#mutsurieweek

“Let’s keep our last names, even with just us. There’s too much heritage tied to yours, Urie, and --”

“It’s easier that way, right? To move on.”

--

Urie and Mutsuki fought like oil on water. They were just a layer of cells apart, gliding over and around one another, always close but never joining. It became easy, somehow, easier so with Yonebayashi and the kids by his side, for Urie to forget how agonizing it was to be alone.

It was exactly what he’d always wanted. His father could not have been prouder, Urie convinced himself, as he racked up awards and felt the empty, stinging pleasure of a full glass case.  

It was exactly what he’d always wanted, but greed is an evil thing. It tricks you into wanting something, anything; it lives for the grueling journey and moves on to the next sight as soon as it’s done. It didn’t quite trick Urie, because he knew what was happening to him, but that didn’t mean he had the power to stop it.

(Was it greed, or was it longing? How much else did he need to be happy?)

“What’s missing?” he asked Mutsuki once, while they were (somewhat ironically, certainly not metaphorically) washing the blood from their hands at the hospital.

He looked up. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean,” Urie snapped, and Mutsuki smiled wryly.

“If you can’t put it into words it’s not something I can answer.”

“I can’t even put the simple things into words, let alone everything else.”

Mutuski turned off the tap. “Like what?”

“Well -- you, for starters -- ”  

“I’m that simple?” he laughed, and it was a nice enough sound in the coldly sterile hospital that Urie decided to put his worries off until either of them could put it into words.

--

Mutuski, for one, came up with an answer several months later.

“Let’s adopt a kid.”

They were young in years but old in their own minds, Mutsuki having just turned twenty-seven and Urie lagging a few months behind. They’d been married for exactly two years and three months, and these words were dropped outside a hospital door where the now-familiar red light signifying emergency surgery blinked steadily.

“That’s all you can say,” Urie muttered throatily, “while we sit here wondering if Yonebayashi will come out of this one alive?”

“She keeps telling you to call her Saiko,” Mutsuki corrected him gently. “It was just -- I thought about how at any moment we could up and die, and… to leave something good behind would be nice, I think.”

“Do you understand what you’re saying?” Spots swam behind Urie’s eyes. The light blinked, numbering their days. “Have a child, and then die happy?”

(A noble sacrifice should have been impossible for a father with a child waiting for him at home.)

“Would you rather have not been born?”

Urie turned sharply to look at his husband, ready to tell him it didn’t work that way, that it’s bad enough to die but it’s even worse to leave someone behind, but then the door opened and they both stopped short.

The nurse smiled. “Yonebayashi will be fine. She’s a tough one --”

--

“-- a tough one, all right.”

“A little girl,” Mutsuki gushed, taking the child with trembling hands. “Is the mother alright?”

“Yes, and very grateful.”

Haru laughed from between them, reaching out from her wheelchair to brush the child’s cheek. “I’m sure Ginshi would have killed to see this.”

“That sounds like him,” said Urie.

It was the first time he had spoken since the kid had been born, as he’d been locked in circles of thought along the lines of abandonment, and making sure she grows up happier than me. Shirazu’s death still cut deep, and his father still an ache in the back of his heart. If the little one grew up alone --

“She’ll be fine.”

There was a strange kind of light in Mutsuki’s eyes, coloring them from green to gold.

“We’ll be fine.”

And that’s all the reassurance he needed (even though it really didn’t help at all).

--

Somehow, having a child didn’t make them adults.

“Mutsuki,” Urie pleaded, trying to still the other. “You’ll scare the kid -- wake up,”

“I don’t want to die,” Mutsuki cried, his eyes still tightly closed, his breathing constricted. Even as adults they were crying about such stupid things, wrapped around one another, but -- despite the baby lying beside them -- wasn’t this fine?

“That makes two of us.”

The quarter moon barely shone through the tightly drawn curtains, and it was too dark to even see Mutsuki’s eyes as they opened. He quieted, the red in his right eye slowly dimmed, and his heartbeat fell into step with Urie’s.

“Evening,” Urie said, just crisp and professional enough to coax a laugh out of Mutsuki. “How do you do?”

A cold but somewhat ticklish breath blew past Urie’s neck. “Fine, thank you.”

All of this -- gazing through the darkness as Mutsuki dozed off again, braced against Urie’s chest, measured, even breaths all around --

(Wasn’t this fine?)

--

They lived their lives preparing for death. And when it happened, there was only a dull sense of relief.

No more waiting on the inevitable.

--

Explaining to Sasako was the hardest.

(Sasako, the closest they could get without being caught. After all, it’s no good to name your child after a ghoul.)

Urie had never been good with words, and this wasn’t an exception. If anything, he was even worse than usual, and even two-year-old Sasako could figure that something was wrong.

“Where is he?”

“Mutsuki,” Urie said, but couldn’t quite finish; he found himself turning away even though it wouldn’t hide anything.

“Is he dead?”

It was spoken with such childish sharpness that Urie actually flinched. He breathed in, slowly, and turned to face his dark-haired, dark-eyed child.

“Yeah.”

“Does that mean he isn’t coming back?”

“Yeah.”

Sasako’s eyes began to fill with tears, and after a few moments Urie found that his were doing the same.

--

“Urie-san, we would like you to speak --”

“No.” Urie pursed his lips, sealed against the barrage of feeling just biting to tumble out, and very nearly left that moment. 

“Wait!” 

The person who he didn’t bother remembering the name or face of stopped him, thankfully not touching him but coming close enough to make him shudder.

“Everyone expects you to. It’d be strange if you didn’t.”

“I can’t even put the simple things into words, let alone everything else,” Urie scoffed, and feels a dull sort of comfort at the years-old repetition. 

“What?”

“I mean that I can’t speak about Mutsuki at the funeral.”

“...You never changed names?”

Another familiar tug of the lips, and remembrance of the words from way back when (he wasn’t alone).

“It was supposed to make it easier. To move on.”

--

Urie was parked at the edge of nowhere, a cliff overlooking a nameless river, the sun directly overhead. The skies were clear, and piercingly blue. Sasako was with Saiko. It was just them.

“Mutsuki.”

His voice was hoarse from lack of use, and raw for no other reason than grief.

“I suppose that I’ll keep talking for years. And tell you how Sasako is growing up, what kind of a crazy godmother Saiko is. Do you remember why I never called you by your first name? Do you remember when last names went from being formal to friendly, for us?

“Do you remember how much we used to fear death? Because I still do. I still wonder if it was stupid to get married and start a family and just -- set myself up for disaster. We were so young when you told me it would be nice to leave something good behind in the world.”

“I’ll probably never get over this. Sasako will only barely remember you. Isn’t this the worst it could have possibly turned out?”

He closes his eyes and sees a bloodstained kiss and a breathless call for marriage, a blinking red hospital light, the dark bedroom when it was filled with tears, and reaches out to catch the kiss of what could have been.

--

He opens his eyes and forces himself to see what’s really before him. A dark cave, and two bodies.

No matter what kind of future, it would have ended the same. Even if he had lived, it would have ended the same. Whatever -- fantasy -- he conjured, it would always come to this.  

(Close, open. Deep breaths. Balance, stay standing, quiet. Quiet, heart. Slow. It’s just another -- another loss -- deep breaths.)

But there is a slight movement, and one of the lumps shifts -- and, rising from the dead, is Mutsuki. Bloodied all over, with eyes that are not greenish-gold but almost black. They glitter in the moonlight, and Urie is suddenly, strikingly reminded of a smooth slab of obsidian. But when Mutsuki moves forward, everything dissolves.

This time, it is Mutsuki who stumbles into Urie, somehow aligning with the nightmare of his imagination -- but no whisper for marriage escapes Mutsuki’s lips, and Urie is the one to speak.

“Let’s leave this place.”

(Maybe -- if they both live on -- it will still end the same. Maybe they will die together. Maybe, in ten years, Urie will be parked at the edge of nowhere with a child at home and an empty passenger seat.)

“Urie! You remember me?”

The voice is vaguely familiar, grating and a little scratchy. Colors flash in his mind -- oranges, louder and ruder than the ones on his sunsets, but somehow fitting. Pea green, golden brown. Warm, bright, welcoming.

“Shirazu.”

“Yeah! I can’t believe it’s been nearly three years, huh? How’s the art?”

He continues before Urie can so much as open his mouth: “Actually, you don’t have to answer that. I saw your second place award at that art contest -- it was pretty competitive, wasn’t it?”

(Second place.) Urie’s eyes shift to the clock -- it’s eight in the evening, too late to get caught up in conversation.

“Why did you call?”

Shirazu lets loose a familiar guttural laugh. “Same as always, aren’t you? Well, I might as well cut to the chase -- do you do commission work?”

This is new, and not something typical of Shirazu, but Urie can’t find it in him to muster up some interest. Instead, he answers slowly,

“It depends.” On if the subject is worth painting, that is. “Why?”

“One of my friends, he’s a pianist, and his first album is coming out soon -- he was looking for someone to do cover art.”

“Why not just hire a photographer?”

“Seems like he wants artwork, for visual appeal or something. Besides, he seemed excited to meet you, so I figured I might as well give it a shot.”

“Oh.”

“Are you interested?”  Shirazu asks hopefully.

Well, it doesn’t seem like a particularly interesting job, but Urie isn’t averse to a little extra money. He pauses, trying to gauge whether the hollowness he’s feeling is anticipation or the complete opposite.

“... Perhaps. I want to see the subject play before I decide.”

“Really! Wow!” Shirazu sounds like he’d never expected Urie to agree, but he continues with his usual enthusiasm. “Well, why don’t I give you his address, and you can stop by whenever you want? He’s free on Sundays for sure -- so, three days from now.”

Shirazu tells him the location and Urie jots it down on the corner of his smock. “Tell him I’ll be there sometime in the early afternoon.”

“Sounds good,” says Shirazu, still sounding elated. “Thanks, man. We should have kept in touch.”

“I wouldn’t have been able to keep it up,” Urie answers, choosing to withhold that he has spoken to hardly anyone since college ended. It would be too much trouble to get himself back into the swing of having a social life, and it wasn’t worth worrying Shirazu. It would detract from his painting time.

That’s right, time -- it’s a quarter past eight now, and Urie hasn’t eaten for over nine hours. “I’ll see your friend on Sunday,” he says shortly, and hangs up.

The next three days pass quickly, blurred over with a few halfhearted paintings with no real substance -- he paints them all over in white by the day’s end. Before he knows it, it’s Sunday and he’s doing things like boarding trains and walking downtown that all feel so foreign to him when he’s not dressed for a meeting or an exhibition.

The pianist lives in a large house a little to the west of downtown, and when Urie rings the doorbell he sees Shirazu waving at him from the second-floor window with a grin as wide as ever. So they’re housemates, then.

He’s watching a tiny, stout woman drag Shirazu away from the window when the door opens, and with a start he turns around.

“Hi! Are you Urie Kuki?”

Amaranth, Urie almost says aloud. Richer, though. Carmine.

“Um -- sir?”

“Yes, that’s me,” Urie says, startled into reality.

“Nice to meet you,” the pianist says brightly. “I’m Mutsuki Tooru.”

Urie nods, and silence fills the air. “Nice to meet you,” he adds awkwardly.

Mutsuki laughs a little at this delayed reaction (his laugh is a higher pitch, it’s hues of lavender) and leads him inside. The room is well-painted, even by a painter's standards, in unobtrusive shades of brown and beige. The whole room is coated in sunlight -- isn’t it bad for a piano room to have so many windows?

Mutsuki makes his way across the room and sits down at the piano, a Steinway grand that seems a bit less than new. They pause unsteadily, silent for a few seconds before Mutsuki speaks up:

“Do you want me to play?” he says, going a little red. Either he’s nervous as hell or Urie is royally screwing up the whole interaction thing. Urie resists the urge to roll his eyes.

“Why else would I be here?”

“O-oh! Right.” Mutsuki squirms uncomfortably before continuing, “Do you -- have any favorite composers, or styles of music? I mean, I mostly play classical, but I’ve learned the odd modern song--”

“Classical is fine,” Urie interrupts. “Start. Please.”

Mutsuki takes a tiny breath, his whole body shifting in balance, and his fingers fall on the keys with a gentle sigh.

Cornflower, ultramarine. It’s so clear it’s startling, and Urie remembers once again how long it’s been since he heard music that wasn’t a mess of drums and guitars and everything at once. It’s moving quickly, the blues lightening and darkening, and -- wow. This is… nice.

Soon, the melodious line the right hand is playing settles into a kind of periwinkle, and the left hand is still somewhat dark -- indigo. Mutsuki’s fingers must be made of magic, it’s not possible to change from periwinkle to deep mauve and then violet so fluidly, ah, this is the best. Urie wants to paint.

It’s a mess, but it’s the best one he has ever seen, and before long he finds himself forgetting to breathe as he watches Mutsuki’s hands dance across the piano in what can’t be anything less than waves. Darks and lights balance, every note falls into place as a single brushstroke on a painting he is already envisioning, and the song is over far too soon.

Mutsuki finishes triumphantly, fingers flying off the keys, but when he faces Urie his smile is as shy as ever. “Mendelssohn’s Rondo Capriccioso, opus fourteen. Did you like it?”

Of course, Urie wants to answer vehemently, I loved it I loved it so much let me paint you.

But instead, he clears his throat and answers, “Yes.”  

“Do you want to--?”

“Yeah,” Urie mumbles, and somehow he can’t meet Mutsuki’s eyes. “I guess.”

“Thank you so much,” he replies with a smile, radiant, and it’s then that Urie wonders if people can have colors to them too.

But as the lingering effects of the music fade he comes back to himself; suddenly Mutsuki seems not like a musical genius but just another tiresome human being eating away at his time, another client using his art selfishly -- and that’s what he is, right?

(It’s just the colors that appeal to him, surely.)

The next day he brings a canvas and a set of his favorite tools to Mutsuki’s condo, and the introduction is far less drawn-out and awkward than before -- within minutes, Urie is watching Mutsuki over the top of his canvas as he breathes in to play once more.

The piece this time is slower and softer, but somehow fuller; it’s all shades of cool greens and warm yellows. Olive, fern, peach, and daffodil float in lazy circles above them. He tries it out on the canvas, illuminating Mutsuki’s silhouette in greens and yellows, but it doesn’t look quite right.

“Girl With the Flaxen Hair, by Debussy,” Mutsuki says brightly once he finishes. “It’s one of my favorites.”

“Play something else,” Urie instructs, already started to get frustrated, but Mutsuki obeys with nothing but a silent smile. The next song is centered around deep burgundy, the next practically screams violet, and after over a dozen songs he finally, finally, plays something with a nice feeling to it.

It’s haunting, eloquent, and a perfect meld of colors -- there’s that violet-mauve hint from the first song, but also a silver that almost sparkles and a blue that he’s sure is there but he can’t quite catch. He finally has a clear picture of what this painting will be, and when Mutsuki finishes he breaks out of his focus only to order him to play it again.

And so he does, again and again and again, and amidst all of this Urie sees more and more layers to Mutsuki’s hands. Once he sees a little bit of carmine, and though it may have just been the exhaustion distorting his vision it looked like it was the exact shade of Mutsuki’s voice.

When the images finally stop flowing through Urie’s mind his hands slow to a stop, and with a shaky breath he sets his paintbrush down and surveys his work.

Even by his standards, it’s good. It’s a little bit mysterious but at the same time surprisingly clear, and has every ounce of elegance that seems to be the essence of Mutsuki’s playing. Mutsuki’s silhouette is faintly colored, poised over the piano, but even the earthy tones of his skin are hinted with the hues from the rest of the painting, as if the music had seeped into him.

All of a sudden the music stops, and the lack of sound jars Urie back to reality.  He looks up to see Mutsuki flexing his hands evenly, his teeth gritted, and as soon as Urie’s gaze lands on him they meet eyes.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “Hand cramp. I’ll -- I’ll start playing again in a minute, I’m sorry.”

“No,” Urie says, his voice hoarse, “I’m done. Do you need something for your hands?”

“I’m fine,” Mutsuki says shakily, standing up but instead wobbling on his feet before clumsily hitting the ground.

“Legs fell asleep, too,” he chuckles wearily, and it looks like he might fall asleep right then and there.

A chilly breeze blows through the room, and it’s only then that the odd harshness of the light and the dark windows where sunlight used to be streaming through become apparent.

“How long has it been?” Urie asks.

“A long time,” Mutsuki yawns, rolling on to his back to stare at the ceiling. “Six hours, maybe?”

“...Oh.”

“It’s alright,” Mutsuki assures him. “I’m pulled all-nighters practicing before.”

That’s that, then. Urie is just contemplating excusing himself when Mutsuki asks, “Are you hungry?”

“Not really.” He’s actually burning with hunger -- it’s what, nine-thirty at night? -- but he’d rather wait the half hour than eat in company.  

Mutsuki finally sits up, and when he catches a glimpse of the time his eyes widen. “You sure you’re not hungry?”

“Haven’t you ever heard of the starving artist?” It isn’t supposed to be a joke, but Mutsuki laughs anyway. Urie makes a mental note to add that particular shade of lavender to the painting.

Mutsuki walks over to the canvas, but pauses halfway. “Can I look?”

Urie steps away. “It’s your painting.”

“Alright.” With a nervous half-smile, he halts in front of the stool and faces the canvas exactly how Urie had for the past seven hours. Urie can’t see his reaction from the back of his head, but when he turns around he looks like he’s going to burst open with joy.

“Thank you,” he says (radiantly), and his eyes are brimming with tears.

(If people could have a color--)

“How did you manage to capture it like that?”

Urie hardly ever tells anyone about his strange mind, Shirazu being one of very few exceptions. But there’s an insistent tugging at the back of his throat that seems to open his mouth for him.

“It’s called chromesthesia. When I hear sound, I see color. All I have to do is incorporate them onto your figure,” he says shortly, already bracing himself for a slew of questions. Thankfully, Mutsuki just shakes his head and smiles.

“You’re amazing.”

It feels like so much more coming from the mouth of this weary pianist than it does at the awards ceremony of an art competition. Here, there’s no second place being thrust into his hands, there’s no obsessive watching of the winners to see how he can push past them, there’s only Mutsuki and the words he speaks with his carmine voice.

And instead of thanking him or reveling in this rare moment of peace he mutters something about having to go and walks stiffly to the door, where Mutsuki shows him out graciously.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay for dinner?”

This time, Urie hesitates; it’s chilly outside and Mutsuki is like a small fireplace, glowing and inviting. He’s never been invited in a second time -- people are usually only too glad to get rid of him --and maybe it might be alright, just for once, to try eating in company.

“No, thanks,” he blurts out, surprising even himself, but figures that it would be the less destructive option anyway. “I -- er -- I have to --”

“Mutsuki!” The voice that cut him off isn’t Shirazu’s; it’s higher and warmer, light emerald. “Have you finished? It’s time to eat?”

“I’ll be up in a minute, Sasaki, I’m just showing Urie out.”

“If he wants he can stay for dinner,” Sasaki calls. 

How desperate is this house for a dinner guest? For the third time, Urie declines, although t’s more out of instinct than anything else.

He listens to Shirazu and a female voice chatter away upstairs, the clink of tableware and laughter, and suddenly aches for something he’s never had. Mutsuki smiles a little sadly in front of him, and when they meet eyes Urie feels so exposed that he has to look away.

“Thanks again for your time. Can I have your number, so we can work out the final prices and stuff?”

He gives out the information hurriedly, suddenly exhausted, and buttons up his coat. (It’s so cold, and so lonely.) Hovering there on the threshold with Mutsuki standing before him, he allows himself just one simple pleasure.

(A touch from the fireplace --)

Quickly, clumsily, he meets Mutsuki’s lips, and then pulls back into the biting air. It’s so short that Urie doesn’t really have time to regret it until it’s over, but Mustuki’s somehow managed to flush down to his roots in those few seconds. Urie tries to clear his throat, but all that escapes is an odd grunt.

“Er -- thanks. Bye.”

As he shuffles away his face feels strangely warm, perhaps out of embarrassment but perhaps -- not. There’s a lavender laugh echoing behind him and then a voice colored in carmine:

“Stay for dinner next time, okay?”

Urie hates public transportations.

He hates taking the bus, he hates taking the train, he hates every public transportation. He hates how they always come late, he hates the people in it who are not able to make a distance to others and he hates how it stinks in there like humans are not able to wash themselves. He just isn’t good with people anyway. Most of the humans he has to interact with annoy the shit out of him.

When he turned 21 years old he was so happy to receive his car. His loved, wonderful car…

That just broke down last week and still is in reparation.

And now he got stuck taking the bus to his work. Suddenly his job didn’t seem as enjoyable as before.

Every morning he stands at the bus station and already hates the day. People talking loudly on the phone or listening to their music so noisy that he can’t even hear his own anymore. They don’t care that they aren’t alone, they just do whatever the fuck they want to do. One time a little kid even spilled his cocoa accidentally on his suit. He tried not to be that angry, but it took him all his effort to not snap at the poor little guy.

Urie is annoyed in the morning and still is annoyed in the afternoon when he has to take the bus home. Needless to say that his colleagues in the bureau don’t try to piss him off during the day. (Except Sasaki; “What is wrong with you, Urie-kun? Does taking the bus DRIVE you crazy?!” is not funny in any way. Fuck off.)

 ---

It’s the fourth day now that he needs to take the bus home and today it seems like it won’t get too annoying; it’s promising that not that much people are at the station, the bus is on time and also it is almost empty when it arrives. Urie is kind of relieved and takes the last door as always. He looks around in search for a good (and quiet) place to sit and stops when he sees one of the passengers sitting in the very back of the bus, someone he never saw before. He suddenly feels a rush in his veins and finds himself sitting in the front seat of the guy without thinking about it.

Before Urie sits down in front of him the green-haired looks out of the window with a dreamy smile on his face. When he realizes someone sits down in the front seat he looks at the man, still smiling, bows his head a bit and says a quiet “Hello”. Then he continues staring out of the window.

Urie still looks at him. He doesn’t even realize he is staring and he hopes the green-haired doesn’t realize it too. It is just… this guy looks flawless. His skin is tanned and his short, green hair looks perfect on it. His smile reaches his beautiful eyes and Uries heart skips a beat on that; pretty smiles were always a weakness of him. He wears a casual, red hoodie and some dark jeans with brown shoes.

“(Talk to him. Talk to him. Open your mouth, you useless piece of crap.)”

But Urie just continues watching the guy staring out of the window and says nothing. He could punch himself in his face. Somehow this man leaves him speechless. He isn’t good  with people but in that case he wish he would be. He doesn’t say anything until the guy stands up from his seat, taking his bag, smiles again (why do you do that, why why, stop doing that, I don’t want to think about that smile the whole day), bows and says “Goodbye, have a nice day”. This time Urie bows his head too and mumbles “Goodbye”.

And that was it. The guy takes the last door to step out and Uries urge of punching himself grows even more while he watches the guy walking away from the station. He is such an idiot and now he probably will never get the chance to talk to that man again.

Taking the bus is so annoying.

(And also, this smile won’t go out of his head for the whole day. At least he got a muse to draw again.)

 ---

His hopes got high after that encounter anyway. He isn’t that annoyed anymore when he takes the bus, because now he has something to look forward to, even if it probably won’t come true. He really hopes to see that guy again, even if that was the only time he ever saw him.

On his last day of taking the bus he almost drops all his hopes. The bus is full of people again and everyone is loud as fuck. Even if the green haired would be on here, he wouldn’t-

“Fuck off, damn it!”

“Yeah. Don’t stand in our way!!”

Urie clicks with his tongue when he hears those brats and glance at them. Who do they think they are? Well, like he cares. They just bark and don’t-

And then Urie sees with whom they speak. The green haired guy. Anger fills up in him.

“Ah, I am sorry, I didn’t want to…“, he says softly and the brats just laugh and one of them suddenly pushes him back.

“You didn’t want to?! You are not even moving, you little-“

“Hey. Long time no see.”

Urie places his hand on the shoulder of the green haired, trying to be calm, and he looks up, very confused.

“U-uhm, hi…?”

“Who is that now? Your personal bodyguard?!”, the brats laugh again and Urie looks cold at them.

“A good friend who will beat the shit out of you if you don’t stop, (you little fuckers)”, he says harsh and it kind of works. His cold eyes seems to work also and the brats just look at him, rolling with their eyes.

“Hah, whatever. That isn’t fun anymore.” The next stop they just go out without saying anything anymore and the guy looks at Urie, smiling weakly.

“Well, thank you, I guess…”

“…yeah.”

“They are assholes… I just didn’t want to spend any energy on them…” The guy looks away, seeming embarrassed and Urie just shrugs. They are gone, so whatever.

“Uhm… did we already met each other? I kind of have the feeling I know you”, the guy speaks again after a while standing beside him and Urie is glad he does. He is speechless. Again.

“Yeah, I think so. In the bus.”

“Oh! Right! Now I remember! You were staring at me for a long time!”

“…………….” So, he realized. Well fuck.

“Haha! I am sorry!” The guy laughs softly and smiles then again, this freaking pretty smile what makes Uries heart skips a beat and he begins to stare again, not even caring anymore.

“My name is Mutsuki Tooru. May I know yours?”

Urie watches Mutsukis face and he feels like something in his chest gets loose.

 ---

For almost dropping hope this last day on the bus worked out really well.