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“Merumeruuuu,” comes a whine from Rinne, looking up from the floor table, hands full of beer “You said you wouldn’t do that anymore. It’s too cold and you never dress warmly enough. Poor Niki will have to work double time if you turn up sick.”
There’s a pout to his voice, and one present in his face. Like a puppy asking for attention. Himeru looks down, smiling minutely, softly pinching his nose with his index and middle fingers.
“Oya, such a nag. That hardly fits your image, doesn’t it?” His voice is so gentle, as he softly wags Rinne's face back and forth, ignoring the nasal protest in response. “Fear not, ‘I’ will wear my cardigan. ‘I’ won’t freeze.”
Rinne seems satisfied enough as he watches Himeru pull on a cardigan that’s a little too large for him, and gracefully step into some house slippers as he heads outside. The wind that blows through Niki's apartment chills them all for just a second, before it takes Himeru with it, and the door slides closed. It's quiet now. They all look at each other, before Kohaku resumes the chatter. He tries to feel not a little left out- tries to ignore the fact that they all seemed to hold their breath for a second when Himeru spoke. Did they worry he’d revert to old speech patterns? He seemed to take a breath every time the dreaded first person pronoun reared its ugly head.
But he used it anyway. That was progress. Even in their most intimate moments, he seemed to avoid it. The years really do fly by- he thinks to himself- staring at the distant shape of Himeru outside the frosted over glass. He feels warm, a little sweaty. Maybe he does need a cigarette. Maybe he needs some fresh air.
Making excuses, ignoring two pairs of eyes searing holes into the back of his head, he shuffles off. Slippers, door, closing it quickly so the protesting is minimal. The process is fast, and then again, it’s just him and Himeru out in the cold. watching the snow. He looks good. He looks different. But he is smiling, and beckoning Madara over with a single finger.
“Did you bring a lighter?” comes the silence breaking question. Himeru’s still looking at the street lights and the tiny snowflakes floating past.
He shakes his head no. Ignores the mostly unused zippo burning a hole in his pocket. I want to hold something that you touched, he thinks, even just for a moment .
There’s a tiny laugh, a drag, a rooting around for a pack.
“Oh my, what happened? I suppose you grew up a little after all.”
He doesn't feel very grown up. He feels like he hasn’t gotten used to the rising shape of his body, awkwardly shuffling into the space next to Himeru. Is he too close? Was that little bump into him too much? He feels all puppy-like, feet and hands too big for him. Nothing like Himeru’s thin and delicate ones. He wonders if Maguro saw him like this too- cool and tough and completely unapproachable.
Madara opens his hand. lifts it to his mouth when Himeru slides a cigarette between his fingers. they lean closer as himeru lights him up, with a shitty lighter with a flame pattern on it. He wouldn’t have been caught dead with such a shitty one before. Did someone give it to him? The sparks light up Himeru’s face, casting the new and old lines of it in stark contrast.
“Thaaank you very much, Bunny-san.” he offers. voice light, tone pleased. Slips in their little in-joke to make Himeru irritable. Or relaxed. Anything to be familiar. Takes a nice long drag, the nicotine rushing to his head. Maybe he did need this, after all. He holds in his breath, allowing the smoke to warm his chest, before exhaling.
It’s dark again after the brief flash of the lighter’s spark, and despite himself, he keeps his hand out, palm up. Offering. Waiting.
And the offer is, as it always was, taken. A brief squeeze of a cold hand, bony and thin. Delicate. There’s a mole resting above his thumb, sitting sweetly on the swell of the hand. The contact is brief, but extended by a softer touch. himeru gently tracing his fingertips on the soft, squishy parts of Madara’s hand. His nails are manicured. There's a ball point pen smiley on Madara's palm, a gift from Niki. A fine gold ring sits on Himeru’s middle finger, and none decorate Madara’s, and that’s fine. He's never been one for jewelry.
His hands are soft, slowly tracing their ways down Madara's life lines. Exploratory, lazy. comfortable, even. There’s the hint of a smile, a softness to his eyes that just wasn’t present before. ‘Is this how you always looked like?’ he wants to ask, ‘ Did I not notice in time?’
But asking that would stop the touch. Would intrude on the delicate atmosphere. Is it so wrong for him to want to remain with this private Himeru? To pretend like it’s the old days, and this is just a traditional post romp cigarette.
Maybe it’s a little fucked up, but Madara’s never thought he wasn’t.
The smile widens into something honest as he exhales the soft cloud of smoke. In its last moments, he blows it right over Madara’s face. He coughs, complains, and makes a scene. He revels, just a tiny bit, in getting a giggle out of himeru. watches as himeru turns away, hand still delicately placed over Madara’s palm. These mannerisms never change. They might be real, with how ingrained they are. His hair is longer now, sitting below his shoulders where it’s loose, but he still tucks it away all the same, and flicks it over his shoulder like there are cameras watching.
“Such a drama queen,” he says, soft and deep, such a fondness that it feels solely reserved for him if not for—
—“just like Rinne.”
The first name, it never stops being quite… New. So different. Kohaku had been so pleased, when it started. It’s not jealousy that pools in his stomach, at least he thinks, but it’s nothing pleasant. Is it because we’re so similar? Was I not good enough? Was it not exactly what you wanted? He takes too long of a drag of his cigarette, and chokes on the smoke.
“You know, Madara-san-“ Himeru starts- then pauses. Purses his lips. Steadies himself.
“Madara.”
And the voice is different, the tone deeper. It stops Madara's heart, just a little bit. He doesn’t want to turn to look, but there’s a cold hand on his face.
“Mm?” he intones. Not offering anything. Taking a step out of Himeru’s space, to see if he’ll continue this dance.
Himeru’s eyes are the color of the moon. Golden and just a little wet, like it’s a cloudy night. He looks, searching for something, before opening that mouth again.
“Those eyes- they always scared me a little. Like you saw right into me. Like you knew just a little too much, without me telling you.”
There’s a bitter edge to the set of his mouth, a brief look back into the warm world they left. He seems flustered. Embarrassed. The red on his cheeks seemingly is not from the cold.
Would it kill him to not look alluring, just once.
“Madara. ‘I’ treated you poorly. I have always regretted it. I am so sorry.”
And for a second, it feels like the whole world stops. He hasn’t heard Himeru say sorry for anything. Ever.
“I let things go too far. I didn't trust in you and I didn't trust in myself. I left you alone when I should've at least been honest with you.”
“Ah, well. Bunny-san you really—“ he starts, and stops. Tries so hard to be casual above the rushing blood in his ears.
“If you could, Madara. Please. It was difficult, because I hadn’t… I hadn't experienced those emotions before. It was something new to me. it felt like nothing was ‘allowed’ to be mine, at the time. Not even you. Not even in those little moments.”
Himeru looks out again. There’s the flicker of his eyes, settling on snowflakes floating past. He seems lost, like the words he’s practiced failed him. Maybe it has. Maybe it hasn’t. He fears he’ll never know with Himeru. Himeru swallows, painfully.
“It must’ve been hard, both dealing with me, and who I needed to be. I never gave you enough credit. Especially with…” he trails off. His cold thumb brushes against Madara’s cheekbone. “With how hard everything was for you. I think about it often. I’m glad you’ve gained allies in your world.”
Madara fears for a single horrifying second that Himeru’s thumb brushed away a tear. His eyes burn, along with his throat. It feels like he’s been set on fire, like the warmth he was hoping for set him ablaze instead of comforted him. He clears his throat, desperate to get the lump out of it.
“Ah, Bunny-san, don’t say things like that. It’s… it’s not like I really gave you much of a chance either, hm?” he says. He curses himself for how light his voice is. Like he doesn’t want to sink into the mood. Like he’s scared to.
Himeru doesn’t seem pleased, but he is extending grace in not pushing. The hand leaves his face, but still settles on the crook of neck. He feels vaguely overstimulated by both of Himeru’s hands being on him, but the longing sitting in his stomach tampers down his protests. Why not? It feels nice, his hand being massaged lightly, and Himeru’s fingers pressed into the back of his neck. Comforting and soft. Gentle and kind in a way Himeru’s words seemingly never are. Gap moe, if you will.
“It doesn’t matter. I should have… Madara, I should have listened to my own emotions. I should’ve allowed anything to grow, instead of stamping it out with my heel.”
There’s a deeper press.
“It’s too late. We’re here now. But I wanted to say it to you. The apologies, and the truth. It’s what you deserve for seeing ‘me’ and allowing me those first awkward steps into… into being a person. For being what you were, to me.”
Himeru doesn’t say it, but Madara sees the single trail escape. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t reach out to dry it, because he knows it would send Himeru into an embarrassed fit. Knows that reaction like the back of his hand.
There’s no words about what he actually was. The implication. The knowledge. It settles in the pit of his stomach. Regrets? He’s not sure. In his worst moments, he had wondered if Himeru’s true identity was a ghost, set on haunting him with mysteries. He wonders now if he had gotten it the other way around.
“Thank you. I’ll always thank you, and I’ll always think fondly of you.”
With those words, Himeru squeezes his hand, one last time. He takes out a cigarette, and after lighting up, makes sure that Madara doesn’t steal his lighter. Like he knows it’s been done before. Madara watches his hand disappear into his pockets, protected from the cold. He wants to join them in that world.
The smile is the softest one so far. it feels like it echoes into the past, and reverberates into the future all at once. The chapter was never opened, never written, never closed. But in the moment it exists between Himeru, his smile, and Madara’s eyes only. Stretching out in the eternal moment, before time closes on it. He adjusts Himeru’s cardigan before he can stop himself, hand briefly touching the bare shoulder.
“Go back inside, Madara. Kohaku worries ever so much about you, as do ‘I’.”
It's kind. It feels nice. His heart beats as much as it hurts.
“Don’t catch a cold! Otherwise Mama will have to take care of you!” he shouts, way too loud, opening the sliding door. He still smells like smoke. He laughs loudly as everyone protests the cold wind blowing, ignores the burning behind his eyes as he settles in next to everyone again. Gets his phone out.
They say Argentina has good weather? Maybe he should go to Patagonia and hike. He's pulling out his phone to look for tickets when a small hand yanks it away.
Kohaku’s replacing it with a hot drink, and leading him to look up before he knows it.
“Join us in reality, Madara-han.”
Niki insists on a second helping of ochazuke (set in front of him; no arguments), pushing the spoon in Madara’s face, Rinne insists that they have the perfect amount of people for mahjong. Kohaku insists that Madara is a no good dirty cheat, and it descends into a fight about who's the worst, with Madara brought in as a neutral third party outside of old unit dynamics. It’s not perfect, but for the moment it works.
———
When he gets home later, the contents of his wallet forfeit to Rinne and his belly full of Niki’s food, he first puts his keys on their holder and sends a reply to Kohaku's text. He’s safe at home. He did not book flight tickets.
He goes about his routine. Doesn’t let himself think until he hits his sheets.
But when he does- his throat tickles a little bit with the craving for another cigarette. He thinks about pressing his lips and teeth to the crook of a neck, the bone of a hip.
He thinks about the last time he visited Himeru’s apartment. Fleeing to a festival after some awkward moments.
He imagines, just once, a thin bony hand on his wrist-paired with some rare words-encouraging him to stay.
He imagines himself being convinced by it.
He dreams of the moment when Himeru came in from the cold, and it was him who wrapped his arm around those shoulders, pulled him in close.