#kitanishi

“But what is it, sensei?” he asks in the safety of his bedroom, staring down at his own hand.

There’s a knotted string there, but it doesn’t look as pretty as Nishimura’s did. His string is frayed, a little off-color, as though it’s suffered through storms and hard winds.

“It’s rare is what it is,” Nyanko-sensei tells him plainly. “You don’t see ‘em very often, do you?”

“No, not at all. When I was a child I thought it may have been a trick the spirits were playing on me. I tried to get it off.”

Nyanko-sensei chokes on his bread pudding and looks at Natsume sharply, with real, hot anger – or something close to anger – glinting in his dark animal eyes.

“Little fool! You leave it be!”

“No, I know,” Natsume says quickly. “It hurt when I tried to cut it, so I left it alone.”

If anything that only seems to rile his guardian up further – Nyanko-sensei’s fur stands on end as he leaves his pudding cup on the floor and waddles over to claim a seat in Natsume’s lap. He’s bristling as he smacks a paw on Natsume’s wrist.

“The gods put this here for a reason,” he snaps. “It’s meant to lead you to a person you’re destined to meet. And you tried to cut it! Why are humans so intent on self-sabotage?”

The gods and destiny? Tying strings and writing fate for someone like him?

Natsume looks down at the ugly string on his finger with a frown – remembers a night a long time ago when he was very small and afraid to go home, dragging his feet even as twilight fell and the world became cold and dark. The people he was staying with then were loud and mean, and he had looked at the string on his hand and imagined, for the first time, that it might lead him somewhere better.

Somewhere nice and sunny, full of kind people and hands that didn’t hurt when they touched him – and maybe, in that nice, sunny place, there would be someone there for Natsume, too. Someone who smiled when they saw him.

It was just a child’s dream, built to be a comfort on lonely days, to cradle his heart and keep it from breaking – but now Natsume looks at the old, long-familiar string tied to his finger and wonders.

The chuukyuu are in the school yard, performing a dance in Natsume’s honor, and the boy by the window seems to be watching them. The red between them glints, like dust motes blinking in and out of the sun.

Natsume’s heart is in his throat. He holds his hand against his stomach, pressing it there as though afraid that the knot on his finger might come loose if he doesn’t hold it.

He thinks of the easy way Nishimura and Kitamoto belong together and manages to find courage enough to speak. 

“Do you see them?” His voice is hoarse and uncertain. “Those weird guys in the courtyard?”

Tanuma looks surprised, but only for a moment. Then he smiles, and his dark eyes are gentle as they fall away.

“Not really. For a moment I thought I saw a shadow there, though. I see strange things sometimes, and I heard a rumor that you did, too, so I wanted to meet you. But it’s probably just my imagination,” he says.

It’s an out where Natsume has never been given one before, a back door to this conversation that he can slip out and close behind him and never mention again, and all at once, just for that, Tanuma is one of the kindest people Natsume has ever met.

Natsume wants to know him. 

The thread gets shorter and shorter with every step he takes across the hall  until it’s only inches long, hanging unremarkably between his hand and Tanuma’s.

Atsushi stands back with a scowl, watching as Nishimura digs through his bookbag for a notebook. He lays it open on Atsushi’s desk and draws one of those strange seeing circles, as big as will fit on the page, in a few practiced seconds.

“Wait,” Atsushi says, catching on, “you brought a spirit into my house?”

Nishimura nods enthusiastically. “I wanted you to be the first to meet her.”

And then he extends his bad hand over the circle, the one he was cradling close to his center as if in pain, and a bird appears out of thin air. It’s a magpie, perched prim and docile on his wrist like a household pet. The bruises beneath its feet are faint, yellow and soft purple.

Maybe it’s not such a bad day, Atsushi thinks vaguely, not sure what to feel about the yokai bird in his bedroom.

“Isn’t she great?” Nishimura gushes, eyes bright. “Natsume saw her before, when she was just a blob. But a few days ago she woke me up like this, and we’ve been buddies ever since!”

The bird turns its head sideways to look Atsushi up and down. Somehow, after hearing the grumpy old man voice emerge from Natsume’s ugly cat nearly a week ago, he’s almost expecting it when the magpie parts its beak and says, “you are?” but that doesn’t stop him from staring at it dumbly.

“Kitamoto,” he introduces himself by rote.

“acchan!” the bird says in reply, flapping its wings. “my favorite!”

“She mimics a lot,” Nishimura explains, not in the least bit embarrassed. His free hand drifts over to stroke the magpie’s glossy black and white feathers with a gentleness that most wouldn’t associate with rowdy, reckless Nishimura. “So what do you think? Way better than that stupid cat, right?”

Not even knowing he’d meet Natori Shuuichi lit Nishimura up like this. He’s delighted by the little bird. For as long as Atsushi’s known him, Nishimura has wanted a pet. Something to greet him when he got home, that would spend time with him when his brother and his mother couldn’t be bothered. And this is a feathered companion that can talk, that’s intelligent enough to be a conversation partner, that can really keep him company all those hours that find him alone.

Atsushi wrestles with the knee-jerk reaction to be happy with him, and the skeptical voice in the back of his brain that calls him crazy for even thinking about letting another yokai near Nishimura after what the last one did.

“You said Natsume saw her before?” he hazards. “What did he think?”

“He said she’s harmless. Sometimes things stick around after they die,” Nishimura says, every bit as though it’s not remarkable he could know something like that. “She’s just a bird that stuck around, Kitamoto. She won’t hurt anybody. Isn’t that right, Fish?”

She looks up at him and squawks. Nishimura laughs in turn -- something he hasn’t done enough of recently by a lot -- and with that, fondness far outweighs any misgivings Atsushi might still have.

“You dork,” he says, “you named her Fish?”

It’s absolutely the right decision when Nishimura laughs again and knocks their shoulders together. “Shut up! She likes it! And you should see her tear up some leftover mackerel. No one’s ever enjoyed my mom’s cooking before she came along.”

They sit on the edge of Atsushi’s bed, the notebook balanced open on Nishimura’s knees, and talk until evening shadows stretch across his room and his mother calls him out for dinner.

Nishimura transfers Fish to his shoulder, where she vanishes from Atsushi’s eyes. He looks a little out of place now, as though Atsushi’s family is a reminder that he’s taking up room in a home that isn’t his.

“That’s enough weirdness for one day, huh? I guess I should go.”

His brother only makes it into the room for this part, looking between the two of them warily. Something must show on Satoru’s face because Kiyoshi frowns at their mother and says, “What’s going on?” 

Recognizing a golden escape opportunity when he sees one, Satoru heads for the door. Raised voices follow him out into the sharp autumn chill, and he doesn’t dare double back for his jacket.

It’s close to dinner time, dusk creeping across the sky in rich oranges and pinks. Most of his neighbors are inside at this time of night, half the shops closed up and dark. Satoru wanders towards the nearest conbini to make a meal out of chips and a pork bun and whatever else his pocket change is enough to buy.

Trust mom to hit me right where it hurts, he thinks absently. 

They don’t really talk about what’s going to happen after graduation. It puts shadows in Natsume’s eyes when they bring up moving away, and they’ve spent so long trying to get that guy to lighten up and smile that any topic that does the opposite is one they all unanimously avoid. 

But Kitamoto has talked about maybe staying here, working close to home. Satoru knows it’s because of this scary business with his father’s health. Kitamoto carries around so much care for his family that it’s almost ridiculous – except Satoru has met his family, and Satoru loves them, too. 

He doesn’t think Kitamoto’s parents will be disappointed in him either way. 

If Satoru is stuck here, it would be nice to be stuck here with the best person he knows. 

But, as a creeping unhappiness in the back of his mind is quick to remind him, he doesn’t want Kitamoto to be stuck anywhere. Satoru would shove him out the door himself, if he knew Kitamoto was holding himself back for anyone’s sake but his own. 

Satoru stops outside the conbini and lets his head fall against the door with a sharp thud. His stomach is in knots now. So much for snacks. And after he walked all the way here, too.

“Nishimura!” a familiar voice calls, exasperated. Satoru lifts his head, and turns in surprise as Kitamoto jogs the last few feet between them. “Let me guess,” his friend pants, doubling over his knees, “you left your phone at home.”

Satoru pats his pockets. “Oops,” he says, by way of apology. “Hey, I was just thinking about you. You must be psychic. Or maybe I am.”

“Being an idiot isn’t going to get you out of the conversation we’re about to have,” Kitamoto says without missing a beat. Satoru’s shoulders slump. “Your brother called me. Sounds like it was career day at your place again, huh?”

“Nothing I haven’t heard before.” Satoru shrugs. “Fifty percent of the reason I wanna go to university is so she’ll stop talking about it.” 

The other fifty percent is so he’ll live hours away and never have to see her again, but that’s not something he’s going to say out loud, not even to Kitamoto.

From the look he’s giving him, Kitamoto already guessed as much anyway.

“You know she has no idea what she’s talking about, don’t you?” he demands, eyes narrowed. “I don’t care what your stupid scores are in school, you’re one of the smartest people I know.” 

Satoru blinks. “I’m an idiot.” 

“About some things,” Kitamoto says dismissively, “but so am I. So is everyone. You’ve got things you’re smarter at than anybody, but it’s not anything you can test, like math or English, so your mom figures it doesn’t count. It does, though, Satchan.” 

“Kitamoto, I’m not – I don’t need a pep talk,” Satoru interjects, hazarding a grin. “I’m fine.” 

“Sure,” Kitamoto says, too easily. “But I want to hear you say it.” 

He’s got that stubborn face on, the one that rivals even Natsume at his most mulish, and Satoru knows better than to try fighting him on something he’s sunk his teeth into. 

So he rolls his eyes, and doesn’t waste time trying to figure out if his face is warm-embarrassed or warm-pleased because it’s probably a combination of both. “It counts.”

His best friend eyes him a moment longer, and then his expression relents into a smile. “Good. Now come on, mom’s got dinner nearly ready.”

Kitamoto takes his hand to tug him along, and doesn’t let go again once Satoru’s moving. He threads their fingers together and then shoves their joined hands into his jacket pocket, and Satoru is happy with that. He presses a little closer, and he’ll blame it on the cold if anyone asks, but no one probably will.

“You know,” Kitamoto says, without looking back at him, “you don’t have to go to school if you don’t want to.”

“Eh?”

“I mean, if I stayed here to work, you could live with me,” he says. “Maybe my family will move back into our house by then. There would be plenty of room. Or we could get an apartment together.” 

Satoru stares at him, and probably would have kept walking straight into traffic if their hands weren’t attached. Kitamoto glances at him while they wait on the pedestrian crossing light, and whatever he sees on Satoru’s face makes him roll his eyes. 

“I mean, it’s like you think I’m just gonna leave you,” Kitamoto says, as if it’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. “Even if I went away to school, I would take you with me. You could get a job wherever I end up, or go to school there, too, I don’t care. It doesn’t matter what you do, as long as you’re there when I come home.”

The light changes, and Kitamoto leads the way forward again. His stride is sure, and his hand around Satoru’s is steady. He doesn’t know exactly where he’s going, he doesn’t have it all figured out, but Satoru is a fixed variable in those tentative plans. Satoru was never a maybe.

Blinking through tears, Satoru says, “That was really cool, Acchan. Like something out of a shoujo manga. Did you practice that on your way here?”

“Shut up, Nishimura.”

Satoru wears long sleeves most of the time – stolen out of his roommate’s side of the closet, more often than not – and he deflects soulmate and soulmate-related conversation with all the prowess of someone with years of practice.

But he can’t avoid it entirely.

He stops for lunch at a little cafe near his office, and is just in time to watch as a harried businesswoman and the curly-haired cashier lock eyes and meet. The timers on their wrists, exposed where their arms are extended over the counter to exchange payment for the order, drop to zero. 

It’s powerful, and wonderful, the way the first woman melts and the second lights up like a star, and the rest of the restaurant is smiling down at their plates or at their own company, but Satoru’s stomach twists sickly. 

He leaves without ordering, and doesn’t find his appetite again for the rest of the day. He doesn’t say anything when he gets home but Atsushi can tell. Atsushi can always tell. And he frowns deeply, pushing back from his desk and abandoning his work to bully Satoru into a seat at the kitchen table. 

Satoru suffers through a plate of microwaved leftovers, and a lecture about his admittedly shitty eating habits to go with it. 

“You did this all through school,” Atsushi says sternly, “and I hated it then, too. You have to eat, moron. Melon bread and Kit-Kats and whatever else you have stashed in your office doesn’t cut it.”

There’s no easy way to explain why he couldn’t eat – that sometimes the anxiety gets too big, and sits in the pit of his chest like a stone. That sometimes he thinks too much about the zeros on his arm and what they mean, and wants to lock himself in the bedroom and hide from the world he’s afraid he’s all alone in.

So instead he shrugs, and mumbles through a mouthful of lukewarm noodles, "Sometimes I think the only reason we live together is because it’s easier for you to babysit me this way.”

“Someone has to,” Atsushi says without missing a beat, but there’s no heat in his eyes, or in the hand that brushes Satoru’s shoulder as Atsushi passes by on his way back to his office. 

Rapid knocks on the door have Satoru hurrying to open it. Natsume spills inside, looking so visibly distraught that Satoru automatically looks over his shoulder into the hall for some sign of trouble. 

“Natsume, what is it?” Atsushi asks with clear concern, and Natsume thrusts his arm at them by way of answer. 

The numbers on his wrist are moving rapidly, dropping by the second, and Satoru and Atsushi both watch with wide eyes as it keeps going. 

“It hasn’t moved in – in years,” Natsume admits in a soft, thready voice. “When I moved to this city, it actually went up. I never thought – a part of me was always resigned to – but now – “ 

He looks two shades short of terrified. Satoru feels for him, aches for him, and says, “Hey, listen. Whoever it is, they’re lucky as hell. You’re awesome, Natsume, they’re – man, they’re going to love you.”

Natsume looks at him with something open and vulnerable in his face, mouth soft and eyes bright. He’s opened up since coming here, but there’s still something fragile about him – this withdrawn, self-conscious guy without any family and nothing but a fat, grumpy cat for company in his quiet apartment across the hall –

Satoru hopes his other half is someone kind, someone patient. Someone who can fill all those empty spaces in Natsume’s life, in his home, in his heart. 

The timer finally slows on the nineteen hour mark. The minutes slow after that, until only the seconds are left steadily ticking by. Natsume is pale and shaken as he runs a hand through his hair. 

Atsushi says, “Stay for dinner.”

“Thank you,” Natsume whispers. 

The next day, as Satoru and Atsushi are leaving their apartment – bickering amiably about the grocery list and the fastest way to get to the supermarket – they’re greeted by an unfamiliar face. 

He’s tall, with a messy head of dark hair and kind eyes. He stands as though he’s aware of how much space he takes up and wishes it could be less. 

“Hello,” he says, a little too formal, when he notices the two of them noticing him. “Um, we haven’t met. I just moved in – two doors down from you, actually. I’m Tanuma.”

“Nice to meet you,” Atsushi says politely, “I’m Kitamoto and this is Nishimura. Are you new to the city?”

“Yeah, it was – a spur of the moment decision,” Tanuma says. “I’m a, um – photographer,” and Satoru kind of hates the self-conscious way his eyes dip at the admission, as though it’s something he can’t be proud of, “mostly freelance. But the um, the paper here – was hiring. So I applied, and sent in a portfolio, and – here I am.”

He’s awkward, but in an endearing way, like he isn’t used to striking up conversation with strangers but he’s doing his best to make a good impression despite himself. Satoru has known him for all of three minutes and has already decided he’s going to be a great neighbor. 

“Well, we’re happy to have you,” Satoru tells him. “You should come by sometime, show us some of your work!” 

The invitation seems to take him by surprise, but a moment later his face softens with a smile. “Yeah?” 

They make plans to have him over for dinner, and Tanuma looks ten pounds lighter and ten times less anxious than he did when they found him in the first place. 

“You’re too friendly,” Atsushi says dryly, as they wait for the elevator. “One of these days you’re gonna invite a creep right into our house for tea or something, and honestly I won’t even be shocked.”

“Tanuma isn’t a creep!” 

“I didn’t say he was!”

But it’s not really that Satoru is too friendly, or even an especially nice person. It’s just that his wrist is a line of solid zeros, and it’s been that way forever, and he can’t stand how lonely he feels sometimes. 

He doesn’t want anyone else to be lonely, either. 

Tanuma is right on time, down to the minute. And since Satoru is fighting with the temperamental rice cooker while Atsushi is busy at the stove when the polite knocks sound at the front door, he calls, “Natsume, will you get that? It’s that Tanuma guy we invited over.”

Natsume’s face is a sickly white as he climbs gracelessly to his feet. His fat cat is tucked into the crook of his arm, like a security blanket, and Satoru pauses long enough to frown at him, worry after him, because that’s an extreme reaction to just getting the door for someone?

But then he sees the flickering activity on Natsume’s wrist, the rapid shifting of numbers that Satoru is too far away to make out, and he grabs Atsushi by the strings of his apron and yanks.

“Holy shit, Satoru, this is hot oil – “

He cuts himself off when he realizes what’s happening.

Natsume stands back to let Tanuma step inside, and Satoru can’t see his face – but the hand he lifts towards Tanuma is trembling, and Tanuma’s expression is dazed and wondering and painful to look at – 

Natsume says “It’s you,” in a small voice, and Tanuma replies, “I’ve waited to meet you for so long,” and Satoru turns away to give them some privacy, busying himself with the rice again. 

His eyes are burning, but he can blame that on the smoke. 

Atsushi has worn a thick leather bracelet over his timer for as long as Satoru has known him. It’s not weird – some people are secretive about it, or painfully shy. Satoru has even heard of some people going so far as to tattoo over the timer – it fades, once a person accepts their other half, but there’s a growing community of people who reject the soulmate concept entirely, and ignore the numbers in favor of falling in love freely. 

He thinks that’s admirable and a little bit terrifying in equal measures. 

Satoru wonders, sometimes, if Atsushi belongs to the secretive group or the skeptical one. He doesn’t ask – Atsushi will sometimes rub fingers over the bracelet, and look weary and sad, and even Satoru is tactful enough to know there are some things he should just leave alone – but he still wonders. 

If he could belong to anybody, he would belong to Atsushi.

And he doesn’t know what he’ll do, the day Atsushi’s soulmate strolls into their lives and takes Atsushi away from him.

One day, about a month after his fateful first night in the apartment building the four of them share, Tanuma breaches the same subject Satoru has always avoided: 

“Do you mind my asking, Kitamoto? What does your timer say?” he asks on a comfortable, rainy Tuesday evening, while Natsume messes with his expensive-looking camera and Natsume’s fat calico sleeps in his lap. 

“Oh,” Atsushi says, unbothered. He doesn’t even look up from his phone. “Nothing. It faded a long time ago.”

Satoru chokes on his bubble tea so spectacularly that Natsume actually puts the camera down to lean over and thump him on the back. He and Tanuma are both staring at him but Atsushi is doing that casual oh-did-you-have-a-big-reaction-sorry-I-didn’t-even-notice thing. Satoru isn’t about to let it slide this time. 

“What?”

“What do you mean ‘what’?” Atsushi gives him an unimpressed look. There’s some fleeting feeling in his eyes that Satoru just misses, something heated or hurt. “It’s been gone for years. It’s not a secret.”

“You – you never said – “

“You never asked.”

Tanuma and Natsume are looking between them with wide eyes. Satoru feels his hands clench into fists, so tight his fingers ache and his nails bite into his palms. 

“Can I talk to you outside?” he grits out.

“Oh,” Natsume says, “no, we can – Kaname, let’s – “

But Atsushi is already setting his phone aside and rising to his feet, gesturing expansively for Satoru to lead the way. Satoru does his best not to storm out of his own apartment like a pissy teenager, but he isn’t sure if he’s the least bit successful. 

He’s trembling, and waits for Atsushi to close the front door behind him before he bursts out with, “Were you – are you – do you not trust me? Why wouldn’t you tell me? I tell you everything, I thought – “

“Satchan,” he says tiredly, “it’s not like that.” 

“So you know?” Satoru couldn’t explain the ache in his chest if he tried. “Your other half? You know who they are?”

“I’d know even without the stupid numbers on my wrist.” 

Satoru stares at him, and something in Atsushi’s expression crumbles. He pushes a hand through his hair and looks twice his age, and exhausted, and sad. 

“Sometimes – it doesn’t work out, I guess. Sometimes you’re not on the same page. It’s not a perfect system. Not everyone gets a happy ending.”

“Did they – “ Satoru can barely find the words. His heart is a solid lump in his throat. “Did they not want you?”

The question lands like a blow, and that’s not what Satoru meant, he didn’t mean to hurt him, and he’s already opening his mouth to apologize when Atsushi shakes his head. 

A little bit bitter and a little bit broken when he says, “No, he – didn’t feel the same way. But it’s okay,” he adds a moment later. “It doesn’t have to be perfect to be good.”

It sounds like an old, old hurt. A wound he’s used to navigating around, and can almost pretend isn’t there. And Satoru has known him all his life, has been his roommate since the day they graduated high school together almost ten years ago, and…

he never knew.

Atsushi is asleep at the kitchen table, and Satoru is washing dinner dishes. The chore is taking longer than usual, because he keeps looking over his shoulder at his friend and ends up scrubbing the same plate for ten minutes as he loses himself in thought.

It’s hard to be objective, given how shamelessly biased he is where Atsushi is concerned, but as far as he’s concerned a person would have to be crazy not to want a guy like him. 

He would have thought Atsushi’s other half would be a sensible, well-put together sort. And instead they’re – well, probably the worst person in the world, if he’s being honest. 

Who the hell could know Atsushi and not want him?

Moving on impulse, Satoru abandons the rest of the dishes and strips off his rubber gloves. He sits in the chair across the table from Atsushi and lifts his left hand off the table gingerly enough not to wake him. 

He finds the clasp on that leather bracelet and undoes it, sliding the weathered band away. The skin underneath is smooth and unblemished, an empty place where hopeful numbers should sit. 

Atsushi doesn’t have anyone waiting for him, either.

And maybe there’s been a secret dream lurking in the farthest corner of Satoru’s heart ever since he was a lonely teenager.

Maybe now he can afford to want it, after all. 

Atsushi has been staring at the stolen leather bracelet on Satoru’s wrist for the better part of the morning, while doing his best to pretend like he absolutely hasn’t been staring at it for the better part of the morning.

“Satchan,” he’ll start to say, and then think better of it and bury himself in the morning paper. They’ve become subscribers, now that their friend’s impressive photography regularly decorates the front page. 

Satoru smiles at his hands. When he rubs his wrist now, it’s not a bitter gesture or a longing one as much as it’s affectionate, anticipatory, excited. 

“Are you messing with me?” 

Satoru frowns. “Not that I know of?”

Atsushi looks more flustered than Satoru has seen him in years. There’s an almost manic gleam in his eyes, and his hair stands on end from how many times he’s rubbed a careless hand through it. 

“You’re – “ He hesitates, and lowers his voice. “What do you want from me?”

“Well, I wanted to hold your hand, but I didn’t know it was going to put you through an existential crisis.”

“Don’t,” Atsushi says sharply, and Satoru’s humor fades. “You don’t – get to joke about it. You can’t just go back and forth, that’s not fair. I don’t know what you want.”

Satoru has the sinking feeling he got something terribly, terribly wrong. “I thought – maybe, since you didn’t have a soulmate either, we could – ”

“Wait.” Atsushi says slowly, holding up both hands to stop him mid-word. Then, at length, “What?”

“We’re both,” Satoru says lamely, “you know.” 

“No,” is the frank reply, “that’s – have you really? Have you really thought that – “ Atsushi surges across the room, and snatches Satoru by the shoulders, and says, “What did you think your zero counter meant?”

“That – that I didn’t have anybody?” Satoru blinks past the threatening sting of tears, because Atsushi has never been intentionally cruel, and he probably has a reason for throwing this lifelong hurt back in Satoru’s face. “It’s been on zero for as long as I can remember. I never knew who it was supposed to be. It never even fully faded.”

Atsushi is staring at him as though he’s never seen him from this close before. His fingers bite into Satoru’s arm hard enough to hurt. He doesn’t seem willing to let go.

“We met when we were five years old,” he says, very carefully, “on the first day of kindergarten. My timer was on zero when I came home. I remember, because mom and dad made a big deal about it. They were so excited I could have met my other half so early.” 

Satoru blinks at him. He remembers that day – he spent hours chasing Atsushi around the playground, sharing snacks and making up games, and didn’t want to go home when Kiyoshi walked over from the elementary school to pick him up at the end of the afternoon. 

Is that when it happened? 

“I never,” he whispers, and has to stop and scrape the words together before he can try again. “I didn’t notice. I didn’t even know what the numbers meant until – it must have been third grade? Mom never – she didn’t think it was important – “

Atsushi’s eyes have gone ridiculously soft. He lets go of Satoru’s shoulders to touch the sides of his face instead, as carefully as if he was something impossibly precious. 

“I,” Satoru tries, but his voice wobbles and breaks apart. “I– “ 

“I thought you knew,” Atsushi says quietly. “I thought you knew and it wasn’t what you wanted. I thought that’s why you’ve been so miserable, all these years.” 

He unclasps the bracelet and Satoru watches from far away, like it’s something happening to someone else. The zeros on his arm aren’t the bright blue of everyone else’s, they’re half color, faded and unsubstantial. He’s never known why, always thought it was broken, but – 

“You never knew it was me,” Atsushi says, “you were never sure, so of course they never went away. I should have – I should have said something, I should have – I’m such an idiot. Satchan, I’m so sorry.”

“I made you think I didn’t want you,” Satoru all but sobs, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes, “I made you think – you’re my favorite person in the whole world, and I hurt you so much – “

“No you didn’t. I never blamed you for feeling differently, I would never blame you for that. Even if it wasn’t perfect, it was still good.” 

“But I – “ Satoru wishes he was brave enough to look at him, but instead he hides behind his hands like a coward. “I didn’t feel differently. You were just – something I couldn’t have – because I didn’t know you were mine.”

For a long moment, his words are greeted by a silence that threatens to deafen him. Then Atsushi is pulling Satoru’s hands away from his face and holding his wrists captive and leaning in to kiss his forehead, his eyelids, the tip of his nose, the corner of his mouth.

As if he’s saying now you know.

“You two are a mess,” Natsume tells them over breakfast two days later, in a perfect deadpan that makes Atsushi snort into his coffee.

Compared to the pretty picture Natsume and Tanuma make – the perfect way they came together the moment they met, the way they move as though they’ve never spent a day apart – yeah, Satoru thinks it’s safe to say he and Atsushi are something of a certified disaster. 

He regrets the misunderstanding that caused so much hurt where hurt could have been avoided, and he regrets the sad shadows that lived for so long in Atsushi’s eyes.

But at the same time, Satoru’s been luckier than most – even if five, ten, and fifteen years ago he would never have believed such a thing. 

He smiles down at his hands, and rubs the bare skin on his left wrist. Seconds later Atsushi is reaching for him – threading their fingers together, lifting Satoru’s hand, and pressing a kiss to the same spot where all his zeros used to be.

“You’re a good mess, though,” Tanuma amends with no small amount of fondness, and Satoru beams at him. 

He’s acting like he really doesn’t have a clue. Kei gives him a sideways look, some of his initial glee fading. There’s dense, and then there’s Nishimura dense, and he hadn’t thought Kitamoto was the latter. 

Because he’s not that type of person, not anymore, Kei looks around to make sure they won’t be overheard and even leans in – he doesn’t want to make trouble for his friends. 

“Natsume, obviously. You think I don’t have eyes?”

Kitamoto’s mouth works for a moment, before he bites the inside of his lip. He looks like he’s struggling with what to say, and Kei starts to feel bad for him. 

“Hey – I shouldn’t have brought it up, I guess? I just wanted – you know, I don’t want you to think I’m not cool with it or anything – and it must be especially awkward, you know, ‘cause of your competition.” 

“My competition?” 

“Well – Nishimura likes him, too, doesn’t he?” Kei rubs the back of his neck. “I mean, having a crush on your friend is one thing, but having a crush on the friend your best buddy also has a crush on is like, Olympic levels of “I’d rather not,” honestly.”

Kitamoto buries his face in his hands and probably would have fallen into his bento if Kei didn’t yank it out of the way. His shoulders are shaking silently, with something suppressed – and he better not be crying, holy shit – 

“What – “ Kei stares at him. “Wait, are you laughing?”

“I’m sorry,” Kitamoto wheezes, not sounding sorry at all. “It’s just – you don’t – I can’t even – hold on a sec,” he adds, visibly wrestling for a handhold on his composure. He turns his eyes on the rest of the classroom, and calls Nishimura over when he spots him. 

Nishimura comes to them with a bright grin, feeding off Kitamoto’s energy already. “What’s so funny, what’d I miss?”

“Apparently we both missed something,” Kitamoto says, wiping tears out of his eyes. “Did you know we – as in the two of us, independently – have a crush on Natsume?”

“Get outta town,” Nishimura replies, raising his eyebrows. Kei has the sinking feeling he’s on the outside of a joke. “I feel like we probably need to have a serious talk about that.”

Kitamoto laughs again, and Nishimura lights up just a little at the sound. And then he’s moving closer, sitting in Kitamoto’s lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and Kitamoto is putting a hand around the small of his back so he doesn’t fall, and Kei stares. 

No one else in the room reacts. A few people shoot them incredulous looks – as if to say “really? right now?” – but for the most part the scene seems to be as incredible to their peers as a piece of plain furniture. 

“Close your mouth, Adachi, or you’ll attract flies,” Nishimura says, so prissily Kei is one hundred percent sure he’s quoting Tsuji. Kei does as he’s told, mostly out of shock. 

“What,” Kei says weakly. “But I thought – “

“Natsume’s totally crush-worthy,” Kitamoto says in the name of fairness. “And we are pretty affectionate with him?”

“Of course we are,” Nishimura scoffs. “He likes it.” 

“But we’ve actually been dating since middle school,” Kitamoto concludes with a wry smile. “I think everyone we grew up with already knows. My mom calls Nishimura her son-in-law, and I’m not sure she’s totally joking.” 

Kei tries to process this. At the same time, the door rattles open and a familiar voice reaches to them from across the room.

“There you are,” Natsume says, looking exasperated. “Tanuma and I have been looking for you everywhere. Why are you in this classroom, none of you are in this class.”

Nishimura doesn’t get up, and Kitamoto doesn’t retract his arm from around Nishimura’s waist, and Tanuma and Natsume don’t look surprised at all. This is largely unfair, because they’re new here, too, if not quite as new as Kei is – 

So Kei blurts, “You two knew about them?”

Natsume blinks, as though it’s the strangest question he’s ever heard. “I – yes?”

“They didn’t tell us and keep it a secret from you,” Tanuma adds kindly, maybe guessing that it’s something Kei would be upset about, once he has a chance to think that far ahead. “We just sort of picked up on it.” 

“He’s being nice,” Natsume says dryly. “If you’d ever come to one of the sleepovers we invite you to, you’d pick up on it, too. Within five minutes, I’m sure. They’re not subtle.”