’s cheating.”
“I’m improvising.”
They move around each other, not sparring, just testing space. Fukka keeps pushing a little too far, crowding him. Hikaru dodges easily, tapping his gloves aside.
“Stop doing that.”
“Make me.”
Fukka lunges again, badly timed and completely unserious. He keeps tapping at Hikaru’s guard, laughing now, abandoning any attempt at proper form.
“You’re not even trying,” Hikaru says, half breathless.
“I am.”
“You’re attacking like a toddler.”
“That’s strategy.”
Hikaru rolls his eyes and steps in. This time he moves behind Fukka, arms sliding around his midsection to still him.
“Okay, stop,” Hikaru says, laughing into his shoulder.
Fukka stiffens for a fraction of a second.
He’s fairly certain that isn’t a move in boxing.
Hikaru adjusts his hold, probably meaning to reposition him, but Fukka twists at the same time. Their balance shifts. The ropes vibrate behind them.
And then…
They tumble.
It isn’t dramatic. Just momentum and poor coordination. They land on the mat with a dull thud, side by side, breath knocked uneven.
The gym feels suddenly too quiet.
The lights buzz overhead. Fukka stares at the ceiling, aware of the heat radiating from Hikaru’s arm inches away. Close enough that he can feel it. Not touching. Just there.
“Are you ready for the match?” Fukka asks quietly.
“Yeah.” A beat. “Will you be there?”
“Of course.”
Then Fukka adds, softer, “I think you’re going to win this time.”
Hikaru turns his head.
They’re close. Not close enough to be accidental. His gaze lingers, unfocused at first, then deepens. It drops, almost imperceptibly, settling on Fukka’s lips, before returning to his eyes.
Fukka’s pulse kicks.
For a second, it feels like the world shrinks to the space between their mouths.
Voices echo faintly from the hallway.
They sit up at the same time.
“I'm gonna shower real quick,” Hikaru says, already standing.
As they climb out of the ring, Fukka smiles. “Thank you, sensei.”
Hikaru groans. “Don’t.”
“Why?”
Hikaru avoids his eyes. “Because I might need a cold shower.”
Fukka laughs, but his heartbeat doesn’t settle.
The thought unsettles him more than the almost-kiss did.
Making another man react like that. Wanting to see it happen again.
~
Dinner runs late, and by the time they head back, the station is swollen with Friday night energy. Platforms pulse with laughter and overlapping conversations, perfume and alcohol lingering in the air. Trains screech in and out at restless intervals, metal grinding against metal, doors sliding open and shut with mechanical impatience.
Inside the carriage, it’s crowded.
Hikaru steps in behind Fukka instinctively, one arm braced above him against the hand strap, the other resting low at Fukka’s side, not quite touching, but close enough to block the press of strangers.
The train lurches forward.
Fukka stumbles with the motion. Hikaru steadies him immediately, palm flattening briefly at his waist before sliding away.
They don’t comment on it.
Another jolt.
This time Hikaru doesn’t correct the distance.
He leans in.
Not enough for anyone else to notice. Just enough.
Fukka feels it, warm breath grazing the side of his head, just above his ear. A pause. Not an accident. Not the random bump of a crowded train.
And then…
The faintest brush of lips against his hairline.
Gone almost instantly.
“You smell good,” Hikaru says, voice low enough that it disappears into the quiet rattle of the carriage.
Fukka’s throat tightens. “What? I haven’t even showered.”
Hikaru’s mouth curves slightly. “I know.”
That’s all he says.
He doesn’t move away.
The rest of the ride passes in a blur of station announcements and the pounding of Fukka’s pulse in his ears.
~
That night. Fukka lies in bed staring at the ceiling.
His room is quiet. Too quiet.
He replays it once.
The sway of the train.
The deliberate pause.
The warmth at his temple.
Again.
The way Hikaru didn’t pull back immediately. The way his voice dropped when he said it.
You smell good.
Again.
It hadn’t been crowded enough to require that closeness.
Fukka turns onto his side, pressing his face into the pillow like he can smother the memory. It doesn’t help.
He tells himself it was nothing.
A joke. A moment. Heat and proximity.
But the truth settles slowly, heavily.
He hadn’t leaned away.
He hadn’t told Hikaru to stop.
And worse…
He wishes it had lasted longer.
The realization lands somewhere deep in his chest.
He wants it to happen again. Not by accident. Not because of a swaying train.
But because Hikaru chooses to.
Fukka shuts his eyes. His heartbeat refuses to slow.
Some lines are crossed in public, under fluorescent lights and crowded carriages. Some are crossed later, alone in the dark, when you finally admit what you’re hoping for.
And tonight, Fukka understands something he can no longer pretend not to know.
~
“Are you free this Saturday night?”
The text comes in on Wednesday morning. Fukka is still squinting at the screen when the next message follows: a screenshot of a cream-and-gold invitation.
Private Sponsor Appreciation Evening
Plus One Permitted.
“I would like to bring you as my plus one.”
Fukka stares at that longer than he should. No, yes, Fukka understands… but in what capacity?
Friend?
Designer?
Old classmate?
The mist in his head clears all at once, and with it comes the quiet, incriminating memory of last night, of lying awake, thinking about Hikaru too vividly, his own hand moving in ways that had nothing to do with friendship. The kind of private indulgence that feels harmless in the dark and accusatory in the morning.
He sits up and types back anyway.
I’m free.
~
On Saturday, Fukka chooses a dark purple suit. It’s tailored close to his frame, understated but rich under light. He tells himself it’s appropriate. Professional. Neutral enough.
Hikaru arrives in a navy suit that fits his shoulders almost unfairly well. Hair pushed back. Expression composed.
They both go still for a fraction too long.
Hikaru’s gaze travels, unguarded for once, but he doesn’t say anything, just smiles warmly and opens the passenger door for Fukka.
They listen to the songs Fukka picks during the drive. Hikaru seems preoccupied, like he’s turning something over in his mind, so Fukka lets the music fill the quiet.
~
The ballroom glows gold under chandeliers. Jazz drifts low and polished. Champagne glasses glint in manicured hands. Though labeled private, cameras lurking in corners for documentation.
Hikaru poses alone first, controlled smile, shoulders squared. Then he calls Fukka to join him.
They stand side by side. The photographer asks them to shift closer. Hikaru’s hand settles at the small of Fukka’s back, light, steady. The flash captures something that feels more intimate than staged.
Inside the crowd, words float past.
“Title trajectory.”
“Market expansion.”
“Face of the brand.”
It sounds like finance dressed up as sport.
Some people interview Hikaru and he answers questions in short, precise sentences. Even when executives chat with him, he isn’t rude, he’s simply not built for extended charm with strangers. He listens more than he speaks. Fukka’s existence beside him becomes important, as they seem to like Fukka, whenever he talks they pay attention. And Fukka can really talk about anything. When these executive find out that Fukka is an interior designer, they start asking his advice on design aesthetics in executive lounges.
Fukka laughs easily and keeps the conversation moving naturally.
More than once, he feels Hikaru’s attention shift from the sponsors to him.
At one point, Hikaru guides Fukka through the crowd, hand returning to his back. Casual. Necessary. They pass a woman who knows Hikaru well. Straight hair worn down, tailored masculine suits, poised.
“Fukka, this is Miss Shinoda Keiko” Hikaru announces.
She turns to Fukka, smiling politely. Then she raises an eyebrow at Hikaru, silently asking who he is.
Hikaru doesn’t hesitate. “This is Fukazawa Tatsuya, my special person.”
Shinoda’s expression softens into a knowing smile. “Finally,” she says.
They begin talking about the event. Hikaru listens more than he speaks, and as before, Fukka finds himself carrying most of the conversation. He talks easily, effortlessly, filling the space Hikaru leaves open, and Shinoda responds with interest and warmth.
Before they part, she whispers something in Hikaru’s ear, pats his chest. “Okay? What are you waiting for?” A challenge, perhaps, or maybe Fukka imagines it. Hikaru’s ears flush.
~
After that, they slip into the indoor garden. Winter presses faintly against the glass ceiling. Bare branches scrape against the dark sky. Inside, the air is warm and damp with greenery, heavy with the scent of moss and soil. Carefully curated trees stretch toward the soft lights, their leaves brushing against the ceiling. Stone paths wind between trimmed shrubs and small fountains, water moving quietly, like a thought almost forgotten.
“That’s the CEO?” Fukka asks, eyes wide.
“Yeah.”
“She looks young.”
“Late fifties I think.”
Fukka lets his hands rest on the wooden railing by a pond. The surface reflects the soft glow above, fragments of light scattering across the ripples. Hikaru stands beside him, loosening his tie.
“She likes you,” Fukka teases.
“Are you jealous?” Hikaru smiles.
“Nooo,” Fukka elongates.
He’s only jealous the other way around.
Silence stretches, thick and low, the kind that doesn’t demand words but makes them matter when they come.
“Would you want something like this at home?” Fukka asks, nodding toward the garden.
Hikaru glances around, letting his gaze linger on a tree with skeletal branches. “Maybe,” he says softly. “I’d like space like this… some quiet. For the future.”
Fukka smiles faintly. “For the future house?” He says it almost as a question, though there’s a subtle hope threading through it.
Hikaru tilts his head, considering. “Yeah. I think… this could work.” He gestures to the paths, the water, the warmth that contrasts the cold outside. “Something like this. But bigger.”
Fukka imagines it. A space that belongs to them. A house that isn’t just walls and furniture but alive, breathing, a little wild. “We could have trees that bloom in spring,” he says, letting the words fill the quiet.
We…
“Paths like this, fountains, places to sit in the sun. A pond maybe. And… you could train in a small gym.”
Hikaru turns slightly toward him, as if weighing the idea. “Yeah. I like that. And you could have your studio”. He pauses. the thought of it tempered by the reality waiting outside the garden walls. “But it takes work.”
“I know,” Fukka says. “We’ll figure it out.”
They lean on the railing, shoulders brushing lightly. Neither speaks for a while, letting the sound of water and the warm air fill the space between them. Fukka watches Hikaru’s expression soften, just a fraction. For a moment, the fight, the sponsorships, the expectations—all of it—feels far away, muted by the green quiet. Then his jaw tightens slightly.
“You hate these things,” Fukka says, nodding toward the space they’ve left behind in the ballroom, the glittering suits and polished words.
“I don’t hate them,” Hikaru replies, voice low.
“You tolerate them,” Fukka says, still looking out at the garden.
“They’re important,” Hikaru murmurs, jaw tight, eyes tracing the paths.
Fukka waits. Hikaru doesn’t look at him when he says it.
“If I lose this fight, I lose them.”
Fukka knows immediately. “The sponsorship?”
Hikaru nods once. “They’re investing in momentum, not potential.” He sounds like he’s quoting someone else. “It’s not just pride,” he continues, voice tight. “It’s the gym contract, the kids I train, the chance to… make a dream come true. All of it.”
“You’re going to win,” Fukka says quietly, steady.
Hikaru exhales sharply. “That’s not how probability works.”
“No,” Fukka replies. “That’s how you work. You refuse to let anyone decide your limits. You’ve built yourself to this. You push harder than anyone else. You fight like you won’t give in.”
Hikaru finally turns to him, looking at him properly, for the first time since they entered the garden.
“Or,” Fukka adds, softer this time, with a small smile, “you could charm your way with the CEO too.”
“Really? You’re not jealous?” Hikaru nudges Fukka’s arm playfully. “What about our garden and pond?”
Fukka straightens, face turning solemn. “If those are the things I have to sacrifice…”
Hikaru catches his arm, turning him to face him.
“If those are the things that I have to sacrifice, then I’m…” Fukka tries to repeat like a broken record.
Hikaru cuts, “Purple looks good on you”
Fukka’s breath catches before he can stop it.
“You’re not listening” Fukka protests.
Hikaru smooths the fabric down Fukka’s chest with unnecessary precision. “You are… very distracting.”
He reaches for Fukka’s tie, fingers adjusting the knot though it’s already straight.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t say too much…”
“That’s not what I mean” Hikaru says, his voice low.
Fukka swallows. Hikaru’s thumb lingers near the knot. The space between them tightens. Not even a touch beyond what could be excused as adjustment. But Hikaru doesn’t step back immediately.
“Maybe you need distracting,” Fukka says finally.
Hikaru’s fingers flex once, barely perceptible.
Inside, someone calls Hikaru’s name.
Hikaru closes his eyes briefly.
When he opens them, the softness has receded, replaced by composure.
He steps back, straightens his jacket, rebuilds the version of himself the ballroom expects.
“I’ll be right there,” he calls to that person.
Then, he reaches and squeezes Fukka’s cheek lightly. It is such a simple gesture but Fukka’s mind flashes to a few nights ago, to private thoughts he had allowed himself, now reverberating in this present moment. To hands imagined. To heat he had tried to ignore.
Those same fingers.
Hikaru looks at him steadily. “Come with me?”
Not possessive. Not careless. Just certain.
~
Finally, the day of the match arrives.
This isn’t just another fight. It is the fight.
The kind people whisper about in hallways and measure carefully when they talk about the future. The one commentators have been circling for weeks. The one sponsors are watching.
If Hikaru wins, he moves forward. If he loses, things go quiet. Momentum fades. Sponsors reconsider. Doors hesitate before opening. His career could stall.
Everyone knows it. Hikaru most of all.
He’s been training relentlessly. Early mornings. Late nights. No shortcuts.
Fukka has been there for more of it than he expected. Standing quietly by the ring, sitting on the cold benches of the gym, watching Hikaru move with a precision that feels sharpened by purpose. He doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t distract. He just shows up.
One afternoon, as Hikaru finishes a round of pads, sweat darkening his shirt, his coach glances over and grins.
“Iwamoto! Your boyfriend’s here.”
The word hits the room like a dropped weight.
Fukka’s face burns instantly, heat rushing straight to his ears. He opens his mouth, out of reflex, maybe to correct it.
But he doesn’t.
He just stands there, hands awkward at his sides, cheeks red.
Hikaru turns, startled for half a second. Then he sees Fukka and smiles. Wide. Unapologetic. Like the comment didn’t bother him at all.
No correction comes from him either.
From then on, it becomes… normal.
Hikaru’s on a strict pre-fight diet. No indulgences. No comfort food. Nothing heavy. Fukka learns quickly, lean proteins, simple carbs, carefully measured portions. Chicken breast. Fish. Rice. Vegetables. Plenty of water. No sugar. No alcohol. Everything calculated to keep Hikaru strong without weighing him down.
So Fukka brings him what he can. Clean meals in plain containers (from shop because Fukka doesn’t want to risk poisoning Hikaru with his cooking skill). Protein bars approved by the coach. Once, just fruit, cut as best as he can, A for effort.
It feels strangely intimate, learning how to care for someone this way.
Today, though, Fukka does something different.
He stops by a specialty shop on the way to the arena and buys a bottle of wine he normally wouldn’t even look at. Expensive. Carefully aged. Made in 1993.
Hikaru’s birth year.
He doesn’t overthink it. He just knows tonight Hikaru will win.
The arena is louder than last time. The crowd feels heavier, like it’s pressing in from all sides. Fukka takes his seat, fingers curled tight in his lap.
Then Hikaru steps into the ring.
From where Fukka sits, he can see him clearly. The way his shoulders roll loose. The way he bounces lightly on his feet. Focused. Calm.
Hikaru scans the crowd once… twice.
Then his eyes land on Fukka.
The smile that appears isn’t for the cameras. It isn’t for the crowd. It’s small, quick, and clearly his.
Fukka’s chest tightens.
The bell rings.
The opponent is strong, experienced, aggressive. He pressures Hikaru early, cutting angles, forcing exchanges. Fukka feels every near miss like it’s happening inside his own ribs. His hands shake. He doesn’t sit back once.
Hikaru takes a hard hit in the second round, clean and sharp. The crowd reacts. Fukka’s breath catches painfully in his throat.
But Hikaru doesn’t retreat.
He adapts.
He starts reading the rhythm, slipping punches by inches, answering with precise counters. His footwork snaps into place. His timing clicks perfectly.
By the later rounds, both fighters are marked and breathing hard. Sweat flies. The crowd roars with every exchange.
Fukka doesn’t blink.
Then it happens.
Hikaru lands a clean combination, nothing flashy, just perfectly placed. His opponent falters. Not down, but shaken. Hikaru doesn’t rush. He stays controlled. Relentless.
When the final bell rings, the arena explodes.
The decision comes faster this time.
Unanimous.
Hikaru.
Fukka realizes he’s standing only when his legs start to ache. His hands are clapping hard enough to sting. His throat feels tight, eyes burning in a way he doesn’t bother hiding.
Relief hits first, overwhelming. Then pride.
Then something warmer, steadier, deeper than either.
From the ring, Hikaru looks at him again. Tired. Smiling. Victorious.
And Fukka thinks, with absolute certainty, I knew it.
Fukka doesn’t remember leaving his seat.
One moment he’s clapping, hands stinging, throat tight; the next he’s pushing through bodies, apologizing without hearing himself, eyes fixed on the ring.
Hikaru spots him before he reaches the barrier.
His smile breaks, wide and unguarded, exhaustion and triumph tangled together. Sweat-soaked, marked, breathing hard. Still moving forward.
Someone ushers Fukka closer. Arms reach out.
Hikaru pulls him in.
The hug is solid, full-bodied. Hikaru’s arms wrap around him without hesitation, strong and sure, pressing Fukka against the heat of him. Sweat dampens Fukka’s collar. Hikaru smells good somehow, even after the match, even soaked in sweat and effort.
For a second, Fukka’s hands hover, unsure.
Then he grips the back of Hikaru’s robe, fingers curling tight into the fabric. His forehead presses against Hikaru’s shoulder. Hikaru exhales, a deep, grounding breath, and tightens his hold.
They stay like that longer than necessary.
Hikaru shifts, as if to let go.
Fukka doesn’t.
His hands don’t loosen when they should. His body leans in instead, instinctive, unguarded. The realization lands quietly: if he lets go now, something will be lost.
Hikaru feels it.
He stills, then lifts one hand to the back of Fukka’s head, thumb resting there, not possessive, not urgent. Just there.
“You okay?” Hikaru murmurs, voice rough.
Fukka nods against him. He can’t speak yet.
Hikaru doesn’t push. He just holds him until the noise fades back in, until the moment loosens its grip, but not before it leaves its mark.
~
It’s late when they reach Hikaru’s place, maybe two in the morning. Fukka hasn’t been tracking the time, only the heaviness of the hour, the way the city feels softened and half-asleep.
This is the fourth time he’s stepped into Hikaru’s home. The last three visits were for measurements and inspections, sleeves rolled up, notebook in hand. Work visits.
Tonight feels different. Tonight feels like the first time.
“Here,” Hikaru says, reaching for Fukka’s bag so he can shrug out of his coat.
“It’s heavy. What do you even carry in this thing?”
“Oh—” Fukka takes it back, fumbling briefly before pulling something out. “I brought this.”
Hikaru turns the bottle, reading the label. “1993.” A slow grin spreads across his face.
He goes quiet after that, thoughtful. “You were really confident I’d win.”
“Yes,” Fukka says easily. “I always believed you would.”
They stand there smiling at each other in the narrow corridor, a little foolish, a little giddy.
“Let’s drink it,” Hikaru says.
Fukka nods.
“Oh—by the way,” Hikaru adds, suddenly bright again, gesturing ahead. “Welcome to my new kitchen.”
There’s a pride in his voice. Fukka follows, warmth settling in his chest. The space is sleek and modern, black surfaces softened by warm wood tones. Familiar, yet better than he remembered.
“You captured exactly what I wanted,” Hikaru says, then quieter, more sincere. “And somehow made it better.”
Fukka leans against the counter while Hikaru searches for wine glasses.
Earlier at the bar, people kept approaching Hikaru, congratulations, handshakes, lingering smiles. A few girls were clearly hoping for more than polite conversation. Hikaru gave them just enough attention to be kind, then always found his way back.
A spark of jealousy flared as Fukka watched all the attention Hikaru drew. Not jealousy of Hikaru, but of the fact that tonight, he had to share him with everyone else in the bar. Back in school, Fukka had been the popular one, and Hikaru was just… Hikaru. Now, Fukka saw him differently, someone who effortlessly captivated people, with his charm and the confident, grounded way he spoke.
“You have a lot of fans,” Fukka had said.
Hikaru shook his head, embarrassed.
“I think that guy still wants to talk to you,” Fukka added, glancing down the bar.
When he looked back, Hikaru was resting his chin on his hand, staring at him.
“But I want to talk to you,” Hikaru said, a faint pout tugging at his lips.
That’s when Fukka noticed the cut on Hikaru’s mouth, fresh, swollen. The memory of the match flickered through him: the hard hit, the moment the air seemed to leave Hikaru’s body before he turned it around.
Fukka had looked away, suddenly fascinated by the color of his drink.
“You’ve been quiet since the match,” Hikaru said.
“I was being generous to your fans.”
Then, softer, leaning closer, so close that Fukka feels the faint warmth of his lips near his cheek, he murmured, “Do you want to go somewhere quiet?”
~
The kitchen is nothing like the bar. It’s calm. Intimate.
“I’m usually asleep by now,” Hikaru says as he pours the wine into elegant glasses. As if Fukka doesn’t know Hikaru’s biology clock.
“Do you have anything tomorrow?”
“No,” Fukka replies, his smile slow and unguarded. Everything feels slowed down, the room, his thoughts. The wine warms him, but he accepts the glass anyway.
They both taste the wine. Fukka carefully places the glass on the counter.
“Do you have to jog?” Fukka asks back.
“Maybe… I’ll see when I wake up,” Hikaru says.
Fukka’s gaze drifts back to Hikaru’s mouth. The cut is still there, dark red, catching the light whenever Hikaru breathes. The memory of the fight flashes through him without warning: the sharp hit, the way Hikaru absorbed it, the way he never backed down.
He feels light, unsteady, like the floor has shifted without him noticing.
His fingers lift before he fully decides to move. They hover, then barely graze Hikaru’s lower lip.
The contact is almost nothing. Just skin against skin. Warm. Real.
“Does it hurt?” Fukka murmurs.
Hikaru goes very still.
For a split second, Fukka wonders if he’s crossed something fragile, something unspoken. He starts to pull back.
“It looks worse than it feels,” Hikaru says quietly.
Fukka withdraws his hand, suddenly aware of how close they are, close enough to feel Hikaru’s breath, to notice the faint scent of soap clinging to him beneath sweat and wine. Close enough that stepping away would take energy.
Hikaru calmly places his wine glass beside Fukka’s then he steps forward.
The space between them closes, not abruptly, not urgently, but with a hesitation that makes it heavier. Hikaru’s hand brushes Fukka’s side as he leans in, fingers warm through fabric, grounding.
The kiss is brief.
Careful.
Their mouths meet softly, almost experimentally, like they’re both checking whether this is allowed. Hikaru’s lips are warm, slightly uneven from the split, and Fukka feels it, feels the small sting where it catches, feels the quiet intake of Hikaru’s breath against his own.
It’s over almost as soon as it begins.
Hikaru pulls back first, forehead still close enough that Fukka could lean in again without moving his feet.
“Sorry,” Hikaru whispers. His voice is low, uncertain. “I drank too much.”
The apology hangs there, thin and unconvincing.
Fukka doesn’t answer with words.
Hikaru is about to step back but Fukka grips Hikaru’s shirt, fingers curling into the fabric at his chest, feeling the solid warmth beneath it, the proof of him, the weight of everything unsaid. He tugs him back just enough to make his intention clear.
Because if this is a mistake, it’s one he’s already been carrying in his body for years.
~
They kiss again, slower this time, deeper, like they’re testing how far they’re willing to fall. Hikaru’s fingers curl at the back of Fukka’s neck, threading into his hair, guiding him closer. The kiss grows hungry, full of intent. Fukka’s breath stutters as he realizes how natural this feels.
He has never kissed a man before. Never wondered about it, never let curiosity linger. And now, he doesn’t care how many mouths Hikaru has known before his. He doesn’t want to know. All that matters is this moment, the way Hikaru’s hands steady him, claim him, make the world narrow to heat and closeness.
Hikaru lifts him effortlessly onto the kitchen counter and steps between his legs. His hands roam with quiet confidence, thumbs pressing, palms learning. He dips his head and kisses the sensitive skin of Fukka’s neck, lingering just long enough to promise that the mark will still be there tomorrow.
“Hikaru…” Fukka breathes, the sound barely holding together.
Hikaru pauses, forehead resting against his. “Do you want me to stop?”
“No…” The word comes out before Fukka can think.
He’s painfully aware of the way their bodies fit, of the undeniable tension between them. Hikaru’s hand slips beneath his shirt, warm skin against skin, fingers brushing higher until they circle a nipple. Fukka’s thoughts scatter completely; his head tips back with a quiet, helpless sound.
Hikaru captures his mouth again, tongue teasing, coaxing. Fukka’s legs tighten around him without thinking, pulling him closer, needing more. Fukka’s shirt is gone before he realizes it, and Hikaru’s mouth trails down his chest, kisses soft and reverent until his teeth graze just enough to make him gasp.
Hikaru lifts him again, like he weighs nothing, and carries him to the bedroom.
Fukka sinks into the bed, heart racing, and Hikaru settles over him. He shrugs off his own shirt, and Fukka’s hands move on instinct, tracing the firm planes of his chest, memorizing the feel. Their mouths find each other again, heavier with meaning.
Hikaru pulls back, eyes searching his face, taking him in like he wants to remember this forever.
“Have you ever done this?” he asks quietly.
Fukka shakes his head. “I’ve never been with a man.”
Hikaru exhales, something like a smile touching his mouth. “It’s been a while for me.” He pauses. “Are you sure about this?”
Fukka nods, steady and certain.
Hikaru leans in again, kissing him as his hands wander, unfastening, exploring. Fukka’s body responds eagerly, openly, his soft sounds filling the room as Hikaru never stops touching him, never stops reassuring him with lips and warmth.
When Hikaru pulls away to the drawer, Fukka watches him with wide, trusting eyes. Hikaru returns, gentle and careful, taking his time, making sure every touch is welcomed, every breath shared.
Hikaru kisses his way down slowly, deliberately, as if committing every reaction to memory. He takes his time, touching and soothing, murmuring reassurances against warm skin until Fukka’s body relaxes into trust. Every careful movement is about patience, about making sure Fukka feels safe, wanted, ready. By the time Hikaru comes back to him, Fukka is trembling, not with fear, but anticipation.
What follows is unhurried and close, more feeling than motion. Hikaru stays anchored to him, guiding him through every moment, never breaking eye contact for long, never letting him feel alone. It doesn’t feel like something being taken, it feels like something shared. Like love, even if neither of them says the word yet.
~
When Fukka wakes, pale morning light is just beginning to spill through the curtains. Hikaru is curled behind him, an arm firm around his waist, breath steady at his nape. Fukka lies still, listening, letting the warmth sink in, memorizing the weight of another man holding him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He lets his fingers drift over Hikaru’s forearm, tracing the muscle lightly. After last night’s fight, after pouring everything into the ring, it’s a wonder Hikaru still has the energy for this… for him.
“Hey,” Hikaru murmurs, voice rough with sleep. His arm tightens slightly, not pulling Fukka closer, just making sure he’s still there.
“You’re awake,” Fukka says quietly, letting his palm rest against Hikaru’s side for a fraction longer than necessary.
“Mm.” A pause, then, almost like testing the words for shape, Hikaru adds, “I remember something you said… about how funny it is that our worlds still cross… Can I confess?”
Fukka nods, even though Hikaru can’t see it. His fingers tighten slightly on Hikaru’s arm, unconsciously holding on.
“I was looking for you,” Hikaru says softly, honest in the dim light. “I heard you became an interior designer… ” He exhales, warm against Fukka’s neck. “So when I needed one, I looked for you.” He exhales, warm against Fukka’s neck, and Fukka leans back slightly, pressing lightly into him.
Fukka’s chest tightens, not with surprise, but with the slow realization of being chosen long before he knew it.
“Oh,” he breathes, letting his hand rest on Hikaru’s bicep.
For a moment, he thinks about himself, how he’s been keeping tabs on Hikaru all these years, too. Watching his news, reading about him online, never quite daring to reach out. Never finding the courage to bridge the distance.
Hikaru presses his forehead lightly to the back of Fukka’s neck. “Sorry. I should’ve said it earlier.”
Fukka doesn’t answer right away. He just lets Hikaru’s arm stay where it is, solid and real. He lets the warmth pull him under again, fingers brushing once more along the line of Hikaru’s forearm, drifting back to sleep.
The second time he wakes, it’s to the soft clatter of utensils and the smell of food. From the kitchen comes the quiet sound of movement, unhurried, domestic. Hikaru is cooking for them. Breakfast, maybe lunch. Something simple. Something meant to be shared.
Fukka smiles to himself, pulling the sheets closer. He finally has time to study the bedroom. Seems like Hikaru hasn’t done much decorating his bedroom. Fukka thinks, maybe this can be his next project and this one’s on him.
Somehow, it already feels like they’re building something together.
Fin