#holicfic

Mokona, Maru and Moro are… somewhere around the shop, making themselves scarce, though Watanuki doesn't get why. It's not like he's upset. He has no reason to be. 

Sure, he pities poor Kohane-chan for getting saddled with an oaf for a husband, and sure, he's maybe a touch bit sad that, despite that, he can't see what a beautiful bride she'll make. 

But other than that, Watanuki is fine.

(The bottle's empty in half an hour. The second one is already a third empty by the time eight a.m. rolls around.)

He's just about ready to sink into sleep, perhaps take a stroll through some dream if he can manage it, when the front doors open and his name's being called.

…That can't be right, he thinks, blinking against the languid haze he's been enjoying. He shouldn't be here. 

"Watanuki?" comes the second call, and yes, alright, he's getting up because apparently it's not really a hallucination. 

He goes into the shop's genkan, and stops in the doorway.

"Oh," slips out between numb lips.

Doumeki and Kohane stand just inside the doors, both dressed impeccably in traditional wedding attire, both looking at Watanuki with clear determination in their eyes. 

(And oh, how Watanuki loves them.)

"What are you doing here?" he asks when he feels like he can breathe again. "You should be getting married right about now. Or did I remember the time wrong?" He didn't. He knows he didn't. So why-

Doumeki snorts (and Watanuki wants to bristle at the exasperation in the noise), but it's Kohane who speaks, voice soft. "You can't come to the wedding. So we decided to come and see you."

"Kohane-chan… You shouldn't have…" 

"You're an idiot," Doumeki says, letting go of Kohane's hand and walking up to Watanuki. He pokes him between the eyebrows (because even on his damn wedding day Doumeki makes it a point of being a pain in Watanuki's ass), and then again for good measure. "As if we wouldn't. You'd cry."

Watanuki does bristle then, because he absolutely would not. 

He huffs, pushing Doumeki's hand away from his face. "Wait here," he tells them before stepping back into his salon and picking up the small lacquered box.

Then he walks back out into the entryway and pushes the gift into Doumeki's chest. "Here. Your wedding gift. Now go get married. I'm sure your families and the other guests are waiting and wondering where you ran off to."

"Watanuki," Doumeki starts, and there's something on his face, something in his voice that has something in Watanuki's chest clenching painfully. No. You can't. You can't. It's already…

Watanuki shakes his head, just a bit, and the faintest smile graces his lips. "Your bride's waiting. Kohane-chan," he turns his attention to the young woman that's finally joined them. He hugs her. "You're beautiful. I'm thankful I got to see you."

Kohane returns the hug, her lower lip trembling ever so slightly. "I wish you could have been there with us."

"I know. But things are the way they're supposed to be."

"I still hate it."

"I know."

"Shizuka-kun does, too."

Doumeki’s still chewing when he turns to Watanuki, tilting his head in confusion. “What do you mean?” There’s a chocolaty crumb on the corner of his mouth, when Watanuki finally looks at him, and it annoys him how much he wants to reach out and brush it away (with his mo- no.)

Watanuki drinks again, looks at the waning moon and wonders if… He shakes his head. Pulls himself back to the porch and Doumeki, and sighs. Snorts. As if. “There’s absolutely no way it’s normal, the way you all look so much alike. It was weird when it was just you resembling your grandfather. But now?” Now there are three near-identical Doumekis in his life, one more irritating than the other (one breaking his heart more than the other), and Watanuki wishes he could make a wish without it coming back to bite him in the ass.

Doumeki nods, probably in understanding (knowing him, he can read every thought in Watanuki’s head at this point, it would surprise no one), and sets the now empty plate down next to him. “I don’t know how far back it goes,” he says, picking up his own cup of tea. “Grandfather might know, but…” There’s a small frown tugging at the lines of his face, like whatever he’s thinking about upsets him. It’s a familiar look. “But if it helps keep you…”

Watanuki laughs, covers one side of his face with his hand. “What, sane? Too late for that, I think.” Sanity has slipped out and ran away with the circus sometime between giving half his vision away and finding out he’s basically someone’s clone. “One day, these dreams will have me surrounded by a couple dozen identical Doumekis, instead of just Haruka-san and you. Oh god, that’s gonna be a nightmare!” He fake shudders.

Doumeki’s frown deepens, his shoulders grow tense, and ah, Watanuki has touched a nerve, bringing up his current longevivity. “Hopefully, it won’t take that long for you to be free of that shop,” he says after a long minute of silence, and his voice, when he does, is cracked and sombre and full of something Watanuki has always refused to look at or name.

It would kill him to name it.

Watanuki looks up at him from the bottle of sake he’s been inspecting when Doumeki came in, eyebrow raised in that way he does nowadays, part sultry, part like he really thinks Doumeki’s an idiot. Doumeki sighs and just stares back at him.

“No,” Watanuki answers after a beat. “Just felt like cooking earlier, and before I knew it I made too much. So. You might as well join me.” He says it like it’s the most tedious thing in the world, but really, Doumeki’s learned to read him and his moods and the things he doesn’t say.

So he snorts, and he sits, and he takes the drink Watanuki offers him before they start eating. (The food is delicious as always, and most of it his favorites, he can’t help noticing. He also can’t help noticing it’s just the two of them this evening.)

“It’s good,” he says, not looking up.

“Of course it is,” Watanuki answers, going for indignant (if only Doumeki couldn’t hear the pleased flush coloring his voice), and missing by a mile. “You should bow down and show how grateful you are.”

Doumeki does look up at that, though only just, enough to see Watanuki though his lashes. He’s lounging, starlit kimono falling off one shoulder (yet again, really now), sake cup against his lips. Doumeki lets a tiny smirk lift one corner of his mouth. “Maybe later,” he says and takes another bite of food.

A soft huff is his only answer.

(He wonders what Watanuki would do if he did bow, or if he were to trace the tip of a finger over that exposed bit of skin at his shoulder.