Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Mishima stared at the screen, scrutinizing.

The seemingly-endless wall of text stared back at him.

His patience was starting to run out. He was a perfectionist when it came to his work, but by god, sitting and reading the same draft over and over again felt tedious. He was starting to think that the letters would be burned into his eyelids by the end of this.

“Mishima-senpai?” a quiet voice asked, shocking Mishima out of his immersion. “What are you doing this late?”

Mishima spluttered, turning his head to see Arimura standing in the doorway of the office. His neck cracked pitifully—a sign that he should probably call it for the day—and he winced, rubbing the spot tenderly.

“I was just working on my article,” Mishima replied bashfully. The last case Kihara had dragged him into had been a headache to cover. “What are you doing here?”

Arimura frowned, glancing at something in the corner of the room. Mishima followed her gesture to see the Christmas tree standing tall, blinking dim, pretty lights every second or so. The star-shaped topper seemed to outshine all of them.

“It's Christmas Eve, and you're still working?”

Mishima tensed, looking away pointedly. “I have nothing else to do, anyway.”

In truth, he didn't like Christmas. It used to feel warm. Eating at the dinner table together, bickering, sharing presents and laughter. Nowadays, only the warmth of it lingers. It felt like a mockery of what Christmas was supposed to be, so he never celebrated it anymore.

Nana and Kawamura tried to rope him into a party last year. It ended futilely: Mishima waited until they got to the secret santa event, and went home after. It always felt as though he was intruding.

Arimura hummed thoughtfully. “Well, I was just here to pick up my things, but there seems to be a certain someone waiting for you in the lobby.”

Mishima blinked. He didn't think he made a promise with anyone. “Who?”

Just then, his phone buzzed. He glanced down to read the pawahara nickname and groaned. Of course.

Arimura eyed him with interest. Mishima tried to pay her no mind, picking up the call. “Hello?”

“Mi-shi-ma! Where the hell are you?”

“What?” Mishima asked, flabbergasted. “Um, at the office?”

“Whaaat? You're still working on Christmas Eve? That's so boring!”

“Wh— that's rich coming from you! Aren't you always busy this time of the year?”

“Who told you that? That’s the biggest BS I've ever heard. Anyway, come downstairs, we're already late for dinner.”

Click.

Mishima stared at his phone in disbelief. He heard Arimura giggle as she rummaged through her desk, looking for something.

With a resigned look, Mishima said, “I’m gonna head out now.”

“You better,” Arimura bit back, nudging him playfully. “Or else your boyfriend's gonna yell at you again, senpai.”

He’s not my boyfriend, Mishima wanted to say—out of reflex more than anything—but bit his tongue. She wasn't wrong; though it felt weird to refer to Kihara as his boyfriend, of all things.

“Partner-in-crime,” Mishima corrected, though he knew it was useless, given the knowing glance Arimura gave him.

“Partner-in-crimes don't kiss like you guys do.”

Mishima scowled, albeit his flushed cheeks betray his guise. In his defense, it felt more appropriate to refer to Kihara as that. They were confidants first and foremost, lovers second. That was the way they worked.

His phone vibrated just as he was about to defend his case. Mishima knitted his eyebrows together, bracing himself for a pissed-off text from Kihara, but it was just an email notice from a newsletter subscription. He read the lines, Déjà Vécu: past lives, illusion, or cognitive disorder? and swiped the notification off his screen, uninterested.

“I’m heading out,” Mishima said to Arimura. “Have a wonderful holiday, Arimura-san.”

Arimura flashed him a quick smile. “You too, Mishima-senpai! Have a wonderful night.”

As it turned out, Kihara had planned a Christmas dinner with his family, and didn't think to tell Mishima beforehand.

Which was a classic Kihara move. Mishima merely rolled his eyes as the man dragged him to his car, resigning himself to a fate worse than death for tonight. He would've complained about it, but honestly, that was just a waste of energy. Kihara had his reasons when he reverted back to his old habits.

“Kihara-san,” Mishima called, glancing at him from the driver's seat. “I have a question.”

“Mm?”

“By ‘family,’ did you mean Hirose-san?”

In truth, Mishima couldn't help but feel wary of the idea. Christmas already put him on edge. To celebrate the festivities with his partner’s daughter implied things Mishima wasn't ready for.

“Well, who else?” Kihara asked back, shifting in his seat. “It's Hirose and her mom.”

Mishima tensed. “Her mom?”

“Yeah. She usually doesn't want to see me, but I guess the idea of me being committed to someone was intriguing enough.”

The way Kihara said commited so casually nearly made Mishima choke on his spit. It felt like a slap on the face. There wasn't an implication anymore—Kihara was here to stay, and he wasn't budging even if hell bulldozed over him.

Keijiro Kihara, of all people, chose him.

Mishina could never get his tastes.

Kihara misinterpreted his silence for something else. “Are you jealous?”

“What? No!” Mishima exclaimed, pouting. “I was just… wondering what your relationship with her was, that's all.”

God, that made him sound even more like a jealous girlfriend. He should stop digging his own graves. How many were there at this point?

Kihara scoffed like he didn't believe him. Still, he was feeling merciful enough to let it pass, and instead answered, “We hooked up when we were young and stupid. Turns out, she got pregnant, and wanted to keep the baby. We take turns caring for Hirose throughout the years. That's all there is to it, really.”

“Huh.” Mishima leaned back, oddly relieved. “I thought it was gonna be something more than that.”

“What sort of man do you think I am?” Kihara asked, offended. “Besides, you worry too much. She's got a fiancé now, and I have you, don't I?”

Mishima felt his face set aflame. Again with that offhanded attitude of his. To his luck, they'd just pulled into the parking lot, so he took it as a chance to turn away and reverse his car into the parking space.

“Oh?” Kihara prompted cheekily. Mishima heard him shift closer, his voice dropping to a lower octave as he whispered, his breath hot against his skin, “Your ears are turning red.”

Mishima shoved him away from his proximity. “Do you want us to crash?” he complained, pushing the brake handle, already unbuckling his seatbelt. “Let's go. Didn't you say we were la—”

“Mishima.”

He stilled, casting a wary look at Kihara. His voice was low, earnest. It made Mishima’s anxiety spike.

“What?” Mishima asked, and backed away when he realized how close Kihara was. The man had leaned over the brake, his palm firmly planted on the side of the driver's seat.

He was staring at him. The kind that made Mishima squirm, scrutinizing and sharp. He wondered if he did something wrong. Did he upset him somehow?

Then, Kihara smiled, crooked and sincere.

“Nothing. I just wanted to get a good look at you,” he said, leaning back, apparently satisfied. “Well then, shall we?”

Mishima didn't move an inch as he watched Kihara get out of the car, bewildered beyond belief.

By the time his brain had caught up, Kihara was already midway through the parking lot, strolling casually. Mishima ran to catch up with him.

“Sometimes I don't get you,” Mishima muttered in disdain, which was a lie, because he didn't get Kihara most of the time.

Kihara gave him a look. “Coming from you? That sounds like a compliment.”

“Kawamura-san seems to read me easily enough.”

“Oh, does he now?” Kihara asked, clucking his tongue as he entered the restaurant. Even irritated, he still held the door from closing for Mishima, waiting for him before he let it swing back into place. “Should I get some lessons from him, then? Mishima’s 101 class?”

Mishima rolled his eyes. “That’s so stupid.”

“The decisions you make are stupid.”

“That's not true. They're just beyond your comprehension.”

“That's exactly what makes them stupid to me.”

Mishima didn't have anything to say to that.

Kihara led him to a table, apparently well-acquainted enough with the restaurant that he knew where their seat was. Mishima wasn't surprised to see it tucked in the corner of the room, far away from the window and quieter than the other sections. He knew Kihara only liked window seats when he sat on his own, or with Mishima, who by now could defend himself well enough if trouble came up.

Mishima heard Hirose’s excited squeal before he saw her. When he took a good look, he saw the girl waving at them with the energy of an over-energized puppy.

Sitting by her side was a woman he didn't recognize. She wore a simple pink sweater, her makeup bold, but not tacky. Her doe eyes seemed to sharpen as she took in their arrival.

Despite the wariness, she was the splitting image of Hirose. Just older. More experienced, her naïvete long gone.

“Dad!” Hirose’s shout tore his gaze away from the woman. “Mishima-san! What took you so long?”

“Sorry. This guy here—” Kihara jabbed his thumb at Mishima, who scowled in return. “—was working on Christmas Eve. Can you believe that? Who the hell works on Christmas Eve?”

Mishima held back the jab on the tip of his tongue. Nobody would agree with his stance, especially no one at this table.

Still, nobody wanted to see such a downer on a jolly holiday. Mishima mustered the energy to smile, bowing slightly as he slid onto the seat. Kihara followed him.

“It's been a while, Hirose-san,” Mishima said, then more cautiously, to the woman, “And, um, nice to meet you, miss…?”

“Oh, please, you can just call me Mari,” the woman replied, warmer than Mishima thought. “You must be the infamous Mishima Hirose has been telling me about.”

Mishima blinked, unsure how to take in that information. “Hirose-san has been talking about me?”

“What was I supposed to do, not talk about my dad’s boyfriend?” Hirose bit back, crossing her arms defensively. “That's, like, headline-worthy news!”

“I wouldn't go that far,” Kihara piped up, shuffling through the menu. “It's not the first time I've had a lover.”

“No, but it's the first time you agreed to a get-together dinner with one,” Mari shot back, studying Mishima's features intently. She then reached over the table to pinch his cheek. “I do agree he's cute, though. Puppy-like.”

Mishima tried his best to not pull away from the touch. It was instinct to slap people’s hands away when they got handsy on him—namely, Kihara, and sometimes Kawamura—but he tamped down the urge. Despite his resentment to the current situation, they were Kihara’s beloved people. He wanted to make the best impression he could.

Surprisingly, it was Kihara who lightly tapped her wrist in warning. “Hands off. He's my toy to play with. You have your own.”

“Ki-chan, you're so rude,” Mari complained, but she did grant Mishima mercy. “What happened to sharing?”

“I don't share what's mine. You know that.”

“I’m not your toy,” Mishima said begrudgingly, though he leaned into Kihara just so he could see the menu with him. They were having Italian, so Mishima knew he was getting spaghetti bolognese and coke, but he still wanted to see what was on it.

“Sooo,” Hirose started, snatching Mishima's attention. “How's life, Mishima-san?”

“Weird,” Mishima said, glancing at Kihara pointedly. The man didn't grace him with any sign of acknowledgement. “But it could be worse.”

The last few days had been relatively peaceful, actually. His boss had been going easy on him since the Takano incident, and his articles had gained a decent amount of attention. Takano’s case made it to the national broadcast, and he was even invited to an interview after the memory chip’s data had been uploaded for all to see. He declined the invitation—everything he experienced was already written on the article, after all—but it was good to know that his work reached the masses.

(It felt, oddly, like avenging Maruyama’s death, instead of honoring him. Mishima wasn't sadistic, but the streak of satisfaction he felt after knowing that Takano had been killed shortly after his capture was edging too close to it. He'd repressed the feeling down out of shame. No one had to know of his worst moments.)

“Hmm. Not a milestone worthy of celebration, I assume, given Ki-chan’s nature,” Mari said, chin propped onto her bracketed hands.

Mishima laughed, shaky on the edges. “Not at all, but I managed.”

At least he hadn't died ever since the Takano incident. Lady luck had been in favor of him lately.

Kihara appeared to be unbothered by Mari’s jabs, instead prattling off a list of orders to the waiter. Mishima was about to pitch in his own orders when Kihara said, “One spaghetti bolognese and a coke. That will be all.”

Mishima stared at him. “How did you know I was going to order that?”

“What, like you order anything else?” Kihara snorted. “You’re a man of pattern.”

“You just said I was unpredictable a few minutes ago.”

“I said sometimes, not always. Do we need to get your ears checked?”

Mishima huffed, faux-annoyed. He looked at Hirose to return her question, but it died on his tongue as he realized the amused stares he was getting.

“What?” Mishima asked dumbly.

“Nothing!” Hirose quipped with a giggle. “Nothing at all!”

“You have guts, Mishima-san,” Mari commented nonchalantly, and Mishima had to stifle his laugh at the remark. He was the polar opposite. “How long have you been together?”

“Six months,” Mishima answered.

“Two years and a half,” Kihara butted in.

What? Mishima glanced at him, bewildered. “The hell, Kihara-san?”

“I wasn't going to let you go the moment we partnered together,” Kihara replied leisurely. “You know that.”

Mishima spluttered, inching away from him. He had his suspicions, but to have it said out loud, in front of the audience? Might as well jump out the window.

“Th— that doesn't mean we've been together for two years! I hated you for most of that time!”

Kihara offered him a crooked grin, one that spelled trouble. “Yeah, that era was pretty hot. We should revisit that again.”

Mishima was going to strangle him.

“Spare us the details, you two.” Mari’s exasperated voice cut through Mishima’s bloodlust. “Anyways, Mishima-san, did you know that Hirose constantly reads your articles?”

Hirose’s screech of, “Mom!” didn't distract Mishima from the sudden revelation. He glanced at the panicked Hirose, the ever-amused Mari, and blurted out, “She does?”

“She said she wanted to become a journalist right after coming home from Thailand,” Mari said, unbothered by her daughter's begging. “You're her inspiration, of sorts.”

“Mom!” Hirose tugged at her sleeve. “You’re making things worse, oh my god!”

“Well, I…” Mishima didn't know what to say. He swallowed the lump in his throat and uttered, “Thank you, but, um, Hirose-san, there are much better authors to study from…”

It was Kihara who spoke up, “Are you kidding me? Don't sell yourself short. You're my journalist for a reason.”

Mishima blinked. “You read my articles?”

“Informa is practically written all over your articles. Why wouldn't I?” Kihara shot back, leaning forward towards the distressed Hirose. “Anyway, this is news to me, too. I take it you're not planning to take my crown any time soon?”

“Oh, as if I had the chance to, in the first place. Mom wouldn't let me.”

“You're right, I won't,” Mari said harshly. “The Thailand trip was cutting it close.”

“I stayed out of the conflict zone most of the time!” Hirose exclaimed, exasperated. “Besides, I couldn't be any more reckless than Mishima if I tried.”

Mishima’s eyebrow twitched. “That was uncalled for.”

“She was just stating facts. You're not exactly the ideal role model,” Kihara said, unbothered. He slid a can of coke and an empty glass filled with ice towards him—since when did their drinks arrive? “You couldn't even eat without me helping afterwards.”

Mishima scowled, popping open his can of coke. “Stop holding that over my head.”

“Not my fault you don't like being taken care of.” Kihara poured a can of beer into his own glass. “But I’m not here to nag you all night. We’re here to celebrate!”

He raised said glass and everyone followed suit, clinking their drinks together. “Cheers!”

Mishima sipped straight out of the can, the fizzy drink blessing his tongue with a refreshing coldness. It was a better replacement for beers, compared to non-alcoholic beers themselves.

Curiosity lured, Kihara knocked their knees together to gain his attention. “You won’t pour it into the glass first?”

Mishima suppressed his flinch, shying away from Kihara’s sharp eyes. He glanced at the aforementioned glass and watched the ice melt steadily, then at his own hand over the can, trembling slightly.

He took another sip. “This is good enough.”

He saw Kihara frown from his peripheral vision. It told him enough, but he wasn’t about to broadcast his weakness in front of the people he wanted to impress, even at Kihara's behest. Using something as transparent as glass would make the tremors plain to see.

“I see,” Kihara told him, when Mishima knew he wasn’t done mulling over the matter at all.

As the night went on, Mishima felt… strange. It felt like attending any other dinner on a regular Tuesday. A casual get-to-know, the tipping-toes on the edge of what felt like an interrogation. Mari played nice, but so did Kawamura, and Mishima knew the dance all too well.

It was only when Kihara went to pay and Hirose excused herself to the bathroom, did Mari’s attitude shift.

“I’m sorry,” she said into the quietness of the restaurant.

Mishima paused, lifting his head. “What, why?”

“I’m sure Ki-chan’s put you through a lot,” Mari said with a humorless laugh. “He’s always had trouble trailing after him.”

The words settled into a stillness as Mari’s gaze softened into something akin to commiseration.

Mishima’s finger twitched at the expression. It wasn't something he wanted to receive at the moment. In the past, maybe he would feel grateful to have someone that understood how he felt. Now, when he had chosen to stand beside Kihara as his partner—hell, even fought to be recognized as one—he couldn't help but feel put-off by it.

“I'm fine with where I am now, thank you very much,” Mishima said, polite, but laced with enough bitterness that anyone with a working ear would catch onto his worsening mood.

“Oh, sweetheart. I didn't mean it like that.” Mari shook her head slowly. “I meant that… Ki-chan always had a tendency to seek company, even though he knew he would someday lead them into their demise.”

Mishima knitted his eyebrows together. “Excuse me?”

“You've seen how he lives his life,” Mari said, tilting her head ever-so-slightly. “The people around him always seem to end up miserable. It's like an omen, of sorts.”

With a shudder, Mishima inhaled sharply, trying to keep his fraying composure together.

“You're acting like he's a walking curse.”

“Is he not?”

If Mishima were any other situation, he would give her a laugh, just to appease her. Shake off the ominous mood. Move on to another topic.

Unfortunately, Mishima was well-acquainted with the title. Whispered repeatedly in his mind during his worst moments, it already hurt when he told himself that. Hearing it from someone who was supposedly precious to his partner, towards the man himself, stoked fury in Mishima’s guts.

(Besides, if anyone here was an omen, it would be Mishima.)

“He’s not a curse,” Mishima said, ice cold. “And why are you speaking like you know what I went through? You left him when he made a mistake, but I stood by him even at his lowest points. We are not the same, Mari-san.”

Mishima stood up harshly, mind spiralling. The rage ignited inside of him felt like an old friend. He needed to step away and collect his calm.

“Mishima?”

Kihara’s voice startled them both. He stood near their table, hands shoved into his trousers’ pockets, but the way he stared at Mishima betrayed his lax façade.

Mishima nearly flinched. He didn't want to make Kihara worry on such occasions.

He tried to smile reassuringly—albeit it spread too thinly across his face—and side-stepped him. “I just need some fresh air. I'll be back, promise.”

He didn't wait long to see Kihara’s reaction. Mishima stalked off towards the exit, his hands curling into fists.

He didn't falter, even as pain shot up his wrist.

(As Mishima’s footsteps faded in the distance, Kihara narrowed his eyes at Mari, all pretense gone.

“What did you do?”

“Oh, don't give me that look, Ki-chan,” Mari said, rolling her eyes. “I was just testing him, like how I'm supposed to.”

A thousand alarms blared in Kihara’s head. “‘Testing him?’”

“For your information, he passed,” Mari continued on blatantly. “Although I do admit his words hurt a bit. ‘You left him when he made a mistake, but I stayed even at his lowest points,’ he said. I suppose it's true.”

The anger bubbling in Kihara's gut overwhelmed the flutter in his heart. When meeting strangers, Mishima tended to play nice even when provoked, opting to ignore their cruel words to build good rapport. Especially those his friends held in esteem. That was when others insulted him—the line, it seemed, was when they started to diss the people he held close to his heart.

Of course Mari would know. An ex-hostess had to be good at luring their prey. That was how she got him ensnared long ago, back when naivety ruled his mind.

Kihara raked in a deep breath. “I'm glad that Hirose didn't turn out like you.”

“What about me?” Hirose asked, approaching them. She glanced at Mishima's empty seat and asked, “Where's Mishima-san?”

“The idiot ate too much and got a stomach ache,” Kihara said, a kind lie that Mari didn't call out. “Sorry, Hirose, we should probably call it a night. He's not looking too hot.”

“Eh, will he be fine?” Hirose asked, worried. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Kihara smiled fondly, the anger melting away. He squeezed her shoulder reassuringly and said, “Nah, you know how it is. Don't worry, he'll be back up and running around in no time.”

Hirose rolled her eyes, seemingly appeased. “Yeah, yeah. Go get your man, Dad. I'll call him later.”)

“Oh my god,” Mishima said, head in hands. “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.”

He ruined it. He ruined Christmas for Kihara. The one time he had to leave a good impression, he failed to keep his composure.

“I’m so hopeless,” he groaned, digging his palms into his eyes. His right hand throbbed in protest, though he paid it no mind. He deserved it. “What was I thinking—”

“Aibou-chan!”

Mishima yelped as he felt someone grab his shoulders and pulled him close. He struggled against the restraint, screeching, “Kihara-san! Let me go!”

“Nope! You're stuck with me now,” Kihara sing-sang, gripping him tighter. “C’mon, let's go home.”

He started to hoist Mishima up by his waist—shit, Mishima often forgot how strong the man was—and trudged towards the parking lot. It was a miracle he hadn’t slipped. At least, not yet.

“What about dinner?” Mishima asked, twisting his head around to see the restaurant. “I haven't said goodbye yet—”

“I already did for the both of us. Also, quit struggling. You're gonna make us fall.”

“I don't need to be carried around like this—”

Out of the blue, Kihara dropped him. Mishima stumbled, holding on to Kihara’s arm for dear life. “What the h— don’t just drop me like that!”

“You complain too much,” Kihara grumbled, flicking his forehead lightly. “Come on, it's cold out. You know I hate winter.”

Mishima snorted. Spoken like a true Kansai-born.

Kihara grabbed Mishima's good hand and started dragging him towards his car. His grip on Mishima was tight, leaving no chance for him to shake it off. Mishima wondered if he did something to piss him off.

The mistake he'd made dawned in his mind. Mishima recoiled at the memory, stopping in his tracks. It was enough to halt Kihara’s pace.

“Mishima?” Kihara asked, turning around.

“Sorry, it's just—” Mishima swallowed thickly, head bowed. A distinct hotness circled itself around his eyes. “I'm so sorry, Kihara-san.”

He heard Kihara shuffle closer. Mishima, pointedly, didn't spare him a glance. Couldn't even meet his eyes if he wanted to.

“Oi. What are you sorry for, you idiot?” Kihara asked quietly. “You didn't do anything wrong.”

“I—”

Shit. Mishima blinked away his tears, his hands curling into loose fists. “I, um, snapped at Mari-san earlier. I-I think I ruined her impression of me—”

Kihara’s poorly-stifled chortle interrupted his train of thoughts.

It was enough reason for Mishima to lift his head and stare at him, bewildered.

“...Kihara-san?”

“Did you really think I wanted her approval?” Kihara said, his sentence broken up by a couple of snickers in-between. “The only approval I cared about was Hirose’s, and you already got it, anyways. If it makes you feel better, Mari said that you passed with flying colors. Not like it matters.”

Mishima blinked slowly, gathering his bearings. A stray tear dropped from the corner of his eyes, though he didn't feel like crying anymore. Snapped out of his dejection by Kihara’s ridiculous act—call it the Kihara effect.

“Then why did you take me to meet her?”

“Isn't it obvious?” Kihara asked with a small grin, wiping the droplet of tears away and tapping Mishima’s nose lightly. “I just wanted to show you off.”

Oh.

Mishima shrugged off his grip, brushing past him to unlock the car. The way those words ignited something in his gut was too hard to ignore.

“Let’s go,” he muttered bashfully. “Didn’t you say you were cold?”

“Aww, my idiot gets shy so easily.”

“Shut up or I’m leaving you here.”

Mishima scrolled past the email notification and frowned when he noticed a new message from Nana.

Are you going to the Christmas party today?

“I forgot about that,” Mishima thought out loud, scratching the back of his head somewhat groggily. In all honesty, he didn’t want to go. Yesterday’s events had wrung the energy out of him. Dealing with a bunch of rowdy Yakuza right after that sounded hellish.

Then again, it was Kawamura and Nana. He didn't want to disappoint them. Besides, he'd bought a gift for the secret santa game a week ago, anyway.

—That was how he found himself standing in front of the izakaya in the evening, his nerves on fire.

“Just until the secret santa is over…” he muttered to himself, then raked in a deep breath. “Here we go.”

Stepping into the izakaya during Christmas had always been a shock to him. The entire ground floor was decorated with bright, twinkling lights and garlands. With the orange lights, it felt warmer than usual, the group’s merry mood bleeding through every corner of the room. The Christmas tree on the edge of the room only made the feeling stronger.

“Mishima!” Kuzuo was the first to greet him, patting him heartily on the back. “Merry Christmas, my friend!”

Mishima smiled at the red flushing Kuzuo’s cheeks. “It's only 7 PM and you're this drunk already? Merry Christmas indeed.”

“Ah, this is just—hic!—a pregame! Come, come, Boss has been expecting you.”

Of course he had, Mishima thought as he let himself be maneuvered through the room. They eventually made it to the corner sofa, the seat they frequented, and waved to the people sitting there.

“Number Two!” Nana called, her face lighting up. “You made it!”

“Yeah, well, it’d be rude not to,” Mishima admitted shyly, taking a seat next to her. He took a look around and realized someone was missing. “Where's Ai-chan?”

“Oh, she wanted to celebrate Christmas with her friends this year.” Nana giggled. “She's staying over at their house.”

Ah, that meant Nana was free to drink as she pleased. That explained her cheery mood.

“Ooh, look who we've got here!” An arm slung itself around the span of Mishima's shoulders, earning a yelp. “Our resident idiot finally showed up!”

Mishima scowled as Kawamura wrestled him into a light chokehold, his other hand mussing his hair. He replied, sarcasm dripping down his voice, “Merry Christmas to you too, Kawamura-san. Are you drunk already?”

“Don't offend me like that. You know I handle my drinks well!”

Here was a secret: Kawamura, in fact, didn't handle his drinks well. His alcohol tolerance was better than Mishima, but that wasn’t saying much. Three to four shots of sake and he would be down on the floor, napping away.

Despite everything, Mishima was feeling generous today, so he wasn't going to point it out. “Whatever you say. Can you let go of me already?!”

“Boo, where’s your Christmas spirit?” Kawamura pouted, though he did oblige to Mishima’s request, opting to reach one of the bottles on the center of the table instead. “What’s it gonna be tonight, then? Feeling some red wine?”

Truth to be told, Mishima hadn’t viewed alcohol the same way ever since he met Kihara. The man tricked him to do his biddings far too many times with the beverage in the beginning. “Um, I don’t think I’ll drink tonight.”

“Lameeee,” Kawamura said, clucking his tongue. “Fine. Some sparkling wine, then. Not as strong as the average wine, right? Enough to suit your palate?”

…Oh, whatever.

Mishima slid his glass towards Kawamura with the same resignation as he felt whenever death crept in his shadows. With a bright grin, Kawamura poured the white sparkling wine into his glass, and raised the whole bottle in the air.

“Cheers!”

Mishima smiled weakly, joining the rest of the table. “Cheers.”

Half an hour later, his vision was swimming, and his mind floated aimlessly. His blood buzzed in his vein. Nothing felt right anymore, and yet, it was the first time Mishima felt like he could breathe properly in ages.

“Aww, Number Two, your face is red,” Nana said, giggling as she took away his glass. “It’s about time to stop, isn’t it?”

“Noooooo,” Mishima whined. “I can still drink!” He reaches for the glass, only to end up on Nana’s lap in a show of failure. If Kihara was here, he’d surely laugh at him.

“‘Kihara-san?’” Nana quoted, looking down at him in confusion. It clicked then that Mishima must’ve voiced his thoughts subconsciously. “Kawamura was planning on having you crash upstairs, but I think Kihara wouldn’t mind picking you up, if you’d like him to.”

So Kawamura was planning on getting him drunk, one way or another. “Bastard.”

“Hey, don’t talk about your boyfriend like that,” Nana chided, misunderstood, as she looked through her phone. “He cares about you.”

Mishima perked up. “He does?”

“More than you know,” Nana promised. “The thing is, he really sucks at saying what he wants to say. I asked him about how serious you two were, and he straight-up said, ‘we’re partners now, isn’t that telling enough?’ Who says things like that! I was begging him to tell you plainly that he liked you, like a normal human being!”

“Does that mean he doesn’t like me?” Mishima asked, a little downtrodden. The disappointment must’ve been plain to see, judging by the flash of panic in Nana’s eyes.

“No, no! Of course he does!” she said, then leaned down, as though to whisper a secret. “He’d never have just anyone drag him around like you did during the Thailand fiasco. As far as I know, it’s only been you, Number Two.”

Mishima hummed and closed his eyes, uncaring of Nana’s hair tickling his cheek. It was a nice enough sentiment to dream about. Perhaps it could be his reality once he woke up.

(Kihara found Nana easily enough. She was perched on her usual seat, next to the wall. He avoided the yakuza drunkards with ease, having done this a million times before, though rarely for this purpose.

“Hey, Nana,” he greeted and glanced at the dead weight on her lap. “Sorry about him. He stays off alcohol lately, I didn’t know he’d drink tonight.”

“It’s fine.” Nana waved away his worries. “Nii-san wrapped him into this. You know how he is.”

What Kawamura wanted, he achieved by sheer will, Kihara thought dryly as he looked over to the drunk man. He looked like he’d collapse into the floor at any given time, red-faced and hiccuping every second or so, though he still laughed as though tomorrow didn’t exist. He was going to regret that tomorrow, but that wasn’t Kihara’s business.

What he should worry about was the idiot laying on Nana’s lap, dozing off like a damn toddler in his nap time.

“Oi, Mishima?” Kihara called out and shook the man’s shoulder. “Mishima? God damn, Kawamura did a number on you, didn’t he?”

Mishima blinked up at the shadow that eclipsed him. “Kihara-san?”

“Oh, good, there’s still some sense in you. At least you’re not blackout drunk.”

“‘M hereee,” Mishima slurred, and scrunched his nose, as though he found his own voice too loud. “‘M not drunk…”

“Sure you aren’t.” Kihara snorted, slinging an arm around his shoulder and hoisting him up. “Let’s get you home, dumbass.”

Mishima stumbled forward, and though Kihara steadied him in time, his stomach still jumped at the motion. “‘M also not dumb…”

“Most of the time, you are, and that’s okay,” Kihara said. “If you throw up on me, I’ll kill you.”

“You wouldn’t,” Mishima countered, solely because he knew, and he wasn’t afraid of using that knowledge against Kihara. Brat.

Kihara sighed. “Figure of speech, you idiot. Now c’mon.”

He decided it was best to leave Mishima’s car in the izakaya parking lot for the night and called a taxi instead. Kihara half-expected Mishima to curl in the corner and doze off like he always did, and yet, here Kihara was, stuck with Mishima’s weight on his shoulder, his hands curled around Kihara’s arm even if the heater was turned on to a pleasant heat.

Kihara knew Mishima was a sleepy-drunk, but apparently, he could also be a clingy-drunk, too. He wasn’t like this with Kawamura. Didn’t even clung to Nana like a panda.

Perhaps there was something else about Kihara that made him act like this.

“Mishima?” Kihara said, lightly shaking him awake as they made it to their destination. “Hey, we’re here. C’mon, don’t you wanna sleep in your bed?”

Apparently, the mention of his bed was all it took for Mishima to grumble awake. Kihara caught him before he could flail his way out of the taxi, handing the taxi driver money with a thankful nod. Like clockwork, he slid his arm around Mishima’s shoulder, shouldering half of his weight.

When they made it to Mishima’s front door, Kihara hovered a hand over the key in his pocket, and paused. It wasn’t a spare that Mishima gave him. No, Kihara forged without him knowing, in case of an emergency.

Trust goes both ways, his subconsciousness reminded himself. Ask for his keys. Compromise. Do you want him to leave again?

With a sullen sigh, Kihara asked, “Mishima, your keys?”

“Mm?” Mishima startled awake.

“Your keys.”

“Ohhh. Um, jacket pocket, I think?”

Kihara searched his jacket and found the key with a familiar cat keychain dangling off of it. A gift from Ai, if he remembered correctly.

As soon as the door clicked open, Mishima stumbled forward and headed into his bedroom immediately. Kihara didn’t have the heart to stop him. He simply locked the door behind him and took off his shoes, tailing after Mishima, who was now halfway on his bed. Asleep.

Kihara willed himself not to sigh. “You could’ve taken off your shoes before you go to bed, you know? For a guy who rants about my etiquette, you don’t have much of it, yourself.”

Despite his nagging, Kihara removed his shoes and placed them neatly by the entrance. He hoisted Mishima and pulled him into the bed, which creaked at both their weights. God, Mishima really needed to buy a new one.

Kihara started to strip him off his jacket when he felt something buzz in its pocket. Carefully, he pulled out Mishima’s phone, and frowned in disapproval when he saw the notification.

“‘Is Precognition Merely Pseudoscience?’” He read it aloud, glancing at Mishima incredulously. “Why are you subscribed to this bullshit newsletter? Are you really that dumb?”

The second those words were uttered, Kihara disagreed with himself. Mishima was slow, and could be frustrating to teach, but he was smart when it came to theory. Applying that theory was where the problems lied. He wouldn’t believe whatever the newsletter was spewing, but perhaps the idea that it conveyed intrigued him enough to read them.

“Kihara-san,” Mishima slurred, snapping Kihara out of his thoughts.

“Mm?” Kihara replied, placing the phone on the nightstand. He got up to hang the jacket on the back of the entrance door, only to be stopped by Mishima’s hand curling around his wrist. “What?”

“Don’t go,” he pleaded quietly. “You’re warm.”

Was that why Mishima was plastered all over Kihara on the ride home? He felt cold?

“I’m not going anywhere,” Kihara said with a short laugh, ruffling the man’s hair. “Sleep, dumbass. It’s three o’clock and you’re gonna be bitching about your head tomorrow.”

Mishima mumbled something incoherent before falling still, out like a damn light.

Kihara studied the bridge of his nose, crooked from being broken once or twice. The faint blemish over his nose and the beauty mark scattered over his face. The slight flutter of his eyebrows as he sniffed indignantly and buried his face in the pillow.

His idiot always slept like there was nothing to worry about.

When the sight got too much, Kihara looked away, making his way towards the coat hanger instead. As though he hadn’t memorized each detail in the span of a minute.)

From: [email protected]

Subject: Is Precognition Merely Pseudoscience?

To: [email protected]

Attachment: —

Mishima felt his phone vibrate, and frowned upon seeing Kihara’s missed call.

“When did he even…?” he muttered to himself, then shook his head, pocketing his phone. “I’ll call him back later.”

There was much more important business to attend to, after all.

The New Year’s dawn was quiet. Serene. Under its veil, new beginnings awaited, and blessings were sure to follow. It was why people visited the shrine after the sun had risen, why they prayed to gods they weren’t even sure existed.

Unfortunately, with beginnings came the end.

Mishima stood in front of the grave, head bowed. The sunlight had barely peeked over the horizons, glinting off the edges of the carved letters—The Maruyama Family.

With a deep breath, Mishima kneeled and placed a box of cigarettes on top of the stone.

“Maru-san,” he whispered into the tranquility. “It’s been a while.”

He wracked his brain for something to say. An apology, a story, anything.

His mind drew blank.

What was there to tell? An apology would be meaningless. A story would be confessing his worst moments. He had done everything in his power to avenge Maruyama's death. The chapter had closed, the conclusion had been reached—it was time to move on.

Still, the guilt lingered.

Mishima dared to say he’d known grief as well as death. They come hand-in-hand. Death took, and grief haunted. Death was final, but grief was endless, because grief was a scream that died down into a whisper—it died down only to linger.

There were shadows where they used to stand. The first time, it was his mom. Then there was Maruyama, a dear friend.

To Mishima, their loss felt like a gunshot wound—it hit faster than the eye could blink, an impact that left you breathless, before the excruciating pain spread throughout your body.

Perhaps he;d recover from it, perhaps he wouldn’t. Those who continued living bear the weight of their corpse, their shadow over yours.

Mishima knew very well that the pain in his chest was there to stay.

“Oi, Mishima.”

A thwack on top of his head.

Mishima yelped, scrambling away and falling over clumsily. He rubbed the sore spot, looking over to see Kihara standing over him, phone in hand. Was that what he hit him with?

“That hurt, Kihara-san!” he protested, getting up immediately. “What are you doing here? How did you—?”

“You didn’t answer your phone, dumbass. I always know where you are,” Kihara said, ominously vague. “You’re thinking too much again.”

Mishima halted his retort at that. Pursed his lips instead. “That’s none of your business.”

“It is when you wear that expression.” Kihara squished his cheeks and forced him to meet his eyes, frowning. “It doesn’t suit you.”

Mishima blinked rapidly, confused. He attempted to ask what Kihara was referring to, though all he could manage was a garbled, “Whuh expressionuh?”

Kihara, however, merely stayed quiet. His gaze hovered over Mishima’s face, contemplating, disapproving.

The answer, of course, never came.

Kihara tapped Mishima’s cheeks twice before releasing his hold on him. “Lighten up, Mishima. It's the dawn of a new year, but you still look like you're trapped in the past.”

Mishima flinched. “I wasn't—”

“You did what you could,” Kihara cut off his lie, quiet. “Hell, you did what I couldn’t do at the time. I’m sure Maruyama appreciated your effort. It’s time to let it rest, yeah?”

Kihara was right. The dust had already settled, and disturbing it wouldn't do anyone any favors. The only way was forward, into the dawn.

Worrying his bottom lip, Mishima looked away. “I know.”

There was a pause. Mishima felt the gentle rays of sunlight hit his skin, the cold air tousling his hair. The peace contrasted the chaos inside his mind, but for once, Mishima tried to let his thoughts rest.

Then there was a hand tugging on his own. Dragging him away.

“Come on, it's New Years,” Kihara exclaimed. “We should eat something that fits the theme. Up for some breakfast soba?”

“Don't you have anyone to visit, Kihara-san?” Mishima blurted out. Kihara had never spared time for him during New Years before. Surely, he had something planned?

Kihara slanted him a meaningful glance. “Don't you?”

If Kihara hadn't been practically dragging him away from the graveyard, Mishima would've stopped. There were many people he should pay a visit to, two of which he shared a last name with.

How long had it been since he last visited his mom’s grave? High school, maybe. The night he ran away. He wondered if his dad took care of her grave well. Did he change the flowers and keep the incense burning, or was he so far gone that he didn't even care to do those menial tasks for her?

Mishima should check. He could, if he wanted to.

He didn't deserve to.

All Mishima could do was swallow the lump in his throat. He kept his gaze on the distant cityscape. On Kihara’s windblown hair, on the warm hand that enveloped his own.

“No,” Mishima answered. “Not anymore.”

Heavy as his feet may be, he moved forward.

Admittedly, the steaming bowl of soba was tempting on a cold morning. It was Mishima’s first time having it for breakfast, but he supposed it wasn't too off-putting. He’d had weirder food for breakfast before.

What troubled him, however, was the pair of chopsticks lying on the side of the table.

Mishima hated to say it, but there was no way his hand was deft enough for the task, especially on such a cold morning. The tremors in his right hand had gotten worse ever since the weather got colder, as well as the pain.

He had avoided eating in public just so he could spare himself the shame of asking for a spoon or a fork. On the occasions he had to, he opted for gyuudon or hamburgers, something that didn’t require chopsticks. After all, what kind of proper adult ate with those? He wasn’t a kid anymore.

“Mishima?” Kihara said around a mouthful of noodles. “Why haven’t you touched your bowl yet? It’s good!”

“I, um…” Mishima fidgeted with the edge of his shirt. “I just…”

The truth was lodged in his throat. The shame burning in his gut was too much to bear, so he looked away, unable to answer Kihara’s question.

Yet as always, Kihara saw through him.

“Oh, it’s your hand, isn’t it?” he asked, nonchalant, as though he’d been aware of Mishima’s issue for some time. It wouldn’t surprise Mishima. “Does the cold hurt?”

Mutely, Mishima nodded. He flexed his right hand in an attempt to stabilize it, only to pull it back into a loose fist when it made the burning sensation worse.

He heard Kihara sigh, shifting in his seat. “You know, you could’ve told me sooner.”

“What for?” Mishima mumbled. “It’s my own issue to deal with.”

Kihara hit his head lightly with a box. It didn’t hurt, though Mishima flinched nonetheless. “Because I’d have given you this sooner, you idiot.”

The object was shoved into his hands at the speed of light. Mishima observed the box carefully, blinking rapidly in surprise when he realized what it was. “...A hand brace?”

“Merry late Christmas, or something like that,” Kihara said, already digging into his bowl of soba again. “Try it on. It’ll help.”

With pursed lips, Mishima followed the instructions on the box and fitted the brace over his hand. It was… unexpectedly comfortable. It forced to keep his hand steady, wrapped around his wrist to the palm of his hand. He could tell that the brace wasn’t made from cheap materials, either. It was durable, flexible, and perfectly snug.

This wasn’t just some brace sold at the pharmacy—Kihara had carefully selected a well-made one, just for him.

It gave Mishima enough confidence to pick up the chopsticks. The utensil was stable in his hand. “...Thanks, Kihara-san.”

Kihara gave a noncommittal grunt as he slurped down an obscene amount of soba noodles. Mishima took that as a signal to start eating, plunging his chopsticks into the hot broth, relishing in the steam that hit his face as he fished out the noodles. It tasted heavenly in the cold weather.

“You know you could’ve asked for a fork, right?” Kihara asked sometime in the middle of their feast. “It’s not shameful or anything. It’s a permanent injury, for fuck’s sake.”

Mishima paused, unwittingly glancing at said hand. “No, it… It was nothing I couldn't handle.”

“You were contemplating over using chopsticks five minutes ago,” Kihara retorted, whacking his head. “Get over it, idiot. You need help, so you ask for it. There’s nothing embarrassing about that.”

Mishima eyed Kihara, exasperated. He thought that, of all people, Kihara would understand. Perhaps not.

In truth, asking for help was something Mishima never got used to. He was used to standing on his own two feet. Supporting himself when nobody did, treating himself when he was sick, solving his death-related dilemmas alone because no one else would believe him even if he told them. He might whine about it along the way, but in the end, he had to pull himself through somehow.

“If you're too embarrassed to ask for a stranger's help, you can always ask for mine,” Kihara reminded quietly. “Or Kawamura. Hell, even Nana. It doesn't matter who, we'll help you out if you need us.”

Mishima's mind short-circuited. “Um.”

“I'm really regretting our agreement. Clearly you're still an idiot,” Kihara hissed, pinching Mishima’s cheek in warning. “When I told you we were partners, that means we're partners, dumbass. Everything is a two-way street. I get to drag you into my mess, and you get to drag me into yours.”

“Since when do you care about fairness?” Mishima blurted out. “And I'm not the one who willingly starts trouble.”

“You follow me regardless. Look where that got you.”

Well. Mishima had nothing to say to that. It wasn't that he actively sought death—on the contrary, it was death who liked to hover its scythe over him. If he couldn't escape it, might as well use it to his advantage.

At Mishima's silence, Kihara heaved a sigh. “Your stubbornness makes my head hurt,” he complained, knocking their knees together under the table. “You were the one who told me to take responsibility.”

Mishima glanced at him warily. “Is that what this is about? Taking responsibility?”

“Partly.” Kihara huffed, but the small smile gracing his lips betrayed his exasperation. “Mostly, I just wanna take care of you.”

Mishima tore his gaze away, stirring his bowl of soba distractedly. The noodles had become quite bloated. He really should finish his food quickly. “Isn’t taking care of someone tiring?”

“I get to see you all needy and cute. That's enough payoff for me.”

“Ki-ha-ra-san.”

“Aww, come on, you're no fun!”

Mishima couldn't bring himself to brush off the notification this time around.

It reminded him of his younger self. Time travel was a topic he liked to delve into, back when the discovery of his curse was new and terrifying. To others, it was a theory or a thought experiment. To Mishima, however, it was reality. The idea of knowing an answer even the cleverest researchers didn't was something he took a sick satisfaction in.

He hadn't touched the topic ever since his mother's death, when ignorance felt more like a bliss than knowing.

That was then. Now, after he was already cursed with knowledge, what was the use in evading the topic?

Without a second thought, Mishima clicked on the link. It explored multiple thought experiments and theories about time paradoxes, some of which he was familiar with. The predestination paradox, where someone traveled back in time to stop an event, only to find out that they caused that event to happen by going back in time. The bootstrap paradox, where an object was sent to the past, and the cause-and-effect created the future where that object originated from.

Mishima remembered thinking that these theories were silly. He couldn't blame the scientists or the writers that made the theories popular—the idea of time travel was fun. It implied things that were still beyond human comprehension.

The next sentence he read, however, made him pause.

...But what if, instead of creating a paradox, time travel produces a new universe instead? Enter: the Many Worlds Theory.

“The Many Worlds Theory…?” Mishima repeated, perplexed. He hadn’t heard of that one before.

This theory correlates to the quantum world theory. It proposes that every quantum mechanical event has multiple outcomes. Essentially, there are multiple, non-interacting worlds aside from ours. Let’s say you got into an accident. From there, our world splits into two—the one where you survived, and the one where you died. Both worlds exist side-to-side, but we aren’t aware of the other. This process is called a decohesion.

That means, if you time traveled into the past, then the world would split. Instead of rewriting history or creating a paradox, you would simply see a different outcome depending on the choices you made.

Mishima felt like the air was punched out of his lungs.

“A splitting world,” Mishima said, head spinning. “That means whenever I die, that world…”

...continued on regardless of my absence.

Mishima couldn't bring himself to complete the sentence. It felt like a guillotine hanging over his head. He had always thought that, whenever death took hold of him, history simply rewrote itself alongside his death. That the decisions his past-self made hadn't made an impact on anything and would simply be erased.

If this theory were true, then he was dead wrong. The consequences of his own actions stained history.

There existed a world where Mishima died that night at the izakaya bathroom. Or where he died to torture, his body left mangled for Kihara to find. Or where he died in Kihara's arms, with his pleas high in his ears, desperate to not lose his partner a second time.

Or where he died to his dad's hands curled around his neck.

Mishima threw his phone and ran to the bathroom. He barely made it to the toilet before emptying his stomach, hands twitching into loose fists.

There existed a world where he left his loved ones so cruelly. Or where he had never met them at all.

Mishima flushed the toilet before leaning against the bathroom wall, feeling boneless. Distantly, he wondered what happened to his friends, in a world where he wasn't there anymore. Out of everyone, he knew Kawamura and Kihara would take his loss the hardest. They witnessed his death most of the time, often on their way to save Mishima from whatever bullshit he got roped into. He wondered if Kawamura blamed himself like he did with Ainosuke’s passing, if Kihara would ever forgive him for leaving him behind.

But that also meant that there was a world where he had successfully bled himself out to save Maruyama. A world where he was brave enough to try and save his mom. He wondered how those worlds turned out to be like. Perhaps he wouldn't be the person he was today, wallowing in regret despite his best attempts to move forward.

It made forgiving himself a lot harder.

Mishima laughed dully, the back of his head hitting the wall with a dull thump. “I’m pathetic, aren't I?”

Despite everything his friends and partner told him, in the end, the guilt and grief still had him in a chokehold. Living with the consequences was a torture crueler than any he'd been through. He was trying, goddamn it, but it was harder to move on knowing that he could've prevented his loved ones from passing.

It was just a theory, Mishima repeated in his head. There’s nothing scientifically proven about it.

A distant ding! echoed.

Mishima lifted his head and stumbled back into the living room. He saw his phone lit up with a notification. Another email.

Mishima’s blood ran cold.

Thud.

Mishima fell to the tatami floor. Fear reigned over his body.

“How…?” he asks, trembling. “How did anyone…?”

Backing away slightly from his phone, Mishima looked around, wide eyes searching for any signs of cameras.

Mishima’s back hit the wall. “Who— just who are you?!”

The world exploded into a brilliant light.