Archive of Our Own

Haru was astonished, in hindsight, that they’d gone so long without having this conversation.

“I know,” he said, trying and failing to be patient, “That you are not stupid.” He strongly doubted this; if Daisuke wasn’t stupid, he was at least far enough removed from the world in which real people lived and breathed and worked that it amounted to basically the same thing.

Daisuke scoffed. “I graduated summa cum laude at Harvard—”

“That’s either a washing machine setting or a porn category, and I don’t care which,” Haru said, patience evaporating with extreme prejudice. “Let me try this again. I. Hope. That you aren’t stupid. And I am trying. To communicate with you. But it’s kind of like talking to a very annoying alien, and I want to punch you, and I am not doing it. Because I consider myself a good person.”

“Your mistake, really,” Daisuke said with a straight face.

“Not everything is about money,” Haru said, ignoring that last bit because he had to. “Sometimes things are about—justice, or people, or being kind—do you understand? Am I getting through?”

Daisuke looked genuinely puzzled. “But all of those things are about money,” he started, like this was extremely simple and Haru was the idiot here. “People want money, and giving it to them is a form of kindness, and money can buy justice.”

“Right,” Haru breathed out. His head hurt. “So like, when my brother got accused of robbing someone when I was in sixth grade, it was our fault he got put into prison because we didn’t have the money to afford a lawyer to buy justice, eh?”

Okay, so maybe every part of him hurt. It was impossible not to be in physical pain, in near proximity to such overwhelming apathy.

“No one said anything about fault,” Daisuke rolled his eyes. “You need to be better at arguing if you want to hold your own against me—”

Haru walked away. It was that or try to punch Daisuke again, and Haru was shaking too badly to attempt the latter. He didn’t look back at the shocked silence he’d left behind; it was hard enough to see his own shoes through the blurry curtain of tears.

You could buy justice. Only for yourself, of course, but rich people didn’t think anyone without money mattered. And because Daisuke was the richest of them all, he didn’t think anyone else mattered. And he was as right as he needed to be. Haru kept walking until he could see the ground again, and then walked a little longer. He didn’t look up except to dodge around people; he was near a shopping district, and he didn’t want to cry again.

Which of course prompted the thought of whether he’d be able to explain to anyone why the sight of money and success, glittering the way success that didn’t have to work for its bread always glittered, brought him to tears. Usually he was better at managing himself.

Usually he wasn’t thinking about his brother, or his mother, or himself. The raging fucking unfairness of the world they lived in, an unfairness that Daisuke seemed to have no qualms about weaponizing to his own ends. Haru didn’t want to think about his monthly bills at home, about sorting through the papers and wondering which could be put off a little longer so he could eat that week. He didn’t want to think at all.

Perversely, he wished he had the money to spare to buy some sake.

A car pulled up next to him. Haru glanced sideways at the shiny wheels and broke into a half-jog. The car kept up easily, until Haru ducked into an alley too small for it to drive into.

He hopped onto the garbage cans that lined the dead end, scaling the wall to jump into an apartment complex. “Just passing through,” he called to the security guard, smiling and waving. Hands up, friendly, unthreatening. “Nothing on me.” He kept jogging.

Haru kept himself to small, dirty alleys. It was unwise to rely on Daisuke’s unwillingness to expose himself to the seedier parts of the city, considering that there was no telling whether that unwillingness would win out over his ridiculous determination to make Haru’s life hell. He probably saw Haru as entertainment, which was another thing Haru didn’t want to think about too hard—how impersonal Daisuke’s attention was, as though he was the only real person in a world of objects and two-dimensional characters.

He rounded into a main street, and didn’t think he’d lost Daisuke forever but at least for now, there was no swanky black car making a ruckus down the street. Haru began to head home. Now that he’d slowed down, he was aware of how much his feet hurt.

A quick glance at his watch told him he’d been running for forty minutes. No wonder he was so fucking tired; his legs felt like jelly. And his head hurt.

Fuck, he was starving.

At least he had some ramen at home. He’d hoped to save it until the weekend, eating at work and making sure he didn’t spend too much on either food or groceries, but he could spare himself some today. The decision brought a pang of guilt.

He walked slowly, eyes straight ahead. Stuffed his shaking hands into his pockets as fists, trying to keep himself calm a little longer. He was so tired. He was tired of being tired.

This time he made it back home unmolested. He unlocked the door, taking his phone out of his pocket as he kicked the door open with the side of his foot. He thumbed through unread messages: a missed call from Kamei, mostly notifications from apps, a couple of emails from the kids he tutored. Shoes abandoned in the doorway, he headed for the fridge. Thirst took precedence over hunger.

He finally looked up from his phone to scour the shelves. He was out of orange juice, which wasn’t surprising. He’d known that already, even if it was a little burst of disappointment to pick up the carton and find it empty.

He was also out of milk. His shoulders slumped. There went the morning coffee that would’ve made the rest of this week somewhat bearable. He allowed himself one moment of weakness, clutching the handle hard enough to hurt a little, a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. And then he set to scrubbing the dishes in the sink.

If his headache didn’t go away by tomorrow afternoon, he told himself, he could take an Ibuprofen. Not before.

Haru cooked carefully. It was a habit he’d developed by force; there was no reason to waste what needn’t be wasted. Two cups of water, because he preferred his ramen slightly bland and undercooked. Precise measurements. He checked his phone for six minutes while it cooked, and then served himself.

He also washed the newly-created dishes while he waited for his food to cool. Picked up the bowl and walked into the cramped living space. It wasn’t much, just a few shelves and a couch, but at least he could relax here. He switched on the lights with the corner of his phone.

Daisuke was sitting on his couch.

Haru blinked, trying to make sure this wasn’t a hallucination brought on by stress and migraine. Daisuke remained exactly where he was, holding his phone in one hand and staring right back at Haru. He even cast a shadow.

Haru threw his bowl at Daisuke.

Then he thought, oh fuck. That was my dinner.

Daisuke yelled satisfyingly, as even rich people did when they had scalding hot ramen poured over them. The sound soothed Haru’s headache.

“What the fuck was that for?” Daisuke snapped, tossing off his coat. Haru bent down to pick it up, careful not to spill more noodles off of it than necessary, and carried it over to the window to throw into the garbage bin below. “I didn’t even do anything this time—”

“You’re in my house,” Haru said, hysterically calm.

“I’m not even doing anything,” Daisuke protested. “And technically this flat—this atrocious shoebox—belongs to Makishima Takahashi, not you. You don’t have anything worth robbing, not that I need to, so it’s not like you need to worry about that.”

He was talking rather a lot, Haru noted absently. It was the only sign, apart from his lack of coat, that he was in any way out of his depth.

“Have you ever gone hungry?” he asked, over Daisuke’s atrociously posh accent.

“What?” Daisuke asked back. “Why would I have gone hungry?”

Wasn’t that the question. “I’m about to go hungry,” Haru said evenly. Maybe if he forced himself to remember that Daisuke didn’t see him as a real person he’d forget it long enough to get through this conversation without bursting into tears. “Tonight.”

“Make yourself another box of ramen,” Daisuke said dismissively. “You didn’t have to throw your dinner at me, so it’s your fault anyway.”

“Then I’ll go hungry tomorrow.” Haru stared at a noodle near the foot of the sofa. It was interestingly worm-shaped and yellow-grey with dust. Maybe he should spend the next weekend sweeping. “I don’t get paid until next week, so Monday onwards I’m not going to be able to afford dinner unless I work overtime and eat there. They increase my rent from next month onwards, so all the money I usually put towards groceries is going to get eaten up by my rent check, and the rest by utilities.”

Daisuke opened his mouth. “HEU—”

“If you try to buy this building from Takahashi, I will move out,” Haru said wearily.

“Move out where?” Daisuke asked, blinking owlishly.

“Don’t care. I’ll live on the street. At least I’ll save on rent.”

“I could buy you groceries,” Daisuke offered. He seemed rather lost. “Since you won’t be getting them any other way.”

Haru declined.

“This is getting ridiculous,” Daisuke said plaintively. “You’re refusing reasonable aid, and for what? It’s unfathomable.”

“What, the entire concept of self-respect?”

Daisuke scoffed. “Your pride is atrocious. I am trying to make it up to you, and you want neither money nor any other help. What’s the point in continuing to suffer when I can so easily make it all go away?”

For a terrible few seconds, Haru imagined it. All his problems—rent, his sister’s schooling, his mother’s medical bills—all of it vanishing in the flash of a black card. He imagined himself moving slowly across a golden-marbled kitchen, humming to himself because he knew he had nowhere to be. He pictured it, and ached. And then he said, “Do you want to make it up to me?”

“No other reason could bring me here,” Daisuke said, outraged.

That was oddly sweet, in the most insulting manner possible. Haru smiled, too tired for any other expression. “Get out.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Get out. Get out of my shoebox, and you can come talk to me again when you’ve figured out what I want that isn’t your fucking money.” He pointed illustratively. “That way. Get moving.”

“Ridiculous,” Daisuke raged. “At least let me buy you dinner. I promise it’ll be better than whatever swill you planned on eating tonight.”

“Not interested,” Haru said, though his stomach very much was. It growled. Daisuke looked triumphant for a second, but Haru refused to budge on the matter. “I would genuinely rather starve to death. Get out.”

Daisuke huffed. “Fine,” he muttered. “I have an appointment, anyway.”

“Wouldn’t wanna be late,” Haru agreed, walking over to the door to hold it open.

“Oh, it was half an hour ago,” Daisuke said dismissively. “Terribly boring stuff.”

“Unlike me,” Haru wondered under his breath, half-mocking.

“Obviously,” Daisuke snapped. “Or I wouldn’t be here, would I?” He didn’t seem to realize what he’d said. Which was a good thing, because it gave Haru a few seconds to savor the honey-edged warmth flushing through him before he ruthlessly squashed it down.

It made him feel kind. “You can buy me dinner if you figure it out before the weekend,” he said generously.

Daisuke brightened immediately, pausing in the doorway. “Friday or Sunday?”

The question was uncharacteristic in its concern for Haru’s time. It was Wednesday today, if he was remembering correctly. “Friday,” he answered.

He shut the door behind Daisuke, sagging against it. His headache was back in full swing, this time with the added joy of a drill trying to push its way up between his eyes. He covered his face with his hands, trying to figure out how he’d managed to get here at all, trying to figure out why it hurt so much. His fingers came away wet with tears. Every inch of his body ached, the gnawing emptiness in his stomach worsening the situation even more.

If he’d let Daisuke buy him dinner tonight, what would he have even worn to it?

Haru took the Ibuprofen with breakfast the next morning—if a single slice of toast and black coffee could be considered breakfast—his single concession to the awful wreck of the day past. Work was, thankfully, uneventful. Even Daisuke didn’t show up, either to be smug or to ram his car into the Labor Minister’s entourage.

His headache eased a little over lunch—orange juice and a chocolate bar from the vending machine. Afterwards he took advantage of his brief slot of free time to reorder his paltry finances. He was even deeper in the red when he ended. He put his head on the cool surface of the desk, counting the pounding of the drill inside his head until it was time to get back to work. More paperwork, but at least this was the kind that didn’t leave him feeling like someone had taken a grater to his insides.

By the time Friday rolled around, Daisuke still hadn’t appeared. Haru wasn’t worried, though he thought Kamei was a little overinvested in what Daisuke was up to. But then, Kamei had a tendency to imprint on those near him, and when Haru wasn’t so tired he liked that about Kamei; the honesty of his emotion, the willing depth of it.

Haru was getting maudlin.

Daisuke’s car—Haru knew it was his because the top was rolled down and he was sitting inside—was idling on the curb when Haru got down after work. The door swung open as Haru walked up. Daisuke looked as fancily put-together as ever, sunglasses pushed into his hair and a new dark blue suit that cost more than Haru could imagine. But he shut the door, crossing his arms over it. “So, did you figure it out?”

“Get in the car,” Daisuke said smugly.

“Answer first,” Haru replied. “Then dinner.”

Daisuke hesitated, and then scowled. “You want me to know that there’s things in the world that aren’t about money,” he said, dubious like he didn’t yet believe that. “Like justice and kindness and whatever—”

“Other people,” Haru interrupted, amused. “I’m surprised you remember that conversation.”

“I have an excellent memory,” Daisuke preened.

“However,” Haru went on. “That wasn’t what I wanted from you that day. And it’s not what I want from you now. Pretty close though, well done.” He waved at Daisuke and set off down the pavement.

Daisuke drove up alongside him. Haru allowed it. “I got it right,” he wheedled. “Get in, Haru.”

“You didn’t get it right,” Haru corrected. “Though you came close. Rules are rules, Daisuke. Everything else might bend for you, but I won't. Have fun at dinner.”

Of course, Daisuke didn’t relent. “Have you ever heard of positive reinforcement?”

“That one’s for dogs,” Haru said, not missing a step.

“We’re all just glorified animals anyway.”

“That doesn’t justify the way you treat people.”

“I’m nice enough.”

“If it wouldn’t count as nice if a poor man did it, it doesn’t count as nice when you do it. Rule of thumb.”

“You’re a caricature of yourself,” Daisuke huffed. “Let me buy you dinner.”

Haru almost smiled before catching himself. He didn’t want to find that awful stubbornness cute. “I can’t, Daisuke. Not tonight.”

“Why not?” Daisuke said frustratedly. “Did you make plans?”

“Plans,” Haru snorted. “Please. I don’t have anything to wear.”

“Oh, that’s not an issue,” Daisuke said, sounding relieved. “My tailor can get you outfitted right away, and we’ll still get to the reservation in time.”

“I don’t take handouts,” Haru said firmly.

“Okay, fine,” Daisuke snarled. “Just get in the car, I’ll take you someplace where you won’t have to change, happy?”

“For the waiter to make fun of me? No, thank you.”

Daisuke made a frustrated sound. “If the waiter makes fun of you, I’ll have him fired.”

“Don’t deprive an honest man of his living on my account,” Haru said, enjoying himself a little too much. But he got in the car. There was only so much longer he could hold out, and he wanted to cut some losses while he was ahead.

“Why do you make everything so difficult?” Daisuke grumbled, revving the car over the speed limit. Even sitting in this thing was a rush of power that felt entirely unfamiliar.

“To give you a taste of how the rest of us live,” Haru replied, running his hand over the creamy leather seats. He was getting distracted. He didn’t think he’d touched something so beautiful and perfect and expensive in his life. He hadn’t ever thought he would.

Daisuke glanced sideways at him. “I have better cars in my garage back home,” he said, sounding almost self-conscious. Except he was Daisuke Kambe and that didn’t happen. What did he even have to be self-conscious about? “I thought I’d rather crash this one than any of those, though.”

“Do you buy cars expecting to crash them?” Haru asked, feeling ill. “That’s irresponsible.”

He received a shrug in reply, so he turned to look out of his side again. “If you get there without breaking any traffic laws, I’ll let you buy me dessert.”

“Dessert is a part of dinner,” Daisuke said, outraged, but he slowed down.

“I grew up poor. I got dessert once a week if I was good.”

“Oh,” Daisuke said. “Right.”

Haru glanced at him sideways. “That’s it? Nothing snarky to say about how the working class is full of idiots who don’t know how to save money?”

Daisuke shrugged again. “If anything, you know how to save a little too well. Someone must’ve taught you.”

Something twisted in Haru’s stomach. “Someone did,” he agreed quietly.

The conversation fell apart. They made it to the restaurant Daisuke had picked out in a single piece and with only two broken traffic laws, which was far better than Haru had dared hope for. Maybe Daisuke was a better driver with someone in the passenger seat.

Yeah, right.

“Kambe reservation,” Daisuke said to the valet. Haru unbuckled his seat belt with oddly clumsy fingers. “Obviously. Return the keys.”

Haru got out of the car, bouncing on his heels. Daisuke rounded around the car. “Right this way,” another person said, materializing at Haru’s shoulder and making him jump. Daisuke made an amused sound, pressing a hand to Haru’s back and forcing him to keep up.

It occurred to Haru, as they stepped into a marbled foyer, that everyone here was dressed better than him, and that quite a few people were staring.

“Are they staring at you or me?” he hissed at Daisuke.

Daisuke glanced at him. “Me, obviously.”

“Are you sure?” Haru said. “Because I’m pretty sure that guy there is looking at me, not you.” Daisuke turned to stare rudely at the guy in question. He glanced away. “Don’t do that, asshole. You’re only drawing more attention.”

“So?” Daisuke asked, absently checking his watch. His cufflinks probably cost more than Haru’s rent. Fuck. This was such a bad idea, start to finish.

“You promised no one here would stare at me,” Haru said. “They’re staring.”

“No, I said you wouldn’t have to change. I offered to fire people who stared, but you turned me down. Offer’s still valid, if you wanna take it.”

“Don’t rules-lawyer me,” Haru snapped. “Do you have any idea how I feel right now?”

“Hungry, I hope,” Daisuke said calmly. It was such an odd and unpleasant inversion of the state of affairs from Haru’s flat that he felt dizzy and sick. He almost wanted to be back there, somewhere throwing a bowl of ramen at Daisuke wouldn’t fire back sevenfold on Haru.

“Poor,” Haru hissed. “I feel poor. I’m not dressed for this and I haven’t washed my fucking hair and I don’t belong here like—like you do or like those waiters have learnt to—I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t even think about being here.”

“Don’t be silly,” Daisuke replied, and there was a tone in his voice that Haru didn’t recognize and didn’t have to in order to hate it. “I belong here, and you’re with me. They wouldn’t dare touch you.”

“That can’t be enough,” Haru said, and hated how small his voice was.

Daisuke laughed softly, but for once not like the joke was on Haru. “It is. Trust me.”

The table they were led to was in a secluded, intimately lit private room. Haru sat down cautiously on the chair, trying not to lean back or touch anything. Daisuke took out a cigar. “Do you mind if I—”

“Yes,” Haru said at once. “I hate the smell.”

Daisuke rolled his eyes in a way that seemed so indulgent as to be suspicious. But he put it away, sliding a menu across the table at Haru. “What do you want?”

Haru eyed the golden swan embossed on the cover. “Nothing,” he mumbled.

When he’d started being old enough to understand the hushed conversations his parents carried out over the dinner table, papers scattered between them, he’d realized how much food cost. How much he cost, every day and every week. Clothes he couldn’t stop growing out of and shoes he couldn’t stop wearing down and food he put away like there was a bottomless pit inside him.

Consequently he’d learnt to make himself smaller, shrinking his portions and walking lightly and darning the holes until he no longer could. No one had asked him to do that. No one had had to.

“I’ll order for you,” Daisuke sighed, snatching the menu back. Haru’s head hurt again.

Daisuke did order, fluently and without pause, speaking faster when the waiter occasionally gave Haru a dubious look. Since Haru refused to meet either of their eyes, it was a battle they mostly fought between themselves.

Of course it was harder to face someone who was more similar to him than not than it was to face down Daisuke, who deserved every verbal punch Haru could level. But right now Haru couldn’t have faced anyone. He felt dirty and stuck, a beached whale in a tourist town. Unseemly and unwanted.

He remained frozen until their food arrived, locked into an anxiety too vast to shake off. He should’ve checked the menu if only to find out how much the food cost, but what good would knowing that number have done him when Daisuke would never let him pay? Not that Haru could. And what would his mother have said if she saw him now? He couldn’t imagine her tremulous sweet voice in a place like this. He couldn’t imagine her looking someone like Daisuke in the eye. Haru wanted to stab himself with one of the forks, except the damn thing would cost more than his eventual hospital bill.

Daisuke kicked him under the table. “I can hear you thinking,” he said. “Stop it.”

“Some of us can’t just put our brains in a safe deposit vault and fly them to Switzerland when not in use,” Haru snapped unthinkingly.

“There you are,” Daisuke said, relieved. “Do you like chocolate?”

“No strong feelings,” Haru lied.

Daisuke frowned at the menu he was currently looking at, truffle pasta locked in midair. He rang the bell that summoned a waiter, who gave Haru another look of polite incredulity before noting down the things Daisuke was pointing out.

“If you order the entire dessert menu, I will kill you,” Haru noted. Daisuke wilted a little.

“It’s just seven things,” he protested.

“You can order three things,” Haru said, illustratively holding up three fingers. The waiter looked astounded. “No more.”

“Just the cheesecake, the tiramisu, and the chocolate selection,” Daisuke amended.

“Selection,” Haru said suspiciously.

“It’s one menu item,” Daisuke said wearily. “Drop it, Haru, for once.”

Haru felt pleasantly warm inside. Bullying Daisuke made the world brighter and easier to live in. The flabbergasted look the waiter was wearing made it all the more sweet. “Just once,” he said.

The waiter left. “Eat your lobster,” Daisuke ordered.

Haru stuck his tongue out at Daisuke but cut clumsily into the lobster anyway. It really was stupidly delicious, tender and bursting with understated flavor. He bit back the sound he wanted to make and kept eating.

He was halfway through before he realized how eagerly fast he was getting through it and also that Daisuke was staring at him. “What do you want?” Haru asked.

“Nothing,” Daisuke said, sounding terribly pleased with himself. “Finish that.”

Haru was hungry, and his self-control was worn too thin for yet another test so soon. He finished the lobster and its greens and the fancy savory tarts that they’d come with. “Aren’t there supposed to be courses and stuff?” he noticed, rather late.

“Oh, I told them to skip that,” Daisuke said easily. “More comfortable this way.”

“For you or for me?” Haru asked, suspecting the answer.

Daisuke smiled smugly. “Try my pasta,” he said, pushing his plate across the table. He’d finished most of it, except for a neatly mounded portion containing a little of everything. It tasted wonderful.

Even the pressure on Haru’s chest had decreased. Enough that he managed to hold a conversation over dessert, awkward recollections of his childhood swapped for Daisuke’s more opulent one. There were few similarities, but every time they unearthed another felt delightful. Haru loved the cheesecake and the tiramisu, though he’d suspected he would, and left the selection of chocolates for Daisuke’s whiny perusal.

Haru felt dumb and sleepy by the time they were leaving. It had been hours of talking with a ease Haru was deeply unused to having with another person. Daisuke was smart and funny when he wasn’t being a raging asshole to annoy Haru, drawing him in with questions and expounding at eager length about whatever caught his fancy. He tried to explain aerodynamic engineering to Haru at one point, and Haru had been on his second glass of wine by then and tipsy enough to just nod along and giggle at the way the terminology sounded like amateur pornography and there had been even more wine after dessert that Haru unwisely hadn’t turned down. A lot of wine. Daisuke supported his weight in the elevator, grumbling a little.

“I’m getting lint on you,” Haru realized, eons too late, as the doors slid open and they stepped out again. He moved away from Daisuke. “Sorry, sorry.”

“Don’t be silly,” Daisuke said, and there was that tone from earlier again. Only this time Haru was tipsy and confused and thought he sounded tender. Which was even more silly, he told himself. Daisuke didn’t sound tender, because he didn’t do that and no one spoke to Haru like that and Daisuke certainly did not speak to Haru like that.

“I’m not,” he mumbled, instinctively contrarian. “Not silly.”

Daisuke shoved him into the car and then got in, the top rolling shut over them. “You’re a little silly,” he said. “Otherwise I’d have an easier time figuring what you want.”

Haru leaned against the window, watching the lights blur as they sped up. “Wanted you to say sorry,” he whispered. “But it’s okay.”

“Sorry for what, Haru?”

“Breaking into my flat,” Haru sighed. “Being an ass. The usual.” It was silly, now that he thought about it, to want an apology for that.

“Is that it?” Daisuke said.

“A lot for you.” Haru closed his eyes. He felt so heavy. “Didn’t think you would.”

“I’m sorry,” Daisuke said at once. “For breaking into your flat and being an ass.” He said it like he was reading lines off a script. Haru giggled.

“I want to hear it again when I’m not drunk,” he said. “Just so I remember.”

Daisuke laughed. “Done.”

Haru was sober enough to notice that they weren’t anywhere near his place by the time Daisuke pulled into a fancy parking space. “I thought you were taking me home,” he said, refusing to get out of the car. “I’m not putting out. I’m drunk.” He tried to sound appropriately outraged.

“I’m not going to take advantage of you,” Daisuke said exasperatedly.

I wish you would, Haru thought perversely. It would make everything easier.

“Come upstairs,” Daisuke continued. “There’s a spare bedroom. I’ll drive you home tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you,” Haru said, once they were in the elevator moving up to god-knew-what floor—because of course the building didn’t have numbered floors, Daisuke had swiped a card—and the white light had made Haru’s head clearer. “For dinner. And also for apologizing.”

“You said you wanted to hear it again when you were sober,” Daisuke said, leaning casually against the steel sides. In closed quarters, he exuded power in a way that was hard to ignore.

“That won’t be necessary,” Haru said. “Thanks for remembering.”

Daisuke cocked his head like a curious bird. “Do you usually thank people for everything?” he asked.

“I try,” Haru shrugged. “Not with you.”

“But right now.”

“I’m tired, sue me.”

The elevator came to a halt, doors opening into a living space so beautiful that Haru’s eyes burned. He didn’t have time to process it before Daisuke was shoving him inside, right into a wall. “I would rather not,” he said softly. Haru gazed back at him, shocked.

Daisuke kissed with a focused intensity Haru couldn’t have prepared for with all the warning in the world. All teeth and ferocity, dragging Haru’s head down by the back of his neck and coaxing him into giving everything up until his head was spinning with blood and heat and all he could do with his hands was clutch Daisuke’s shirt. He thought he was whimpering in the back of his throat, as overwhelmed by human touch as he was by the kiss, as blown away. Warmth and expensive cologne and chocolate and everything Haru would never have dared touch, putting himself into Haru’s hands and making it clear that this was where he wanted to be—Haru felt dizzied by the possibilities.

They kissed until Haru’s lips were throbbing, bruised by Daisuke’s cruel sharp teeth. They kissed until Haru’s grip on Daisuke’s shirt loosened, because it couldn’t be more clear that Daisuke wasn’t going anywhere and Haru was exhausted. They kissed until Haru gave up and just rested his head on Daisuke’s shoulder, gasping for breath.

“Spare clothes, bedroom,” Daisuke said mercilessly, half-carrying Haru where he wanted.

He changed in Daisuke’s stupidly opulent bathroom, furnished with a material Haru didn’t have a name for and lined with more bottles and boxes than any man or woman could need. He almost felt bad about using the facilities.

Daisuke had changed into a neat and honestly adorable pair of pyjamas patterned with white elephants, sitting on the bed and scrolling through his phone. He’d plugged Haru’s phone in to charge too. He patted the bed next to himself. Haru hesitated, gaze trapped in the expansive white of the sheets. “For fuck’s sake,” Daisuke said, not looking up. “If I was going to molest you, I already would have. I’ve had plenty of chances.”

Haru imagined it, and shuddered. He hated his imagination at night. But he climbed onto the bed, bravely dropping his head once more on Daisuke’s shoulder. “If you want me to sleep you have to sleep too.”

“I don’t care if you sleep,” Daisuke said, but he was obviously lying. He sighed. “Let me finish this article.”

This was acceptable to Haru, who was terribly tired. He crept under the soft thick sheets and watched the bend of Daisuke’s head, the focus in his eyes. Haru wanted a tenth of that trained on him. Maybe a little more, though it might have burned him. “What’s the article about?” he asked, sleepy and small like he was asking for a bedtime story.

“Economic recession in the Pacific Islands due to falling oil prices in the Middle East,” Daisuke said.

“That sounds horrible,” Haru said fascinatedly. “Read to me?”

Daisuke read the remainder of the article to him, and though his accent was even more pronounced at night Haru mentally forgave him for it. His voice had an almost soothing cadence when its owner wasn’t occupied making himself a nuisance and a danger to public safety. Daisuke got under the covers when he was done reading, plugging his phone in and switching off the nightlight.

Haru imagined his warmth, just inches of bed away. Sleepily, he cast his mind over the day he’d just had, though it felt so sweet it couldn’t possibly be his.

This was real, though. The moment where Daisuke reached for him and he flinched, before relaxing by force of will. Daisuke huffed, amused. “Really, what do you think is going to happen?”

Haru made a noncommittal sound, and let Daisuke shove him onto his side. And then Daisuke wrapped an arm around Haru, loose enough that he could wiggle free anytime he wanted to but still rather unmistakably possessive. Haru shuddered. “You never play fair, do you?” he mumbled, cheeks hot.

“You wouldn’t like me if I did,” Daisuke replied, voice rough. “Go to sleep, Haru.”

In the morning Haru woke up before Daisuke did, and found that sometime in the intervening hours Daisuke had morphed into a skilled octopus. He carefully extricated himself without waking Daisuke, more a feat of luck than expertise, and padded through the house. Every room he peeked into lit up welcomingly at his presence.

Thoroughly freaked out, Haru still attempted to locate the kitchen. It was, of course, fully-stocked, and Haru remembered his absent dream of moving slowly and let his feet drag indulgently over the carpet as he cracked and mixed eggs.

“I could do that,” Daisuke said from behind him, as Haru took the third pancake off the stove. Sleep had messed up his hair, and it now stuck up in every direction. Haru probably looked just as ridiculous, but he stared at the disastrous way Daisuke’s hair was curling and took heart in the fact that he had no reputation to ruin.

“You can fry bacon,” he said, turning back to the stove.

“Coffee first,” Daisuke said judgmentally. “Milk and sugar?”

“As much as you can fit in.”

They bumped into each other as they moved around. Daisuke’s bacon came with rather more honey than Haru approved of, but he obligingly tried it out at Daisuke’s insistence and found it not too bad. The coffee was frothy and sweet and rich enough to make Haru want to go right back to sleep; he might have if watching Daisuke blink at the pancakes wasn’t so entertaining. “Can I hire you to cook for me?” he asked, one plate in.

“Absolutely not,” Haru answered. “But you can ask nicely.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Daisuke replied, but he sounded satisfied. 

Haru stabbed at his own plate, failing to hide a smile. “You’re not bad when you’re not being stupid,” he commented.

“Is that a compliment?” Daisuke seemed thrilled.

“Dork,” Haru said fondly.

Daisuke grinned. The expression made him look unexpectedly and gorgeously boyish. Haru exhaled, unburdened for once, and ate as slowly as he could.

“The bathroom’s big enough for two,” Daisuke said after breakfast, and Haru stumbled into the corner of the table and made a cranky noise. Daisuke came over at once, lifting the corner of Haru’s pyjama shirt and examining the bruise forming at his side. Haru whined as Daisuke probed at it with clinical fingers. “You should be more careful.”

“I’m not used to your stupid big house,” Haru bitched.

He ended up in the bathroom anyway, and did not remember to feel bad about it until he was holding onto the collar of his shirt and Daisuke was pouring bottles into the rapidly-filling tub. It more closely resembled a miniature swimming pool, with pale blue tiles and a perfect view of the city underneath.

“The glass is one-sided,” Daisuke told him, mistaking his hesitancy for something else.

“Don’t stare,” Haru warned, and quickly took the shirt off.

“Oh,” Daisuke said, staring. Haru glared at him until he looked away and then got into the tub, splashing water clumsily everywhere. It smelled wonderful and unreal. “That’s a lot of—” he got into the tub behind Haru and Haru turned quickly to escape, mostly reflex. Back to the window. “Tattoos.”

“I told you not to stare,” Haru growled. “There were a lot of bad decisions.”

There had been far more than Haru ever wanted to think about again. Some—most, probably, were stick-and-poke tattoos that had hurt more than they were worth. One of them was better than the rest, and he hated it most of all. None of them were anything to be proud of.

“You are rather prone to those,” Daisuke agreed, and for once the insult didn’t sting. Just a return to normalcy. “I’m going to wash your hair.”

“I am capable of doing that myself,” Haru snapped, still defensive, but with the bottles that surrounded them he very much doubted he actually knew where anything was or what it was meant to do. “Daisuke, for fuck’s sake—”

“Don’t be silly,” Daisuke said smoothly. “Get over here.”

It was harder to put himself in Daisuke’s hand like this, when he was naked and vulnerable and out of his depth. This was more of an exercise in trust than Haru had ever signed up for.

But he tilted back his head and closed his eyes, letting Daisuke sluice warm water into his hair. A kiss pressed to the back of his shoulder, where the flower unfurled. Haru relaxed in increments, melting against Daisuke’s chest as he gently massaged shampoo into Haru’s hair. The gentleness was making Haru feel raw and strange, all his nerves laid bare for Daisuke to trace. He was glad of the water that flowed around them, because it shielded him from the worst of it, but there was still the heat of Daisuke’s skin and his low voice in Haru’s ear and his hands.

Haru wanted those hands around his neck, and shocked himself with how greedy that thought sounded in his head. He held his breath as Daisuke conditioned his hair and washed it all out, exhaling when Daisuke told him to open his eyes.

His clothes were on the dresser, laundered and dry. Haru didn’t dare imagine when that could have happened. “You’re too skinny,” Daisuke said disapprovingly as Haru dressed himself.

“Yeah, well—” Haru bristled “Some of us don’t have the luxury of a fully-stocked kitchen.”

Daisuke fell silent. Presumably he was thinking of the state of Haru’s groceries. Haru wished he wouldn’t—it was exhausting to be in the range of someone who had to think so hard to be what Haru wanted, and Haru wanted him to stop trying. Surely it would’ve been easier, and certainly Haru wasn’t worth all the effort it would take for Daisuke to reshape his world to fit Haru into it.

“I’ll just go home,” Haru said. He’d ruined something. He was always ruining something. “Thanks for dinner.”

“I said I’d drive you, didn’t I?” Daisuke snapped.

“You don’t have to,” Haru sighed. But he didn’t know how to explain the discomfort he felt. He didn’t know how to ask his questions, or what answers would make him feel less sick and wrong.

It had been easier, he thought in the Bentley, when he didn’t care about Daisuke. When Daisuke had been just another rich asshole and not the guy who’d explained airplanes to Haru over dinner. It had been easier to inconvenience him and make fun of him and yell at him when it was something Haru did without expecting to win. He’d just been another wall for Haru to throw himself against. He had never expected Daisuke to change.

Daisuke hadn’t broken a single traffic law on the entire drive. Haru didn’t know what to feel.

They pulled to a stop in front of Haru’s apartment complex. Haru fiddled with the buckle, fingers numb, and then gave up. “I’m sorry,” he said, rushing to get the words out. “I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“You don’t have to apologize to me,” Daisuke said. When Haru sneaked a look at him his face was blank with shock like Haru had upended his world again.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Haru mumbled. “Dating. Letting people in. Whatever.”

But he thought of himself snarling I feel poor at Daisuke in the lobby of a restaurant and wondered if that was true—or had he only let Daisuke see the uglier parts of him when he thought it wouldn’t mean anything? Haru was used to getting hurt.

He wasn’t used to being taken home and tucked into bed.

“Haru,” Daisuke said. That was the second time he’d said Haru’s name. “You’ve given me plenty already.” He grabbed Haru’s hand, cool fingers stroking the roughened knuckles. “You must know that.”

“I threw your jacket out of a window,” Haru protested. “I ate your food and I keep insulting you.”

“And?” Daisuke asked, seemingly genuinely baffled. “You’re interesting and you care about people and you keep trying to make me better. I can buy jackets. I can’t buy you.”

“So you’ll find some other way to keep me within arm’s reach,” Haru snapped maliciously.

The insult missed Daisuke by a mile. “Of course,” he said clearly. “Of course I will. Anything it takes.”

“Why am I worth it?” Haru asked, shaking. “Why me?”

“You’re an idiot,” Daisuke said frustratedly. “There’s no one else for me, and you’re worth everything. Haven’t I made that clear enough?”

“Oh,” Haru whispered. His stomach still felt twisted-up and confused, but he was starting to catch a glimpse of what Daisuke was saying, in his alien way. And what he saw made him hot and sugar-soft inside, confused by the weight of devotion he was entrusted with and too broken to not want to swallow it whole. He pulled Daisuke closer by the wrist, clumsily mashing their lips together.

Daisuke got the hint at once, pulling Haru closer by the collar and gentling the kiss by force. “Everything,” he repeated, hot breath ghosting over Haru’s face. “Do you understand?”

“No,” Haru answered, and then lost himself in more kissing so he’d lost his breath by the time Daisuke pulled back a little, leaning down to worry a mark into the side of Haru’s neck. Haru clutched at his shoulders, trembling with inchoate want.

“You’re not stupid,” Daisuke murmured against his pulse. “You’ll get it eventually.”

It took Haru a second to remember what they were talking about. A second longer to catch the reference and burst into laughter, still holding onto Daisuke. He wrapped his arms around Haru a little harder, holding him close until he’d subsided into giggles. “You’ll make sure of it,” Haru told him, with more hope than anything.

“We will,” Daisuke promised.