n1chotine
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- &TEAM (Band) (12)
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Summary
It had been a year since the first body got back up. The first whisper of movement in what was supposed to stay still. A year since the silence after the sirens, since the world folded inward on itself and began to feed on the softest parts. The living had called it infection, or curse, or punishment—whatever word best explained what they couldn’t understand. Harua no longer used any of them. To him, it was just the natural order, rewritten.
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Nine survivors, a dead country, and a boy who can't stop running from himself.
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Summary
Taki leaned against the edge of the desk, shoulders slumping as if the weight of the evening—or maybe the cookie jar itself—had finally caught up with him. He exhaled a shaky breath and let the words tumble out before he could second-guess them.
“There's no need to interrogate me...I… I wasn’t stealing the cookies for the snacks,” he said, voice low but fast, like he was trying to outrun the embarrassment. “I was… using it as an excuse. To get your attention.”
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Someone has been stealing Harua's cookies at work and he's determined to catch the thief in the act.
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Harua let out a breath, not quite a moan, just a sound of reluctant surrender. His mind drifted again, absurdly, to the fact that he'd left his phone charger in the car. And that the car had been parked crooked in the driveway, and he was sure the neighbors had noticed. He pictured them whispering about it in their kitchen: that boy, he can't even park straight.
"Stay with me," Taki whispered, as if sensing the detour. His voice was ragged, forehead pressed to Harua's stomach, eyes closed like prayer. "Don't think about—whatever. Just me."
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And then Harua kissed him.
Right there, under a half-broken streetlight with moths orbiting it like little chaotic moons. Not long. Not dramatic. Just a closed-mouth kiss that landed soft and sure and a little tired. The kind of kiss that didn’t ask for anything. The kind that stayed.
When they pulled apart, Taki rested his forehead against Harua’s, breathing slow. “God, I’m going to remember this when I’m seventy.”
“I’ll remind you,” Harua said.
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Harua and Taki walk home from a party, come across a beach, and talk about growing up.
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“What,” he says, and it’s not funny. It’s not smug. It’s small. “Wait, what—what was that?”
Harua doesn’t move. Doesn’t press. “A kiss.”
“No, yeah, I got that,” Taki says, too fast, voice thin. He’s still not looking at him. “I just. I didn’t—like. That’s not. I didn’t mean—”
Harua watches him. Quiet. Still.
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Taki and Harua play bedwars, Taki leans in as a joke, but Harua isn't kidding.