Archive of Our Own

It wasn’t until a whole week later that they ended up back at the hospital.

After pulling out of the Omi, the flashy car failed to shake off the assassins tailing them like vultures catching the scent of blood. It only took a split second for bullets to shatter the rear windshield—just a few shots, but enough to leave their mark. Back then, both former chairmen were protected by the most elite bodyguards. By the time the car had safely delivered them to their destination, and only Daidoji’s two men remained inside, the once tense atmosphere collapsed into a heavy silence. Not long after, Hanawa heard a low, guttural groan—pain barely held back—and then the sound of someone slumping hard into the leather seat.

Running red lights, flooring the gas like a madman—that wasn’t how trained agents were supposed to drive. But honestly, he remembered nothing from that frantic ride to the hospital. His mind had been completely blank, focused on one thing only. It wasn’t until the injured man was finally laid out on an ER bed at one of Osaka's hospitals, monitors beeping steadily around them, that the fog lifted. That’s when it hit him—he should’ve called his superiors. And more urgently, he needed to figure out how the hell he was going to explain the man’s injuries to the doctors without raising any red flags.

Once Kiryu’s condition had stabilized, Daidoji arranged for a transfer. He was sent to Yokohama for surgery—the last of which had apparently just finished the night before. Apparently, because Hanawa had barely had time to keep track of anything that week.He’d been running all over the place, tying up the mess left in the wake of that explosive assignment. On top of that, he’d had to write a mountain of reports—including the ones that were supposed to be written by a certain agent who currently wasn’t in any condition to do so.

Hanawa arrived early. Even though dawn had come and gone, the corridor still felt submerged in that pale, sterile hospital light. The nurse on the last hour of her shift was half-asleep behind the counter—but fortunately, Hanawa had called ahead.

He stood outside the door for a moment before finally knocking. Since everything went down, he hadn’t had a proper conversation with Kiryu while the man was conscious. He found himself silently hoping he wouldn’t walk in and see that faintly smug expression on Kiryu’s face—the one that said he knew Hanawa would come. Hoping he wouldn’t get greeted with some dry, teasing remark about showing up so early, completely brushing off any of Hanawa’s attempts to explain himself.

Only the sound of his knock echoed down the empty corridor. No response. Either he was still asleep—or just pretending, scheming up some stupid prank of his.

Hanawa turned the doorknob slowly.

Faint morning light drifted in like mist through the ventilation window, gradually spilling across the room, illuminating it inch by inch. The man in the bed looked like he was still deep in sleep. Hanawa shut the door behind him with a soft click, his steps sinking soundlessly into the carpet as he walked toward the bed.

Kiryu Kazuma was, indeed, fast asleep. The warm, golden light had already touched one side of his face, framed perfectly by that sharp, well-defined bridge of his nose—like it was quietly showing off how peaceful he looked in sleep. His lips were slightly parted, his breathing even and slow. Eyelids resting, completely relaxed. The hair that was usually combed neatly back now lay scattered across his forehead, and the crease between his brows—so often taut—had finally, completely, smoothed out.

Probably the anesthesia, Hanawa thought. Though, to be fair, he had no idea whether Kiryu usually slept with a furrowed brow every night. This was the first time he’d ever had the chance to study the man’s sleeping face up close—this unguarded, raw side of someone usually so stoic. And he had to admit, even past fifty, his agent still had a face that could fairly be called handsome.

For one absurd moment, he had the sudden urge to reach out—to place a hand gently on his agent’s head, run his fingers through that thick hair, and touch the man he’d always believed was out of reach. Even if he actually did it—

He snapped himself out of it. Moving slowly, he settled into the chair beside the bed and picked up the folder of medical records—this incident’s, and ones from the past.

Medical jargon filled the pages in bleak, clinical detail. He glanced back at the man in the bed. Kiryu’s arms rested over the edge of the blanket, hands wrapped in thick bandages. The ones on his left wrist extended further down—probably thanks to that watch strap digging into his skin. Hanawa could only imagine how many other wounds didn’t make it into the reports—quiet, scattered marks etched into his body over the years, too small or too old to record, but never gone. Those wounds, in their own way, had shaped the man lying before him.

_

That had happened after they’d left the Omi. Hanawa sat in silence, listening to old acquaintances reminisce, swapping stories about someone they called "Kiryu-chan," as if he were off somewhere else entirely. He made no comment about the nickname, though it was admittedly a little amusing to watch the real Kiryu-chan squirm in the rearview mirror.

Like everyone else, Hanawa had always spoken to his subordinate with the utmost formality—never slipping, never casual. It was Kiryu who tended to be more relaxed with his tone. That was how Hanawa drew the line between them, maintained the professional distance he felt was necessary. He paid attention to everything. Still, there were always some things that were simply beyond his control.

Once they were back in the city, Akame was the first to notice the tail. She directed Hanawa to turn into a narrow alleyway—but unfortunately, the people chasing them seemed just as familiar with Osaka’s streets as she was. Eventually, they had no choice but to act. Hanawa pulled into a hidden spot and stopped the car. After a moment’s hesitation, he reached under his jacket and drew his sidearm.

“Hanawa-san?!” Akame gasped.

“I’m the only one armed right now. At the very least, it might scare them off. They’re pressing too hard—we need to create an opening.”

“Hanawa!”

Only one person would call him like that, without the honorific. He met those sharp eyes in the rearview mirror.

“This has nothing to do with you. Let us handle it.”

“But—”

“You absolutely can’t fire your gun here. I won’t drag you into this.”

“Whew—look at our bodyguard, being all manly.”

The man with the eyepatch clapped the serious man on the shoulder with a teasing grin, who quickly turned his head away, as if embarrassed by his own words.

“I’m very sorry to ask this, Hanawa-san,” came a polite voice from the back—former Sixth Chairman of the Tojo Clan.

“But if possible, could you hand me the gun? As this man said… this is a yakuza matter. We'd prefer to keep others uninvolved.”

It was unthinkable to entrust a weapon to someone you didn’t fully know.

“I’ll stake my life on it, Hanawa,” Kiryu said softly—still not looking at him—barely above a whisper, but in that calm tone was something close to a plea.

“But you can give it to him.”

If he said it…

Daigo Dojima opened the door and ducked behind the car for cover. He looked up toward the driver’s seat, almost pleading.

Those eyes—Hanawa almost reeled. They were identical to their Fourth Chairman’s.

With a sigh, Hanawa handed the gun out the window.

Kiryu followed Daigo out.He stayed close to the younger man, shielding him as they moved. The standoff lasted barely a moment. A gunshot cracked the air—so fast that Hanawa didn’t register it until he saw the scorched mark on Kiryu’s cheek. By then, it was already too late to hesitate. Daigo reacted instantly and pulled the trigger. And then it made sense—why Kiryu would stake his life on this man. Dojima didn’t aim to kill, but he didn’t miss either. He hit the attacker square in the arm—clean, precise. Once the ambushers were fully suppressed, they piled back into the car and sped off.

Kiryu didn’t show even a trace of fear. He just wiped the blood from his jaw with the back of his hand. Hanawa was almost used to that fearlessness by now. The dragon of Dojima, risen again—surely not even the gods would let him fall today.

And these comrades who still fought by his side... what kind of life had they lived together, to walk so calmly through this kind of danger?

-

Out of the corner of his eye, Hanawa caught a subtle flicker—the man’s eyelids trembled slightly. The sun had already risen fully, and its light was strong enough to filter through the thin skin of his lids, pushing against the darkness of sleep. Hanawa quickly set down the medical file and sat upright, waiting for him to wake.

It looked as though just opening his eyes drained all his strength.

Kiryu wore a pained expression as he forced them open a sliver, his gaze unfocused and drifting. Slowly, sluggishly, his consciousness stirred, and his eyes began to register the world around him. Eventually, his vacant stare managed to settle on the face beside the bed. Some faint flicker of recognition stirred. He squinted slightly, as if trying to piece something together, and his lips began to move.

“Hana—”

A rough, hoarse whisper slipped from his mouth, carried by the barest breath of air. His lips, dry and cracked, worked to shape the rest of the name—but didn’t quite make it. Hanawa leaned in. Kiryu seemed like he wanted to say more.

“Good morning… Hanawa…”

For some reason, that quiet teasing lilt made something tighten in Hanawa’s chest again, that tension from the night before—sharp and sleepless—suddenly winding back up. When he instinctively leaned away, almost recoiling from his own reaction, Kiryu blinked at him with a puzzled look.

“Good morning, Kiryu-san,” Hanawa replied, voice even. “You’re awake.”

He waited for awareness to return fully to those eyes.

But Kiryu still looked dazed—the anesthesia probably hadn’t worn off completely yet. Those eyes, the ones that always left Hanawa at a loss, were now staring at him so openly, like they couldn’t believe he was real.

After a long pause, Kiryu said softly, “So… you did come after all. Took you long enough.”

Logic warned Hanawa not to dig into the weight of that enough. It felt like something better left untouched—for now.

He said nothing. Just cleared his throat. Then, lifting his head, he met the rare, unguarded gaze Kiryu was giving him—so childlike, so earnest, eyes following him with such raw clarity.

“…Would you like some water?”

***

There was a knock at the door.

Kiryu called out in response, and Hanawa stepped in, carrying a travel bag.

“…Wait, you’ve got to be kidding.”

Yesterday, he’d half-jokingly told Daidoji to find him a caretaker. He raised his bandaged hand as if to prove a point. Hanawa took his hand, frowning as he examined it, and after confirming that Kiryu couldn’t manage a wheelchair or even a cane, he pulled out his phone.

“Uhh…”

Whoever was on the other end of the line clearly had a whole list of unreasonable instructions, because Hanawa’s face darkened by degrees. He responded with nothing but curt, clipped syllables.

“What’d they say?”

“If I told you that the ‘caretaker’ Daidoji picked is standing right in front of you… would that be the answer you’re hoping for?”

Without another word, Hanawa walked over to the companion bed and dropped the bag onto it.

“The official excuse is ‘for security reasons.’

Truly, Kiryu-san, your ability to make my job harder is second to none.”

He muttered complaints as he unpacked, though it was clear he wasn’t really mad.

Kiryu actually let out a laugh.

Then, like it had just occurred to him, he asked,

“You snore at night?”

“If you don’t snore, I’ll thank the gods right now, old man.”

Recovery in the hospital held little novelty.

The same IV fluids were still dripping into his veins.

The same dull meals.

The same nights where painkillers did nothing for the itchy sting of healing wounds, where he fell asleep listening to the wind outside, half-conscious.

And then the long, tedious days of rehab.

Right before the final round of anesthesia took him under, these were the things Kiryu Kazuma found himself thinking about.

At first, he’d actually felt a flicker of anticipation. His scattered memories, sliced into pieces by anesthesia and unconsciousness, came and went like drifting film stills. Each time he regained a sliver of awareness, he would let his eyes fall shut again—just to see if his boss, ever eager to call him out, would see through the act. But every time, the only thing that greeted him was silence. That still, suffocating kind of silence that filled a hospital room when no one was watching. Eventually, he convinced himself he’d never really woken up at all, and drifted back into sleep.

With age came dreams. Sleep in his younger years had been pure, absolute—like death. Now, he wasn’t sure if it was fear of dying that made his subconscious throw up all these random, senseless dreams. Maybe it was his brain’s desperate way of anchoring his life, even in sleep. Most of them were meaningless, anyway—fragmented and dull, forgotten the moment he opened his eyes.

Lately, submerged in medically induced sleep, the dreams had only multiplied. They flickered, incoherent and exhausting—no help at all in restoring his strength. He dreamed of Shishido’s fist coming at him, and he fought back, hard—his body still moving as if it hadn't cooled from that long, grinding battle to stay alive. Violence was etched into his body. No matter how much he meditated, how much he tried to forget, the moment his senses picked up the scent of fresh blood, every nerve in him would spark to life. He’d wished, time and again, for a peaceful, ordinary life— And time and again, it was his own instincts that destroyed it. Just like his boss had once said: He was a man who saw fighting as the meaning of life.

A freak like that.

Even in the quiet sanctuary of the Daidoji compound, deep in the mountains, in the stillness of its immaculate courtyards, he couldn't escape it. The irony wasn’t lost on him: What had begun as a coercive deal—one that nearly felt like blackmail—

Had ended up giving him a taste of something he’d long craved:

A life so dull, so monotonous,

That it almost felt like peace.

Kiryu Kazuma woke up. He tried to move—and was surprised at how light his body felt. He looked down at himself.

No bandages. No IV lines. Just a thin blanket draped over him. And instead of a hospital gown or surgical clothes, he was wearing a simple gray tracksuit.

Sunlight filtered softly through the curtains, the shadows of leaves swaying gently in the pale morning light. Birdsong outside.

A quiet morning. Normal. Ordinary.

He looked around. A cramped, worn-down apartment came into view. He knew this place. This was the apartment he’d stayed in back in Fukuoka, during that brief time he lived as a humble taxi driver.

Kiryu looked down again at his clothes, as if to confirm. Yes. This really was the same tracksuit he used to wear to bed back then—though he couldn’t remember where it had ended up. But why was he back in Fukuoka?

Panic crept in, slow at first, then overwhelming. Everything around him felt too real. If this was a dream, it was nothing like the fleeting, senseless ones he’d had over the past few days. For a moment, he genuinely doubted himself.

The fall of the Tojo Clan.

Daidoji.

Haruto...

Could it all have been nothing more than a vivid dream from a night in Fukuoka? Was it still 2012?

Maybe Haruka was still on TV.

Maybe he had the night shift today.

Maybe, if he just closed his eyes and slept again, he’d wake up to the sterile white of the hospital ceiling. But he didn’t feel sleepy at all.

And he wasn’t sure anymore—should he stay in this dream, or go back to that other one? Because that one was far more painful, far more vivid—filled with joy, grief, rage, heartbreak. Far more absurd than any dream had a right to be, but also more real than anything else in his life. His breathing grew uneven.

Then a rich, familiar scent pulled him back. Miso soup.

He remembered the woman who insisted on looking after him back then, he couldn’t even remember her name now. She had long, chestnut-colored hair—placed beside him, because she was the daughter of a local boss.

The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth. If he turned around and saw that chestnut hair again, then he’d know—

It was 2012.

And maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Pretend nothing had ever happened, then commit to leaving the yakuza world behind for good. Maybe then, he could live a normal life—quiet, unremarkable, but peaceful. If he was lucky, maybe he’d get to see the kids grow up. That had always been the life he’d wanted.

But the heaviness in his chest didn’t ease at all. He knew this was the hardest time in his life—the time when he clung to an illusion, deaf and blind to the world around him, trapped in a fog of anxiety, guilt, and emptiness. He told himself he’d left the Tojo Clan behind, but the truth was, his life could never really be separated from it. He just hadn’t been ready to accept that yet.

That’s why he wanted to go back. There were things he still had to do. Sure, he could live through another seven years of this—again, but if he took the wrong step now, he’d lose something critical.

Daidoji.

Without their support, everything he hoped to accomplish would be just empty talk. And, well... there were personal reasons, too. If he’d never met Hanawa—

A growl from his stomach cut off the thought, mercilessly. The smell of miso soup grew stronger. He grit his teeth. Whatever this was—

He might as well eat breakfast first.

Turning slightly, Kiryu finally shifted his gaze—

And there he was. Standing in the kitchen, moving quietly in the morning light, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

And just like that, Kiryu Kazuma forgot how to breathe. His heartbeat, still pounding in his ears, slowly began to settle. The blinding flood of sensation from just a moment ago started to give way to thought again.

He finally let out a long breath. This—this had to be a dream. Without a doubt.

The moment he saw him, the words left his mouth before his mind could even catch up. The name slipped out instinctively, too fast for him to even register surprise.

“…Hanawa?”

“Good morning, Kiryu-san. You’re awake.”

The man in front of him looked nothing like the rigid, by-the-book Hanawa he was used to. He wore a pair of black-rimmed glasses—ordinary, understated, and his soft salt-and-pepper hair fell loosely to the sides of his face. A blue set of loungewear hung gently on his frame, the pant legs just a bit too long, folding slightly above his white cotton socks. He stirred miso paste into the soup with practiced ease, long chopsticks moving gracefully in the ladle. When he heard his name, he turned his head slightly and offered a faint, quiet smile.

It was a version of Hanawa that Kiryu had never seen before. And just for a moment, the sight of him—so domestic, so gentle—completely stunned him. This was a scene that could only exist in a dream.

And he knew it.

From that moment on, Kiryu Kazuma gave in to every ridiculous thought that crossed his mind. If this was a dream, then so be it. Let’s see what kind of fantasy his subconscious had decided to craft for him.

He got out of bed and moved through his morning routine, guided by muscle memory more than thought. When he went to toss a used tissue into the bin, something caught his eye.

A used condom.

His eyes narrowed, lingering. Then—guiltily—he glanced toward the kitchen. He figured he should probably feel ashamed of whatever shameless implication his subconscious was feeding him. Still, he didn’t dare assume anything outright. One thing was certain: his brain hadn’t been generous enough to furnish him with any memories of a night well spent.

Kiryu had long since admitted to himself the ambiguity between him and his superior. Maybe there had even been moments when that ambiguity turned into something more raw, more wanton. He never tried to pretend he was above those feelings. But lines existed—spoken and unspoken—and unfortunately for him, Hanaw Kiheiwas the kind of man who treated boundaries like gospel. So Kiryu let himself fantasize—wondered, in idle moments, how far they could go. Where the line was.

And a dream was the perfect chance to find out.

He approached the Hanawa in the kitchen and gently placed his hands on his shoulders. To be honest, he couldn’t remember the last time he felt like this. Heart racing, mouth dry, tongue thick, and cheeks just barely flushed. A ridiculous little thrill.

This version of Hanawa didn’t flinch from his touch. In fact, he stopped stirring the miso paste entirely—waiting for Kiryu’s next move, as if to give permission.

It made something burn hotter in Kiryu’s throat. This was his dream. He could do whatever he wanted here. He knew it wasn't real—but the way Hanawa responded made the temptation impossible to resist.

His hands slid down those slender arms, pausing at the elbows, then slowly trailing to his waist.

He felt like a kid unwrapping a forbidden present—terrified and delighted all at once. His hands circled Hanawa’s waist, discovering for the first time just how narrow it was. His fingers could almost meet around it. Nervous, giddy, and still remembering the condom in the trash—Maybe last night, in this nonexistent memory, they’d already gone further than this.

He bent down, enclosing the smaller man in the full shelter of his body. He rested his chin on Hanawa’s shoulder, arms folding securely around his middle—firm, possessive, unshakable.

“Still not fully awake?” came Hanawa’s voice, soft and amused, right by his ear. And just like that, Kiryu became a sulking child, tightening his arms with shameless insistence.

“It’s hot,” Hanawa muttered. “Let go.”

“No.”

“Then one more minute.”

“Too short. Five.”

“Nope. Breakfast’ll be ready in one.”

Hanawa nudged him with an elbow, and the man clinging like caramel candy finally pried himself loose, clearly reluctant. He halfheartedly ran his hands under the tap—hardly enough to call washing—then grabbed bowls and chopsticks and set them on the low table. Hanawa filled each bowl with miso soup, added a gleaming plate of tamagoyaki, then pressed his hands together with a quiet itadakimasu before picking up his chopsticks. Kiryu sat cross-legged, watching his every move.

“You’re not eating. Is it not to your taste?”

Maybe his gaze had gotten too intense—Hanawa looked over with a puzzled glance.

“N-No, it’s fine. I’ll start now.”

Kiryu couldn’t bring himself to look anywhere else. He picked up his bowl awkwardly, sipped at the soup—eyes still locked onto Hanawa’s face beyond the rim.

He knew this was all just a projection. A dream born from his own selfish longing. But it was precisely because he knew it wasn’t real that he cherished every second of it. Dreams always end. Even this version of Hanawa was nothing more than a gentle illusion, shaped by his yearning.

And deep down, Kiryu Kazuma didn’t even think he deserved this. Not even the dream. Because this wasn’t just some love-struck fantasy. This—

This was home.

The tiny apartment. The sound of bowls clinking. The smell of hot soup. The casual intimacy of two people living side by side.

This was the kind of life people took for granted. And for him, it was the kind of life he’d long been forbidden even to hope for.

Becoming Haruka’s father—that had been his first promise to someone he loved, his first step toward the idea of family. Now, Haruka was a mother, and he had fulfilled his role as a father. Her little household was full of warmth and life, while his own had slowly faded into gray, its silence growing heavier by the day. He tried to fill the hollow with memories of Yumi, but the sound that echoed in that silence never truly went away.

Until one morning, he woke up and realized—it was gone. Replaced instead by birdsong from beyond the window. And the night before, he had opened his heart to someone, shared a story he thought he'd carry to the grave. That person made him feel like maybe he wouldn’t have to die with regrets after all. That maybe he could sweep away the dust, and let a weary heart beat again.

Even after fifty years of life, that feeling, that flutter of emotion, still felt foreign to him. What kind of love makes a person want to grow old with someone who shares no blood, no family name, nothing but time?

It was like Hawaii—a half-joking suggestion from Yumi, something he held onto for half his life. Even when she'd lost her memories, some part of him still wandered the edges of hers. To remember the one you love, was to inscribe them onto the core of your being. And when Hanawa casually mentioned the little habits, the stories Kiryu thought no one else noticed, he’d find himself wondering: When did you start remembering all of that? And suddenly, everything made sense.

He had shown his vulnerability. He had told Hanawa to forget it all—but he had no right to ask that. Because memory itself was the way he had always loved.

Wordlessly. Persistently.

“Good night. Get some sleep.”

Hanawa gave him a gentle hug, and a soft stroke at the corner of his brow.

“…Hanawa.”

“Hm?”

“…Will you still be here when I wake up?”

Kiryu reached up to hold the hand still resting near his temple, giving it a quiet squeeze. When he had woken in this bed that morning, his first thought was that if he went back to sleep, he might return to the world where he belonged. He knew that was cowardly, shameful, even. But now…he wasn’t so sure.

His throat tightened. Hanawa smiled—the exact same smile Kiryu had seen that morning, when this dream began.

“I will.”

Morning light pierced his eyes once again. Had he woken up?

It was unusually difficult to open them. The muscles around his eyes ached like they were weighed down with lead. When sensation slowly returned to his body, the first thing he registered was pain—dull, heavy pain—and stiffness in every limb. Unfortunately, that could only mean one thing: he really was awake.

His vision gradually adjusted to the harsh light, and the world around him began to come into focus. He knew he shouldn't have held out hope—but then he saw it.

He was lying in a hospital bed. His mind was foggy, his thoughts sluggish, but this time, it was real. He could see it, feel it. This wasn’t a dream.

“Good morning, Kiryu-san. You're awake.”

***

Hanawa hadn’t just kept the promise he made in Kiryu’s dream—he had, quite literally, become the first person Kiryu saw when he opened his eyes. More than that, he had moved into the hospital room , assuming full responsibility for Kiryu’s day-to-day care. Kiryu still found it hard to believe, watching Hanawa move about the room, unpacking his bags with quiet efficiency.

Even if reality didn’t quite match the closeness of the dream. He supposed.

Bit by bit, the empty corners of the room began to fill with signs of Hanawa’s presence.

His laptop and documents. A simple ceramic coffee mug on a tray, with a single metal stir stick resting inside. A notebook and fountain pen. A razor and a bottle of aftershave. Everything clean, simple, and arranged with the kind of order that only came from habit. His personality quietly unfurled into the room, not imposing, but steady—like water filling a vessel. Kiryu looked around, and no matter where his eyes landed, something about it spoke of Hanawa. He found himself watching in silence, studying these details like pages of a book he hadn’t yet begun to read. And somehow, that filled him with an odd sense of peace.

And the truth was, he knew almost nothing about Hanawa.

Hanawa, by contrast, seemed to know him far too well—well enough to casually mention things even Kiryu himself had forgotten. He understood his history. His habits. His temper. But he never spoke about his own life unless asked—and Kiryu had never asked. He used to think he didn’t care. But now, with Hanawa’s life laid bare before him in these small domestic traces, Kiryu realized just how badly he wanted to know. He wanted to know Hanawa’s routines. What he liked to eat. How he took his coffee. Whether he had any hobbies, anything he looked forward to. He wanted to know everything, no matter how small.

And yet, looking back on everything—all he had ever done was wait.

He had let Hanawa gently, patiently peel away his layers, but had never once taken a step toward him in return.

He remembered his first day at Daidoji like it had happened just yesterday. It was the first time he met Hanawa. He already had a rough idea of what kind of organization Daidoji was. The pressure they’d applied had been blunt and clinical, and he’d gone numb to it faster than he expected. He didn’t need to be told what kind of dirty work might await him.

So when a short man in glasses approached him—clearly someone from an office job—his first instinct had been to scoff. This is the guy I’ll be working under? This is the man I’ll be trusting with my miserable excuse for a life? He squinted at him, sizing him up. The man looked visibly nervous. His chest rose and fell sharply, struggling to steady itself. Kiryu was aware of his own reputation, of course—But watching his future handler fumble in the presence of a so-called "legend of the underworld" held a certain morbid amusement.

The man adjusted his glasses, lifted his head, and finally met Kiryu’s eyes.

“Kiryu-san. I’m Hanawa Kihei,” he said. “agent with the Daidoji faction. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ll be in charge of overseeing your operations from now on.” Then he extended his hand.

Kiryu stared at him a moment, then took it.

“Hanawa-san,” he replied, as if confirming it aloud.

Hanawa wasted no time. Always. He turned on his heel and began leading Kiryu through the facility—introduced him to the head priest, showed him the grounds. By the end of the day, Kiryu had been given a Buddhist name: Joryu. Officially, he was now a monk. When it was over, Hanawa handed him a phone and said his number was already saved. “Call if anything comes up.” Only then did Kiryu notice that Hanawa’s hand was shaking.

“Do I really look like I’m about to bite someone’s head off, Hanawa-san?”

He’d let out a short laugh. It had been a long time since he’d laughed at all.

He never called. Instead, he spent his days in meditation. He couldn’t make sense of Go, so he listened with polite confusion as the head priest explained the logic behind each move. Once a week, Hanawa would call him.

“Are you adjusting to the new lifestyle?” he’d ask the same question.

At first, Kiryu found the phrase laughable. New lifestyle, he thought—as if being kept under surveillance like a tool, waiting to be used for dirty jobs in exchange for one miserable life and a few subsidies for Morning Glory, could be called a lifestyle. They were trying to make him settle. Make him docile. But slowly, the assignments came in. And slowly, he realized they were clean. Nothing like what he had expected.

He started picking up bits of Go. Hanawa started leaving small jokes in their conversations, playing games of hide-and-seek with him like a bored sibling.

Hanawa-san became just Hanawa.They argued more frequent. And strangely, Kiryu felt lighter.

Hanawa had become the last window left open—the only place the light could still come through.

Once things had settled, Hanawa opened his laptop on the small table and resumed what looked like an infinite stream of work. Whether it was truly urgent or simply his way of avoiding idle silence, Kiryu couldn’t say. But maybe, now that there was no mission to run from and no enemies to guard against, keeping busy was the only way either of them knew how to cope with being alone—together.

Kiryu tried to ignore the lingering heat of guilt left behind by that dream, the aftertaste of something he had wanted too much. He turned over several sentences in his head, discarded them one by one, and finally defaulted to the only thing he could ask without sounding like a fool—something about the mission. Hanawa answered in a flat, procedural tone, briefing him on the final wrap-up. Then, predictably, he threw in a few dry complaints about the amount of paperwork Kiryu had left behind.

Kiryu chuckled and let his weight sink into the pillow. “Thanks, Hanawa-san.”

The response gave Hanawa pause. Then he smiled faintly, not looking up from his screen. “Haven’t heard that in a while. I honestly can’t remember the last time you addressed me that politely.”

“If you like it, I can keep calling you that,” Kiryu said, with a tone that hovered between sincerity and teasing.

He’d said “Hanawa” in so many different ways over the years. He’d snapped it between clenched teeth when irritated—when Hanawa’s meticulousness grated on his nerves or when his lectures came at the worst possible times. He’d murmured it gently, voice low, careful, as though the name might break if spoken too loud—Hanawa, stretched and softened at the edges, like something fragile resting on his tongue. That had been the night Hanawa was pulled back from the brink. Kiryu had spoken his name like someone catching a glass vase just before it hit the ground.

Maybe it was after one of those too-close missions. They’d barely shaken their pursuers, slammed the car door behind them, and for a moment the world went silent— the rush of air replaced by the deafening thud of their own hearts. Kiryu, still breathless, had said, “Didn’t expect you to be that fast on your feet, Hanawa.”

Hanawa had barked a reply between gasps. “We were running for our lives.”

That might’ve been the first time he forgot the honorifics. And he never went back. That moment—small, almost imperceptible—had been the crack through which everything else slowly shifted. Looking back now, it startled him to realize how far the two of them had walked as a “we.”

When Hanawa first started calling him by his assigned codename, Kiryu would sometimes fail to respond, not out of defiance, but simple unfamiliarity. Hanawa would sigh with exaggerated patience. “Kiryu-san, please remember your new identity.”

His real name—Kiryu Kazuma—had been sealed away, like all those who knew too much, buried under layers of concrete and official silence. As if the name itself were dangerous. But Hanawa… Hanawa had always said it without hesitation. The only person left who spoke his name like it still belonged to someone real.

“Hanawa, why do you still call me Kiryu? You, of all people, seem like the one who least wants to hear that name.”

"Why?"Hanawa leaned back in his chair, folding his arms as he studied Kiryu for a long moment.

Then, with calm clarity, he answered, “Because you are Kiryu Kazuma. No matter how badly Daidoji—or even I—might want that identity to disappear, it doesn’t change the fact that it’s still you. And judging from how things have been going, I doubt that erasure is going to succeed anyway. Seems that everyone doesn't want to forget you.”

He paused, then added, “Besides… calling you Joryu all the time would feel a bit cold. And it’s not like you ever gave me another name to use.”

Kiryu exhaled through his nose—a small, sardonic sound. He wondered how many people would carry his name with them in the end—out of admiration, hatred, or a tangled knot of both.

But that wasn’t the answer he wanted. Everyone wasn’t what he was asking about.

Not “everyone.”You, Hanawa.

You’re the one who refuses to let the name go.

You’re the one who’s pieced together every corner of my life.

You’re the one who most insists on seeing me—not as an asset, not as a ghost, but as Kiryu Kazuma. And that’s what scared him most.

Kiryu swallowed hard, pushing the words down before they could rise. Like everything else between them, it would remain unsaid.

Hanawa emerged from the bathroom wearing a loose button-up and a pair of soft lounge pants. His hair, still damp from the shower, hung in wisps over his forehead, beads of water trailing down to his temples.

It was impossible for Kiryu not to recall the dream. Especially now, with Hanawa looking like that—no gel in his hair, no glasses to frame his face, nothing neat or guarded. The salt-and-pepper strands fell halfway across his eyes, softening his entire expression into something almost unfamiliar. Kiryu found himself staring longer than he meant to. For a fleeting moment, he had the strange sensation that he was meeting him for the first time.

After a nurse came in and administered a painkiller, Hanawa switched off the lights. He lifted one edge of the blanket and slipped under, settling into the narrow bed with quiet precision.

“Good night,” he said softly to the man who was wide awake, as if already halfway to sleep.

Even in rest, Hanawa carried himself with that same careful restraint. He lay on his side, back to Kiryu, body still, and hardly moved.

Kiryu watched the slow, measured rhythm of his breath.

There was something oddly soothing in it, like waves lapping at the shore. Each inhale seemed to dull the edge of his pain, each exhale gently pulled at the restless coil inside his chest.

It was a strange thing to admit—but Kiryu liked watching people sleep.

Back at the orphanage, the younger kids would cry when they couldn’t fall asleep. Sniffling and hiccupping, they’d wander into his room and shake him awake.

Still groggy, he’d lift them into his arms, pat their backs, rock them gently until they slumped against him, breathing even and warm. If they were still fussy, he’d step out into the Okinawan night and walk slow circles on the beach, cradling the kid in his arms. The sea breeze and soft waves whispered like lullabies—Okinawa’s gentlest voice, coaxing the children into dreams.

Haruto, too, had grown up with the sea humming in his ears.

Those sleeping faces—small, innocent, trusting—were enough to wash away the guilt and violence of his entire life, and had once felt like the only proof he had that his life meant something. That his strength had a purpose beyond violence. That being strong wasn’t about surviving—it was about being someone others could safely sleep beside. If the ones he loved could sleep safely in his arms, then all that strength people praised him for… finally had somewhere to go. Sleep, to him, had always meant trust, meant that he still had a place in the world—that he wasn’t completely useless.

And that alone was enough.

The sleep of a lover… was something else entirely. But he wouldn’t know. He’d never had a bed anyone else could fall asleep in. Still, the thought stirred in him like a tide.

He imagined an arm curled around a slender waist. The faint scent of shampoo close to his face. A cheek brushing the curve of his shoulder. The heat of someone’s breath washing gently over his neck. The pleasant ache in his arm come morning, and the weight of a sleeping body pressing against his chest.

He had never once thought he would want to fall asleep holding a man. And certainly never imagined a man would become someone he felt the need to protect. At first, he told himself it was instinct. Hanawa wasn’t built for physical combat; Kiryu had always been the stronger one. Of course he’d feel responsible. But if it were just duty—Would he really feel this absurd, uncontainable happiness, just from knowing Hanawa was asleep only a few meters away?

He kept watching, barely blinking. If Hanawa dreamed of him tonight—

if, by some chance, he slipped into that quiet world behind closed eyes—

what would he look like there?

Kiryu’s thoughts fell at the edge of wakefulness, just as the first sliver of morning light bled across the curtain.

***

Hanawa, true to form, seemed intent on keeping his living clock routines. He woke him softly, like turning the dial of a delicate watch. His name echoed from somewhere far away, drawing him up through layers of sleep like surfacing from underwater. Then he smelled it—fresh coffee.

“Kiryu-san… Kiryu-san…”

His eyelids were stiff and swollen, his body heavy and sore in all the familiar places. Maybe three hours of sleep was too cruel a luxury for someone still confined to a hospital bed. But he forced his eyes open anyway.

And when he did, he saw Hanawa sitting quietly by the bed, a coffee cup held in both hands. Sunlight caught the ends of his hair, painting them gold. The faint crease between his brows had melted into something warmer—something dangerously close to tender.

Kiryu had seen countless mornings in his life. But none had ever started like this. None had ever made waking feel like a reward.

Hanawa, always came prepared, to keep Kiryu from drifting off again, he segued smoothly into usual debriefing—as if nothing had changed. Kiryu leaned back against the headboard, staring up at the ceiling, words filtered through him like running water as he tried to assemble the fragments of memory that still smoldered behind his eyes.

The last week had been a blur of movement and pressure. From Yokohama to Osaka, every second had burned like a fuse line. He had never been allowed to pause—not once, the nap he'd taken on the couch at Akame’s office hadn’t really been rest. It was a trick, meant to deceive his body into continuing a little longer.

And now that it was over, the explosion had passed—there was no more need to lie, exhaustion caught up with him all at once. The ache in his limbs, the simple act of shifting a leg on the bed—it all felt like penance. His body, it seemed, was finally cashing in on every debt he’d ignored.

He didn’t need help. Not really. But the thought of letting Hanawa see him struggle—of showing that part of himself—left a bitter taste in his mouth.

He’d learned, slowly, how to accept the limitations of age.

But there were still lines he didn’t want to cross. Not with Hanawa.

With age also came the curse of drowsiness. Hanawa noticed him dozing off before dusk even settled. So he insisted on wheeling him out to the hospital garden—for “fresh air,” he claimed.

The ritual soon became daily routine. The late-summer air had grown thinner, edged with hints of the coming fall. The sun would dip behind the hills, staining the air with gold and the scent of the end of summer. A crisp breeze would settle on their skin, cooling the exhaustion that clung like dust.

At first, neither of them said a word.

Hanawa pushed him in slow, silent circles around flower beds full of hibiscus in full bloom—curiously, with none of the usual commentary he loved to make.

It was infuriating. All that usual chatter, the petty complaints, the endless nagging—vanished now, right when Kiryu almost wanted to hear them. But he himself couldn't give something talkable either.

Eventually, he came up with a solution that had the best of both. If they weren’t going to talk about anything personal, work would have to do. At least it was neutral ground.

“…What did you do, back when you first joined Daidoji?” he asked.

The wheelchair stopped for a beat. Then moved on.

“Huh. You must really be bored if you’re asking about my past now.”

“If you don’t want to answer, I’m not forcing you…”

“No, no.” Hanawa gave a soft chuckle. “Since I’m equally bored, I suppose a little stroll down memory lane won’t kill me. After all, communication between superior and subordinate is—”

“—a pillar of organizational cohesion,” Kiryu cut in with a groan. “You really can’t help yourself, can you…just get on with it already.”

Hanawa smirked. “Well, it’s true you’re not much fun when I stay quiet, either. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be throwing me such bland questions.”

“...Alright, fine. You win. ”He sighed, dramatically.“I’m listening, Hanawa-san.”

“I didn’t start out as early as you might think. At first, I was nothing special. Just admin work, really.

But then, you came along. And, well... thanks to you, I climbed the ranks at a pretty decent pace.”

“…Thanks to me?”

“Sure. Think about it. If I could keep the infamous Dragon of Dojima in line—get him to cooperate with Daidoji—well, that’s quite the endorsement, isn’t it? Naturally, the higher-ups started trusting me with more responsibility. More people to manage.”

A silence followed. Longer than it should’ve been.

“…That bother you?” Hanawa finally asked, sensing the change.

Kiryu answered before thinking.

“Wouldn’t say it feels good.”

It was childish, and he knew it. The tightness in his chest only made it worse.

They were supposed to be nothing more than superior and subordinate. No different than any of the other agents who answered to Hanawa. But he just couldn’t help it. It was petty, stupid even—but still, it stung.

“…So I was your golden ticket, huh?”

It was a low blow. He regretted it the second the words left his mouth.

He had no right to question Hanawa like that—not after everything the man had done for him, not when Kiryu had nothing to offer but a wounded ego and some wounded pride, sulking like a stray who hadn’t been chosen.

Hanawa didn’t owe him a thing.

But still—because in a world where power dictated everything, Hanawa was the one who understood what it meant to stand above someone, and what himself meant to his agents.

So Kiryu knew exactly why he’d come to obey him so easily. Why he’d stopped resisting. Why he’d fallen for him.

“Sorry,” Hanawa said, his voice noticeably softer now. “You once told me I’m not good with words… But for what it’s worth… I think we’re in a good place now. You’re adjusting, and I’m—grateful for that. It’s working. For both of us.”

He always knew how to talk like that—clean, clipped, professional to the core.

Kiryu couldn’t help but wonder—if he dared to push just a little further, just a little more reckless than usual—would that controlled mask finally crack? Could his seemingly dull rationality reveal a little flaw?

“Hey, Hanawa.”

“Yes? Did I say something wrong again?”

“I may be doing work for them, but don’t get it twisted—I’m not following Daidoji’s orders,” he said. Then, after a pause, added, “Not theirs, anyway. Not the boss. Not Yoshimura.”

“…Still as stubborn as ever.”

“Hanawa,” Kiryu’s jaw tensed, teeth clenched. His voice came out through gritted teeth, “Do you really not get it? Or are you just playing dumb again, like always?                                                                                                                                          The wheelchair came to a full stop.

“Joryu.” It was the first time in days Hanawa had called him that. The name stung in his ears like a cold slap.

“Don’t,” Hanawa replied quietly. “It’s late. Let’s head back.”

After that, silence returned like a curtain falling. They kept to themselves. Hanawa didn't say another word—not during the night, not when the lights dimmed, not until Kiryu lay in bed waiting for his usual "goodnight". Just as the quiet became unbearable, Hanawa’s voice stirred in the dark.

“You can think whatever you want about what I said, Kiryu-san. But…”

“I know. I crossed a line today. I shouldn’t have—”

“No, that’s not what I meant.” Hanawa interrupted, rare and firm. “I just… I thought saying it that way would… make things easier for you.”

“Easier to what?”

“…Us. You and me. This.”

The words landed like a weight. But he said it plainly, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

Kiryu felt the tension gather in his throat—but he knew better than to accuse Hanawa of overthinking. No matter how fragile or fog-like their bond still felt, Hanawa wasn’t mistaken. Not this time.

“This is the first time we’ve actually spent so much time together… face to face, isn’t it?”

“It is. Kinda surprised how long it took.”

“Then tell me—Do you see anything different about me?”

“What?”

“You probably don’t, huh? You’ve always seen right through me, like I’ve been bare in front of you from the start. You knew things I said out loud, and those I never even voiced. But these past few days, for the first time, I’ve started to see you. You talk about communication being the foundation of a organization all the time, but through all of that, I never really got to know you, Hanaw Kihei. And yet I—”

Hanawa didn’t let him finish.

“You’re saying it’s unfair?”

“…”

“But wasn’t that the deal from the beginning? This whole thing between us—it’s built on hierarchy. You and I, we’ve always had roles to play. Besides, before today, you never made an effort to ask, did you?”

Kiryu laughed under his breath, bitter and soundless. He had no rebuttal. None that would stick. It was too well said, too infuriatingly true.

“…Sometimes I wonder if you don’t see it at all, or if you just see too much, Hanawa.”

“Well,” Hanawa said, “if you’ve figured that out, then I guess you know me better than you think.

Good night, Kiryu-san.”

***

“I’m leaving tomorrow, Kiryu-san.”

It wasn’t sudden. The silence had been leading to this.

After a sleepless night, they had spent about a week in the same space, moving around each other like ghosts. One lost in his files and reports, the other watching shadows stretch across the windowpane, trying to will the hours into passing.

Hanawa still did everything right—took care of him, kept the room spotless, the rhythm precise—but aside from the necessary exchanges, he barely spoke at all. Sometimes his phone would ring. He’d step out the door with a quiet “excuse me,” and stay gone long enough for the air in the room to turn cold.

“…I see.”

“I spoke to the doctor. Your condition’s stable enough—you can manage on your own now.”

Kiryu’s body had always been ultra-resilient. For someone like him, minor skin wounds barely required time to heal. He knew, truthfully, Hanawa could’ve left the moment his stitches came out. This week of service—hovering, wordless, withdrawn—had nothing to do with duty. But it was just because his sense of duty always outmatched his own will. Or at least, Kiryu hoped so. He needed to believe it wasn’t about something else.

He never thought their first honest confrontation would end like this.

He couldn’t read Hanawa’s face, couldn’t sense even the smallest flicker of uncertainty. It was maddening.

Had he ever met anyone so dogmatic, so stubborn, so thoroughly crafty?

That’s why Hanawa had carved out a place for himself in Daidoji. That’s why he was trusted with handling someone like Kiryu Kazuma. That’s why things had unfolded exactly the way they did—disappointingly, inevitably.

Maybe they were destined to be two ends of a line drawn by the organization: one the weapon, one the leash. Always locked in orbit, never allowed to meet halfway.

Unless they left.

Unless he said it—“Let’s run away.”

But how could he?

People fall for with freedom and love for the stupidest reasons—an impulse, a moment of weakness, a glance. It’s childish. Hanawa would probably say as much. To be in the second half of your life, carrying this many scars, and still yearning for something dangerous and beautiful?

To still be foolish enough to think about love?

Now that—

That was the most foolish thing of all.

Kiryu didn’t say anything more. He swung his legs off the bed and reached for the crutch leaning against the wall.

“Where are you going?” Hanawa asked, voice neutral.

“Does it matter?” Kiryu muttered.

“Don’t be petty, Kiryu-san.”

He clicked his tongue, annoyed with both of them. “Just getting some air. I’m not going to vanish.”

His steps echoed down the corridor, uneven and dull. The private floor Daidoji had reserved for him was quiet—too quiet. Every tap of the crutch bounced off the floor like a metronome.

It’d been seven years since that talk on the hospital rooftop with Daigo. The hospital had been different, the injuries different, but the limp had been the same. Back then, he was marching straight into prison. And yet he’d felt no bitterness. Because he knew—he had people waiting for him. People he’d fought for, bled for. People who made the whole damn thing worth it.

Now, he had no such illusions.

What was supposed to be a temporary exile from Morning Glory had, without warning, become a final farewell.

-

"Kiryu-san," Hanawa said with his usual calm, "we’ve transferred the funds to Morning Glory today. From this month forward, the same amount will continue to go through. You don’t have to worry about their finances anymore."

Kiryu turned to look at him, his voice laced with something between irony and resignation. "Should I be thanking you, then, Hanawa-san?"

"In theory, yes. But let’s not force ourselves into anything disingenuous." He adjusted his glasses, gaze steady. "One more thing."

"A job?"

"Quite the opposite. Before your new role begins… would you like to visit Okinawa?"

"Okinawa? You’re telling me I can go back to Okinawa?"Kiryu’s head snapped up, his tone was halfway between disbelief and mockery. "You’re really letting me do that?"

Hanawa didn’t flinch. He looked as serious as ever, like this was just another point in his itinerary.

Kiryu gave a dry laugh. “Aren’t you afraid that—”

"If you still want to stay alive," Hanawa replied evenly, "I’d advise against making trouble. And besides—" his eyes narrowed behind the lenses, "I personally believe that mutual understanding is the foundation of any functioning organization. I’ll be going with you. Hopefully this trip helps us understand each other better. We’ll be working together for the foreseeable future, after all."

How noble, Kiryu thought. They both knew the truth—it was surveillance, dressed up in polite phrasing.

Still, at the very least, If it meant seeing them again, just once more…

"You could probably dig up everything about me without even getting off your chair. Daidoji has ways."

"There are things I prefer to see with my own eyes," Hanawa replied. "And I trust my judgment. You should get used to my methods too. You wouldn’t believe me otherwise, would you?"

Kiryu smirked. "Well then. I guess I have no choice but to oblige you, Hanawa-san."

-

Back at the car parked at a distance, Hanawa glanced sideways as Kiryu got in.

"Feeling a bit better, Kiryu-san?"

"Not in the slightest."

“Fair enough. Have to admit watching toddler hobble around has its own charm. But for what it’s worth… this may truly be your last time seeing them.”

"So you’ve been keeping tabs on Morning Glory all this time too, haven’t you?"

"Hope you understand—it wasn’t personal. I’d call it unfortunate necessity."

"Spare me the apologies. So tell me—was this your idea, or Daidoji’s? Doesn’t really matter, though. If this is your way of trying to get me to play nice, I wouldn’t get my hopes up."

Hanawa started the engine. "A bit of both. I was the one who suggested it. They didn’t object. Unfinished wordly ties, after all. Looks like you’ve still got some spiritual training left, Kiryu-san."

"So this is your idea of enlightenment? Dragging me around to tie up loose ends?"

"It’s a form of training, Kiryu-san."

“Hm,” Kiryu chuckled. "You’re not as easy to handle as you look, Hanawa-san."

"I’ll take that as a compliment."

-

Fate had a twisted sense of humor. It had stripped everything away from him—then handed him Hanawa, like a full moon rising in the darkest night. But now, even the memories he once cherished of Daidoji were beginning to sting. Starting tomorrow, he would be alone again. And there was no undoing any of it.

It was pathetic, really. Why did it always end like this—driving things into a corner where no path remained?

When he returned to the room, Hanawa was already packing.

Kiryu could only stand there, powerless, as the traces of Hanawa—the man himself, his presence—were slowly erased from the space around him, inch by inch, as each object disappeared into a suitcase.

Sleep evaded him. He lay in bed with eyes shut tight, desperate, as birdsong trickled in through the window. He tried to block it out, but then, just when he thought it couldn’t get worse, he heard it—the soft, deliberate sounds of movement.

The rustle of blankets, the clink of glass, the muted click of a light switch. Hanawa’s quiet routine unfolded like clockwork: folding the bedding, brushing his teeth, sipping water, changing clothes, slipping on his shoes.

And then, silence.

A pause, half a minute, maybe more. Then careful footsteps approached his bedside.

Kiryu held his breath, trying to make his pretend sleep look convincing.

Something cold and solid slipped under the blanket, nudged against his side. He didn’t need to look to know what it was.

He thought that would be it. That Hanawa would leave.

But the next moment, a warm hand gently cupped his cheek.

If Hanawa moved his hand just slightly downward, he’d feel Kiryu’s crazy pulse, then he can see through his pretense. But he didn’t.

“You idiot... are you really gonna be okay on your own?”

“Don’t nap during the day. Lock the damn door at night.”

“And if things get ugly—call me before you have to kill someone, all right?”

Actually, he didn’t need to, either.

He knew everything already.

By the time Kiryu opened his eyes again, the sun had already climbed high into the sky. He must’ve blacked out before Hanawa even left. For a moment, he wondered if he’d dreamed it all.

But then he felt it—something firm, metallic, and still faintly warm, pressing against his side beneath the blankets.

He stretched, lazily pulling the object free from where it had been tucked against his side.

A semiautomatic handgun, fitted with a silencer.

How the hell did he even sneak this into a hospital?

***

Staying alert was getting harder.  Alone, with no conversation and nothing but silence pressing in, Kiryu dragged his heavy eyelids to stay open and pushed through another day. His fingers reached beneath the pillow, brushing against cold steel.

Hanawa had left him this gift for a reason. It was a warning—someone out there was already circling. Whenever sleep crept in, he thought of that hand for farewell. Had there been other moments, unnoticed ones, where Hanawa had touched him just like that?

It worked disturbingly well.

Heat flushed across his face, creeping up his ears, embarrassment chasing away the drowsiness like a slap to the cheek.

He stopped wandering the halls altogether. In his current state, the open spaces of the hospital posed more danger than safety.

Sure, he could manage a few steps on his own thanks to rehab, but if a guest were to arrive uninvited, he wouldn’t exactly be in the shape to welcome them properly.

The gun was parting gift—and Hanawa’s departure, perhaps, was meant to draw out whatever threat was lying in wait.

So that was the real reason… for his leaving?

The guest didn't keep him waiting long.

Lately, every knock on the door had him reaching for the weapon automatically reached for the gun. If he’d been ten years younger, he would never have done that.

This time, he responded aloud.

A hospital orderly pushed the door open.

The disguise was sloppy enough to almost be funny—but Kiryu’s hand was already curled around the grip of the pistol beneath his blanket.

“I’m fine today,” he said calmly. “No trash, no sheets change. You can go.”

The man hesitated, visibly thrown off, but didn’t retreat.

“At least let me tidy up a bit,” he said, edging into the room.

Kiryu gave a small nod.The man moved through the room with deliberate casualness—dusting surfaces, adjusting small things here and there—but Kiryu could feel his eyes watching him constantly from the edges of his vision.

He was built too, stockier than most. If he knew about Kiryu’s injured leg, the odds were shifting fast.

The man continued inching toward the bed.

————

"I’d suggest you not underestimate a field agent. I didn’t survive this long by being sloppy."

The man—broad-shouldered and twitching like a live wire—wasn’t shaking from fear, Kiryu suspected. It was something closer to adrenaline-laced excitement. Like he couldn’t believe he’d drawn the assignment to kill him.

Their eyes locked—one with a gun, the other with nothing to lose. Kiryu calmly reached out, lowered the man’s shaking gun barrel, and disarmed him with almost insulting ease. He tossed the pistol into the corner like trash.

"You weren’t going to land a hit even without this," he said. "But since someone went to the trouble of arming me, I figured I’d make use of it. Turn around."

The man didn’t move. Instead, he dipped his head—and in the next second lunged. A flash of steel from his waist. A last-ditch strike.

Kiryu met it mid-motion, twisting his wrist sharply. The man let out a strangled cry; the blade slipped from his fingers and hit the carpet with a dull thud.

Kiryu slipped off the bed, pinned the attacker’s arms behind his back, and yanked a towel from the rack to tie his wrists. He picked up the second gun from the ground and tucked it into the waistband of his pants behind him. Backing up to the door, he flipped the lock while keeping the barrel pointed at the intruder’s head.

The man, perhaps drained from the shock of failure or the thrill of being in Kiryu’s presence, slumped with exhaustion.

Kiryu finally reached for the phone and dialed.

“Hook’s set. Got a bite.”

He almost called out his name—almost, but glanced at the man slumped beside him and decided against it.

"...It really happened? Are you alright?!"

“Do I sound dead?”

“Right, right—Sorry, I just... damn it, I’m calling the guards—wait, no—I’m coming there myself.”

Kiryu chuckled. “What’s gotten into you? Miss me that much?”

Hanawa didn’t take the bait. He could hear the crisp edge of commands in the background, telling Yoshimura to move, to bring backup.

“Don’t hang up,” Hanawa added after a pause—then the roar of his car engine filtered through the line.

There was a knock.

Five minutes had passed. The door began to rattle. A steady knock, again and again. But no one announced themselves.

“Someone’s here,” Kiryu muttered into the phone.

“Don’t open it. Not ours.”

“How can you tell?”

“They got the guards first. Seems their op was tighter than we thought. You’ve got ten minutes, hold on ‘til we’re there.”

“You’re ruthless, you know that?”

The reinforced door held firm. Whoever was outside must’ve brought a battering ram, but it wasn’t enough.

Then came the gunfire—first muffled through the door, then mirrored through the phone.

Then, silence.

“You can open up now,” Hanawa’s voice came again.

“Pretty violent approach.”

“No fatalities. Relax. Given we didn’t know what they were packing, this was the cleanest option.”

“And now that you're back, how do you feel about seeing me again?”

“Don’t forget,” Hanawa’s voice flattened, “you’ve still got one inside with you. And thanks to you, my paperwork just quadrupled. Like I said—your talent for creating messes is second to none.”

Kiryu gave a low laugh and ended the call.

He grabbed the would-be assassin by the collar, dragged him to the door, and undid the lock.

Hanawa stood on the other side, arms crossed, wearing a smile Kiryu hadn’t seen in a long while.

Kiryu handed the handgun. “Yours.”

Hanawa raised a brow, then pulled another from behind Kiryu’s back.

“You forgot one. It’s safer not to leave things lying around,” he said simply.

“You—how did you—”

But Hanawa just smiled and walked off.

That bastard...

Too perfect. Too competent. Too  good at his job. Disgustingly good, actually.

The first chill of early autumn soaked into his skin with every gust of wind that slid across the empty paths. Even the softest breeze could draw a shiver. Kiryu leaned on his cane, making his way to the park—once filled with the hum of cicadas, now overtaken by the restless chorus of crickets.

As he retraced the familiar trail, his thoughts drifted back to that twilight hour. That conversation.

Back then, he’d wanted clarity—no more evasions, no more shadows. But he could never match Hanawa in restraint. That man measured his words like a tactician. Did Hanawa secretly look down on his superficiality?

It shouldn’t matter. He’d never cared what others thought—not for the past fifty years, at least. And yet, even now—even if he believed himself the one protecting Hanawa, the truth was, he’d never once held the upper hand.

Hanawa understood people too well. Taming a  man like Kiryu was probably the easiest puzzle he’d ever solved. A little frustrating, maybe. But ultimately... none of that weighed against what Hanawa had given him.

Still, even if the feelings were mutual—what then? Where would they go from here?

“You know, just because you dealt with one assassin doesn’t mean you’re in the clear,” came a voice from behind. “Is it really smart to be wandering around this late, Kiryu-san?”

Kiryu flinched and turned sharply. Hanawa stepped out from the darkness like a ghost, as if he’d always been there.

“You didn’t notice me at all,” he teased, falling into step beside him. “Hospital life must’ve dulled your instincts.”

Kiryu’s gaze shifted sideways. “Still got enough left to handle a couple street thugs. Or did all those games of hide-and-seek back at the temple serve another purpose?”

“Maybe,” Hanawa said with a tone with smile. “But if that’s what you think, I’m glad.”

He began walking ahead at an easy pace. Kiryu, of course, followed.

“So,” Kiryu asked, voice low, “when did you notice?”

“By chance,” Hanawa replied. “Seventh day of your stay. I saw someone... less than respectable hanging around outside your room. I have to admit, their intel’s sharper than even Daidoji anticipated.”

“So they knew you were staying… and when you’d left the building.”

“Exactly. But if I’d stayed put, he wouldn’t have made a move. It was a stand-off—we were both waiting for the other to blink. So I thought, let’s see what they do without me around. But only after you’d recovered enough to defend yourself.”

“Using a half-healed man as bait doesn’t sound like a particularly noble plan.” Kiryu scoffed. He tried to keep it light, like their usual banter, but something heavy crept into his tone. “You had a rough time those days, though… Because of me.”

Hanawa stopped.

They stood beneath the moonlight, the shadows casting soft edges over his face—making it unreadable. Kiryu suspected that was deliberate.

“I wouldn’t say I suffered,” Hanawa said after a beat. “If anything, I was relieved. Someone like me... it’s not my place to say these things first. We could’ve just stayed in that silence forever. But deep down... part of me still wanted to hear it.”

He gave a low, amused hum. “And I learned something useful—turns out, you’re really terrible at hiding how you feel.”

Kiryu’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Then why… why didn’t you say anything? For days.”

“You’ve taken care of children, haven’t you? Then you should know—being upset, being hurt, throwing a tantrum... none of that means you get everything you want. That’s life.”

“You’re calling me a child now?” Kiryu muttered, and slowly leaned his forehead into the curve of Hanawa’s shoulder.

He didn’t pull away.

“I don’t even know how old you are.”

Hanawa exhaled, his shoulder rising and sinking slightly under Kiryu’s brow.

“That’s not the point. I just needed time to think too, alright? It’s not like you’re the only one struggling. And, honestly—right now? You’re acting like a kid.”

Kiryu gave a humorless chuckle. “I wish you were just pretending to be the mature one.”

A beat of silence.

“So, what are we supposed to do, then?” he asked.

“Now that,” Hanawa said, “is finally a proper question. So—what do you want to do?”

Kiryu lifted his head and leaned forward, just enough for the silver light in Hanawa’s eyes.

“I want to kiss you,” he said.

Hanawa adjusted his glasses, gaze drifting somewhere into the night.

“It’s getting late,” he said. “Let’s head back.”

Kiryu lay half-reclined on the bed, locked in a delicate standoff with Hanawa, who looked every bit the picture of discomfort. Just days ago, the same man had lounged in that chair with his legs elegantly crossed, blowing gently at the steam rising from his coffee like a self-contained cat. Now, those same hands were clenched white-knuckled on his knees, and his lips pressed so tightly together it was a wonder they didn’t bleed.

Kiryu knew how unreasonable his request had been. If they crossed that line tonight, all the tentative ambiguity between them would collapse into certainty. He could take that kind of fallout—he always had—but Hanawa… for him, it meant stepping over a ledge with no way back. Kiryu also realized how selfish his urgency had been. Every response from Hanawa had been like a tiptoe step on a ledge, and here he was, pressing forward.

But he believed—no, he knew—that under that moonlit confession, they’d both already decided to leap.

He turned off the ceiling light, leaving only the bedside lamp to cast its soft amber glow. There was no need for candles or sweet words—he only wanted a moment too real for thought, too heavy for second-guessing.

Startled by the dimming light, Hanawa moved as if saved by a bell. “If you’re going to sleep, I should take my leave—”

Kiryu didn’t let him finish. Before Hanawa could slip away, Kiryu cut off his retreat, one arm at his waist, the other behind his knees—effortlessly sweeping the wiry agent on his shoulder. The man barely had time to gasp before he landed on the bed with a soft thud and a startled breath.

 “What are you—”

 His attempt to prop himself up was quickly subdued—both wrists pinned above his head by hands solid and unrelenting. Kiryu realized then just how slender his wrists were, how easily they fit into his palms. Hair tousled, shirt slightly askew, glasses askance—his normally composed superior lay breathless beneath him. What a view.

With his knee pressing lightly between Hanawa’s thighs, resistance was rendered moot.

“Let go of me—!”

“It’s just a kiss. I’m not going to devour you.”

Hanawa’s defiance faltered under the heat of that gaze. His narrowed eyes tried their best to shoot daggers, but the flush crawling up his cheeks betrayed him. The peach color bled across his slightly damp skin like ink into canvas, soft as petals blooming under feverish skin.

He turned his face away at last, unable to withstand the weight of being seen so entirely.

Kiryu could wait. He always had patience for this man. He then leaned in, burying his face in the curve of Hanawa’s neck. The heat radiating off him surprised him. Hanawa flinched and turned his head back instinctively, only to find himself nose to nose with Kiryu again. The faint, teasing breath on his skin made him shiver harder.

Kiryu chuckled quietly, lips brushing just shy of skin. Right there—where the heartbeat raced beneath the surface.

A quiet, desperate murmur.

“Y-you said just a kiss...”

“And this isn’t? Or unless you want—”

“Stop teasing me...”

He pushed up on one arm but didn’t release his grip. Watching Hanawa like this—rattled, undone—was a rare and treasured sight. In this moment, all of him was Kiryu’s to hold. The calm and control that usually cloaked him had been stripped away.

He enjoyed the taste of the bubble he never thought he could catch, and the feelings of possession.

“Then let’s begin,” he said softly. “If you’re too shy, just close your eyes.”

Hanawa obeyed. His lashes quivered against flushed skin as he screwed them shut.

Kiryu leaned down.

Even in his dreams, he had never kissed Hanawa. As the distance between them dissolved, sight gave way to sensation. Eyes closed, he surrendered everything to the moment.

And then it happened—a kiss, light and sure, enough to burn every soul that had ever loved deeply.

Not hungry. Not frantic. Just a reverent vow made flesh.

He let go of Hanawa’s wrists. Neither of them moved to end it. Arms circled behind his neck instead, and Kiryu’s hands slipped around his waist in response, a slow, possessive embrace.

No one’s running tonight.

“Stay,” he murmured against Hanawa’s lips, dragging the words out slow and low, like a secret only they were meant to hear. The kiss deepened, layered now with the wet glide of tongues and the soft pull of breath.

“I’ll come back the day you’re discharged, no need to rush things.”  Hanawa’s mouth moved with his, words barely breathed, lips tracing shape and sound. He sounded dazed, as if he had already climaxed once, drunk on the heat between them but beginning to reclaim his calm. And still, he was kissing—each breath laced with the misty and moist softness.

Kiryu nipped at the corner of his mouth. He didn’t need to say anything more.

He woke from a night without dreams.

Morning hadn’t fully arrived yet—he could tell by the softness of the light, but his body stirred first, eager to stretch. Everything felt lighter now, smoother; the stiffness that once chained him down had mostly loosened. Just like in his thirties, he could stretch without fear or pain, muscles rolling open like new paper. Halfway through a satisfied arch, the back of his hand brushed against something warm. He cracked one eye open.

There, seated on the edge of the bed, was a man in a pale blue shirt, bathed in a hazy gold from the curtains. One leg crossed over the other, spine elegantly straight, eyes fixed calmly ahead. He knew Kiryu was awake. But he made no move—just waited, like a quietly wrapped gift, daring Kiryu to untie the ribbon.

Kiryu’s hand, still resting at his side, slid instinctively to his waist and pulled. The man didn’t resist. He leaned with him, allowed himself to be drawn down until they were lying together, molded into the same soft curve of the bed. Kiryu nestled into the crook of his neck and caught the faint scent of aftershave.

“No good morning? That’s cold of you.”

His lips grazed the shell of Hanawa’s ear, each word wrapped in the roughened grain of sleep, exhaled straight into his skin. Hanawa’s ear flushed instantly, turning pink and hot—so thin and translucent Kiryu could nearly see the pulse racing underneath.

It was the day he would leave the hospital.

They stayed like that a while, lazily tangled. Kiryu’s mind caught up slowly, his arms tightening to draw Hanawa even closer, until the man gave a muffled grunt—more breath than protest.

“Hanawa… do me a favor?”

“Already starting with demands? It’s barely morning.”

“Please…”

He resorted to the trick that never failed, rubbing his stubbled chin against the sensitive skin of Hanawa’s neck. As expected, the man flinched with a ticklish grunt and burrowed even deeper against his chest.

“Bribery through affection won't always work,” Hanawa sighed. “Let me guess. You want me to dig something up?

“Am I just that obvious, or are you just that smart?”

Hanawa, as always, took the flattery like a cat curling into sunlight. He shifted and tucked himself more comfortably into Kiryu’s embrace. Over time, Kiryu realized, Hanawa really did behave like a cat—aloof, graceful, but quick to melt when held right.

“You’re thinking about Aoki Ryo.”

“Yeah. And… I want to see Kasuga and the others too. Just once.”

“Actively getting involved? That’s rare.”

“He’s a good young man. Worth it. Do you mind?”

“You’re going to fight him, aren’t you?”

Hanawa tilted his head up, and Kiryu put his chin down just in time for their eyes to meet—bright, clear, and slightly scolding through the narrow rim of glasses. Kiryu couldn’t help it—he pressed a kiss to his forehead, then tucked himself into his hair, letting one hand trace up and down the length of his spine.

Holding him like this—like a warm-blooded, purring cat—he wondered how he ever went without it.

“I won’t get hurt.”

“You already did.” Hanawa sighed just under his breath. “I won’t stop you. When I’m ready, I’ll come find you at the temple.”

***

Autumn rain fell in a slow, silken sweep, washing away the piles of dead leaves that had gathered in quiet corners of the courtyard. The wind that wove its way between raindrops carried a chill sharp enough to pierce bone. With one downpour, the full weight of the season had arrived—seeping into Kiryu’s still-mending joints, needling him with a dull ache beneath the surface. He frowned slightly, propped himself up with effort, and begrudgingly ended his usual meditation on the veranda, preparing to retreat indoors.

The rain pounded down in torrents, drowning out nearly all sound. But then, a sudden tremor beneath his feet—light, rapid—cut through the curtain of noise. He turned toward the corridor’s far end. The light had long since been snuffed out by the autumn wind, but he already knew, with near certainty, who was approaching.

Sure enough, the figure he had in mind appeared in the distant shadows. Sopping wet, clutching a briefcase tightly to his chest, Hanawa hurried toward him in small, shivering steps. The rain must’ve come too fast even for someone like him to prepare. For Hanawa to forget an umbrella—that was rare.

“Apologies… I must look ridiculous.”

Kiryu said nothing. He simply slipped an arm behind Hanawa’s shoulders and guided him quietly into the room.

Inside, the warmth remained. The heater’s breath fogged up Hanawa’s glasses as soon as he stepped past the door. He sighed and took them off, peering through the fog and blur at the familiar emptiness of the washitsu. He remembered the day Kiryu first arrived here, with nothing but a single suitcase in hand. Hanawa had offered to pick up anything he needed. Kiryu had only turned away and muttered, “I don’t need anything.”

He couldn’t quite recall what his own reply had been—something like, “There’s still a long road ahead.” But for Kiryu back then, the road was far too long.

He had been like a stone caught in a rapid current—battered, aimless, refusing to be bought, yet denied even the release of death. The cruelest part was that his will had not broken. Entering Daidoji was not surrender, but the last concession of a man who still cared enough to compromise.

Hanawa had seen many men on the verge of giving up. His words and methods had become almost formulaic, using rules and structure to anchor those who had been discarded by society, guiding them to carve out a place for themselves in this new world, just as he had done once.

But Kiryu wasn’t like the rest. He wasn’t the type to crumble under a few misfortunes and question the meaning of life. On the contrary—it was because he clung so fiercely to his ideals that he had ended up in such a desolate place. His emptiness, his self-destruction—these weren’t symptoms of weakness, but of a man drowning in his own moral code.

Hanawa had drawn up countless strategies for him, laid out meticulous paths and options. But it was only after seeing Kiryu in person that he realized—none of them would work. Here stood a man immune to plans and protocols. A rare anomaly in Hanawa’s otherwise orderly world.

And yet, oddly enough, Kiryu was also easy to read. He was clever, yes—but transparent. He didn’t play games. For all its peace, Daidoji was still a society, and perhaps its quiet, controlled order could be even more suffocating than the lawless chaos of the world Kiryu once knew. In the past, he could charge through his enemies. But here, such force would only get him caged.

So Hanawa made a bold choice: he isolated him.

It had taken courage. Locking an unconquerable beast in a narrow cage, even one of your own making, is always a gamble—especially when that beast might one day explode. He gave Kiryu a garden, one that was almost entirely his own. He had turned to the head priest—someone Hanawa trusted above nearly all others—to serve as a final safeguard.

The priest, rubbing prayer beads between his fingers, had offered a small smile.

“Hanawa-kun, perhaps it’s not as complicated as you think.”

“This is the first time I’ve ever had to deal with someone like him. You used to remind me again and again to be cautious and think through…”

“And you’ve learned that lesson well, Hanawa-kun.”

“Compared to you, I still have far to go.”

The priest gave a soft chuckle. “Then tell me—why do you think Kiryu-san suffers?”

“He’s alive, but can’t see the people he cares about. Can’t be part of their lives. He’s facing the rest of his years alone, and he knows it. That’s what pains him.”

“And yet, wasn’t it you who chose to place him in that lonely corner of the temple?”

“I… I lacked the wisdom to do better. Please, I’d welcome your guidance…”

“He’s a strong man,” the priest said. “So strong, in fact, that he believes he must carry everything alone. That’s where his pride lies. And as you can see, he has no desire for status or riches. All he truly wants is for the people around him to be happy.”

“And that,” Hanawa murmured, “is exactly why I can’t seem to handle him.”

“Kiryu-san’s sorrow stems from no longer being needed, Hanawa-kun. Especially by those he treasures most.”

“But I’ve arranged work for him. There are things he can still do—”

“That’s not enough, Hanawa-kun. With Kiryu-san, you’ll have to give more of yourself than with anyone else. And the trust you show him must be deeper than mere obligation. More than being ‘needed by Daidoji’... maybe what he truly needs is to feel needed by you.”

“But if we blur the line between personal emotion and duty… wouldn’t that create even greater risks?”

“That,” the priest said calmly, “depends on how well you’ve trained your heart, Hanawa-kun.”

In the end, Hanawa could only admit—his so-called discipline left much to be desired.

He had poured everything he had into this—carefully, deliberately crafting a working relationship unlike anything he'd ever allowed himself before. It was blurred far beyond professionalism, stitched through too much personal feeling, too much risk. He had wagered not only his position within Daidoji, but perhaps the entire course of his life, just for a chance to tame a man who refused to be led. And by the time he realized how often his heart acted beyond his own consent, it was far too late. By then, he’d already found himself pinned beneath the weight of the man’s hands, wrists locked, reason stripped bare.

Like tonight. He had come here with his notes in order. The rain was torrential by the time he reached the temple gates. He could’ve turned back. Could’ve waited a single day more, even half a day. It would’ve spared him the risk of illness, or of having laptop soaked through.

But he hadn’t. He had stepped into the rain.

Whatever it was that drove him—that wild, nameless impulse—still frightened him. At times, he wondered if he’d ever be able to look it in the face. That presence. That pull. That thing people dressed in moonlight, pretending it wasn’t desire at all.

That night, the moon had been especially bright. Beneath the trees, he’d spoken the answer to a riddle he hadn’t even wanted to solve. And then Kiryu had kissed him.

The moon, so cold and inanimate, had once again been made to shoulder all the blame for what love, in its urgency, compelled people to do.

And then… silence. Daidoji, ever-omniscient, ever-observing, issued no summons, no reprimand. He stumbled through the temple corridors, drenched and panting, only to run into the head priest—candle in hand, returning to his room. The old man showed no surprise at his unannounced appearance. Hanawa bowed low, unable to bear the weight of the man’s quiet, discerning gaze beneath the arch of silver brows.

“You’ve always been capable, Hanawa-kun,” the priest said, voice as mild as ever, unreadable as the rain, “but even if this matter feels urgent, perhaps tonight isn’t the night to stay.”

Then, without another word, he turned and walked away.

The heat blooming in Hanawa’s cheeks felt like a punishment in itself—a mocking flush, reminding him just how thin the line was between propriety and pretension. And yet, what disoriented him even more was not the embarrassment, but Daidoji’s seeming indifference. Their quiet approval. Their permission. It felt as though everything was already within their grasp.

He knelt down beside the low table, carefully folding his legs beneath him in a way that wouldn't soak the tatami with much rain. Somewhere behind him, Kiryu slipped out of view. A cabinet creaked open.

Right—the documents. He nearly forgot.

Setting his glasses aside, Hanawa reached into his briefcase and powered up the laptop.

“Kiryu-san, this is—”

A towel dropped over his head.

“No hurry. Dry yourself first,” came the low voice behind it. “I’ll see if I have something you can change into.”

“I’ll be fine. I’ll head back after this, no need to—”

“What?”

Footsteps thudded dully on the soft mat, quick and heavy. The towel obscured his vision, but not enough to miss the heavy silhouette that suddenly filled the space in front of him. Kiryu sank to the floor in front of him like a storm cloud falling from the sky. Hanawa met his gaze and momentarily forgot how to move.

Rough hands ruffled his hair through the towel, too strong, too clumsy—more scrubbing than drying. Kiryu wasn’t made for this kind of care. A few sharp tugs caught at his hair, and Hanawa yelped softly in protest. The movements halted.

But before he could chuckle at the awkward tenderness of it, a second force shoved him forward from behind.He lost his balance. The world tipped—

—and he landed in something cold as rainwater, but far softer.

Lips.

Kiryu was kissing him.

He had pulled the towel down like reins, silencing him, pinning him in place. The towel still draped over his head like a blindfold, as if deliberately narrowing his world to nothing but lips and breath and touch. It was nothing like the first time. The kiss wasn’t tentative—wasn’t even kind. It was messy and wet, driven by the same storm that had brought Hanawa here in the first place. Their mouths clashed hungrily at first, but something gentler bloomed between the pressure: he held his lip bead, the slow curve of tongue seeking more.

Hanawa froze, then burned. Kiryu’s breath was hot against his skin, searing through him like a fever that began at his mouth and raced across his body. His mind screamed retreat, but his senses betrayed him—he was shaking, from heat or from longing, he didn’t know. Kiryu slid his hand from towel and found the back of Hanawa’s neck instead, to nape and pressed him closer. No longer content with surface contact, fingers ghosted down the slope of his back,

pulling softly at the damp fabric of his shirt with thirst. Every subtle brush of his skin sent sparks down to his fingertips. The sensitivity was maddening.

His entire body had become hypersensitive. Even with his eyes shut, he could almost see Kiryu’s hands drawing lines down his spine. His mouth was even worse—velvet-soft tongue sliding past parted lips, bold yet restrained, like he was conquering him one breath at a time. The kiss was him.

Hanawa clung to his shoulders, afraid he'd be swept under completely. The deeper they kissed, the more it fanned through his body like fire licking dry grass—desperate, consuming. Logic faded. Time twisted. They could’ve been kissing for seconds or centuries. The room narrowed to skin and lips and heat and nothing else.

But it wasn’t rushed. Each movement, slow then deep, was a balance of indulgence and discipline. Just like sampling the sweetness of a strawberry tart, then chasing it with bitter coffee. e, indulgent but measured. Like the fading rain outside, no longer hammering the earth, but whispering in silver threads.

Hanawa cracked eyes open a little bit.

So close. Too close. Kiryu’s face was a masterpiece. Lashes long and thick, eyes deep-set, nose cut clean, and faint lines marking a life lived boldly. A man shaped by time and violence, now blushing under the touch of a kiss. A man others revered, admired, desired. And yet, right now, here he was—kissing Hanawa like he meant every second of it.

Hanawa had never believed in fate. But this made him wonder, not for the first time, how he had ended up the one Kiryu reached for. He had no idea if anyone had ever had him before.

Was he allowed to?

He didn’t know how long they’d been entangled. Their shared heat had begun to steam the water from their clothes, and the room felt as breathless as they did. Eventually, his lungs betrayed him. He stirred against Kiryu’s arms, gently pushing, needing air.

Their lips parted—just barely, with a slick, shimmering thread between them, trembling in the space they left behind.

Kiryu rested his hand gently at the nape of Hanawa’s neck, their foreheads touching, breath still tangled in the warmth left behind by that kiss.

“You’ve been smoking.”

“Just one...”

“And you planning to make it a whole pack?”

“Getting preachy again, Hanawa-san?”

“I could lecture you all day and it still wouldn’t change a thing.” Hanawa straightened up, Kiryu’s hand falling away with him. “So—shall we get back to what we were supposed to be doing?”

Kiryu’s lips curved into a slow, glinting smile. “What were we supposed to be doing then?”

“Don’t start.” Hanawa gave his shoulder a light, practiced punch. “Let me change, then I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”

—

“…So, that’s where things currently stand. The question is—when do you plan to head out?”

“Whenever you give the word.”

“Alright. Just let me know when you’re set.”

Kiryu turned toward the closet and began rummaging through it, finally dragging out a bundle of clothes from the far corner with some effort.

“What’s that?”

“My old suit. I want to wear this one.”

Hanawa walked over, frowning as he eyed the tired-looking fabric crumpled in Kiryu’s arms.

“…And here I thought you were the type to take care of your things.”

“Hey—it’s just been sitting there too long, that’s all.”

“Sure, sure.” Hanawa crouched down, picked up the wrinkled grey suit. “At least let me press it for you before you go.”

And there it was again—that look on Kiryu’s face. The one he wore the very first time he opened his eyes on the hospital bed. A mixture of disbelief, gentleness, and something unspoken curling beneath it all.

“…This isn’t a dream, is it?”

“What dream?”

The question pulled him back. Kiryu cleared his throat awkwardly, caught in the act of drifting into one of his rare moments of vulnerability. Hanawa had long accepted that for all his careful reading of the man, sometimes he still had to settle for approximation—especially now, when he could sense something was being quietly hidden, but couldn’t find a way to pry it loose.

“If there’s nothing else, I’ll get going. I’ll return your clothes next time—”

“—Hanawa!”

He had barely turned before the name stopped him. A pause followed, long enough to make Hanawa turn back. There was a hesitation in his eyes, then something firm. And then Kiryu closed the distance between them in two strides, pulling him into a firm embrace.

Hanawa’s height fit perfectly against him. He could hear the pounding heartbeat, steady and raw.

“Hanawa…”

“I’m here.”

“…Thank you. I— I didn’t know when to say it—”

“You can say it anytime.”

“You want too much,” Kiryu murmured, voice so quiet it barely touched the air.

“But you deserve it.”