Archive of Our Own ^beta

Haru Katou doesn’t know jack shit about his late grandfather, much less that the man owned a manor out in the countryside, a three hour drive away from the city.

It’s a nice place, he thinks.

There’s a large gate around the residence, far out past what Haru supposes is the front lawn—a large plot of vibrant green that could quite frankly serve as a soccer field. The land extends even farther at the back of the house, another sea of restless emerald, rolling waves of grass in the wind.

Haru has never lived in a house this big, but he’s about to. It was left to him, after all, and there’s no use letting such a beautiful place go to waste. So, he’ll spend this summer here, he thinks. It’ll be good for him. He needs a break.

Summers in Japan aren’t terribly hot. In contrast, Haru thinks the season is rather kind. He can walk outside, and the sunlight will bathe his skin in a warm glow, and it’ll feel almost like a hug.

So, cocooned by an eminent warmth, Haru opens up the gate at the front of the residence and walks towards the large, white wooden door of the house, front and center.

It’s time to settle in.

-

Despite the warmth outside, with the sun’s bright rays lighting up everything in sight, the manor is oddly rather cold. And dusty. And dark.

Haru flips on the light switch at the entrance hall and winces when he spots the cobwebs woven between the lights and hanging crystals of the chandelier. He takes in the sight of the stairway, curved and slightly wider at its base, with a light film of dust along its railing.

Haru sighs and sets his suitcase and duffel bag down at the door.

“Looks like I’ve got my work cut out for me,” he murmurs, and flinches when his own voice is echoed back to him. 

Haru is used to living alone and talking to himself to keep from going absolutely insane, but this… this is a different kind of alone. At least at his cramped apartment in the city, he knew he had neighbors just a wall or two away. And there was a main road just down from a set of stairs, and—and there was his job, with his coworkers.

Haru shakes his head. He didn’t come out here to think about work and beat himself up about careless mistakes. This vacation—it’s a vacation, he firmly thinks—is for him to rest up, and be gentle with himself, and resolutely not think about work.

At least he has an ungodly amount of cleaning to do to keep himself occupied.

Haru rolls up the sleeves of his white button-down, digs up some old rags from a cabinet in the kitchen, and gets right to work, the way he always throws himself into his tasks. He’s always wondered whether his drive and motivation stems from his liking of what he’s doing, or if it’s because he thinks he has something to make up for.

He’s beginning to think it’s the latter option, but that’s neither here nor there.

Back to the task at hand, then.

Frankly, the entire mansion needs a good clean through. Haru has done enough investigating at different homes to know that the wood floors could use a new coat of polish, and the marble counters in the kitchen should probably be replaced, and the sunlight isn’t being let through the windows properly.

He finds some cleaning supplies under the sink—a bottle of Windex, a half-empty container of bleach, and some dish soap. No wood cleaner. Haru rubs his nose. He’ll have to improvise, then.

He finds a little bucket out on the back porch, with just a little bit of water and a few dead little insects floating within. He tosses the water out onto the grass, rinses the bucket at the small faucet attached to the side of the house, and heads back inside.

Haru has never exactly been fond of cleaning, but he knows how important it is. His apartment in the city got messy so easily with so little space. The kitchen especially tended to be a disaster area—Haru hasn’t always been a good cook, or a clean one.

So this—this is familiar. The feeling of pulling on a pair of elbow-high dishwashing gloves, dipping a rag into soapy water, and scrubbing away. It’s methodical and routine, and it’s comforting. And there’s plenty to clean.

Haru can do this.

He can live out here, and he won’t need any help. 

He’s not an invalid. 

He’s not.

Haru starts cleaning at the threshold itself, the part where the wood floor meets the flat metal at the door frame. There’s dirt and some tiny insects trapped there, but he scrapes it all out with the rag, using his fingernail to trace at lines and corners and edges.

As he makes his way into the rest of the house, running his rag along the floor at the main entrance hall, he distantly hears the pitter-patter of fat, heavy rain droplets hitting the windows, and the door, and the roof.

It’s the perfect weather for a nap, Haru thinks, swiping away at the sweat that has gathered on his brow. But he’s not sure of the state of the bedrooms—the sheets likely need to be washed, and maybe even the mattress will need to be replaced. He hasn’t even checked the state of the bathrooms yet.

Resigned, Haru eyes one of the ornate sofas in the parlor and wonders if it would be comfortable enough for him to rest on, just for a few minutes. But before he can consider the idea any further, there are three sharp knocks at his door.

Who the hell…?

Haru didn’t tell anyone back in the city where he’d be going for the summer. Did a random passerby manage to get stranded in the rain?

He gets up off the floor and reaches for the door, but it’s flung open into his own face before he can even grab the handle. The white wood narrowly, but thankfully, misses his nose.

“Hey, wh—?!” Haru cuts himself off and blinks.

At the door is a very attractive man, just a few inches shorter than Haru himself, dressed in a crisply pressed black suit, with the sternest and bluest eyes Haru has ever seen. The man closes his black umbrella and shakes it off on Haru’s front porch, splattering droplets of water across the threshold.

“I require shelter from the rain,” the man says, before striding into Haru’s home, completely uninvited.

“Um, and who the hell are you?” Haru demands. The rain seems to be absolutely pouring now, so he shuts the door before any more of it can get inside. “Hey! At least take your fucking shoes off!”

The man hums and unlaces what must have been a very clean, nicely polished pair of shoes, and leaves them near the entrance, their soles still caked with wet brown clumps and a singular dead leaf.

“I am Kambe Daisuke,” the man says, as if that gives him the right to barge into Haru’s house and track grass and mud everywhere, and look like he owns the place while he’s doing it. It’s his dark, slicked back hair that makes him look like some kind of nobility, Haru thinks. The man absolutely reeks of privilege.

“That’s great,” says Haru with no small amount of sarcasm leaking into his tone. “That’s really great. I’m Katou Haru, and this is my house, and I don’t appreciate you being here.”

His words seem to fall on deaf ears—Kambe is already at the foot of the stairs, peering up curiously at the second floor. “I require shelter from the rain,” he simply repeats.

Well. As irritated as Haru may be, he’s not the kind of monster that will throw someone out into a deluge and wish them all the best. The umbrella wouldn’t be able to fend off the wind that Haru can hear whipping against the walls and rattling the windows of the house, and the man’s suit doesn’t look like it should get wet. Not that Haru actually cares.

He suppresses a long sigh. “Just go sit in the fucking parlor,” he finally says, pointing towards the room on the left. “And don’t make a mess.”

Kambe runs an elegant finger along the stairway railing and inspects it. “This place is already quite a mess,” he observes, rubbing his thumb and dirty forefinger together.

Haru glares at him, and Kambe only smirks, his crystal blue eyes glinting, before doing as he’s told, slinking gracefully off towards the parlor.

Asshole.

It’s not until Haru walks into one of the bathrooms ten minutes later that he realizes there’s a smudge of dirt smack dab in the center of his forehead.

“You’re fucking kidding me,” he mutters as he wets a paper towel and rubs the dark spot away. That Kambe dickhead didn’t say a thing. Too busy insulting Haru’s mansion, he supposes.

When he’s tidied up and has dumped the browned soap water down the drain, Haru heads toward the parlor to see what his guest is up to. The rain hasn’t let up, so Haru can’t exactly kick him out, but he doesn’t want to leave the man alone for too long either.

For some reason, he finds himself wanting to be a good host. It must be the house putting such weird urges in his head. He doesn’t know why he gives a flying fuck what Kambe thinks about himself as a host, or the state of the manor itself, for that matter.

Well, whatever.

Kambe seems to be done judging Haru’s place, at any rate. Haru finds him sitting on a cushioned chair, his legs crossed, flipping through a book that looks like it’s a few seconds away from falling apart.

“Your taste in reading material could use some assistance,” Kambe says in greeting without looking up from the page he’s perusing.

“Those aren’t my books,” Haru mumbles, leaning against the doorframe.

He didn’t even know there were books in this room in the first place. He would’ve figured they were all in the library—he’s going to go ahead and assume there’s a library amongst the bazillion rooms in the house—but he supposes his grandfather must’ve kept a few here to entertain guests with.

“What are you looking at?” he asks.

“Plato’s Republic.” Despite claiming to not like the book, Kambe closes it with care and sets it down on the low table in front of him. “What do you mean, these aren’t your books?”

“This place was my grandfather’s before I inherited it,” Haru explains. “I just got here today.”

“I see.” Kambe stands and brushes invisible dust particles off his lap. “Your grandfather let this place fall into a state of disrepair.”

“It’s not that bad, just a little dirty. And I like cleaning,” Haru says, and then is surprised at himself for his admission. He doubts Kambe Daisuke gives two shits what he does or doesn’t like to do.

“You don’t have any staff to assist you?”

Haru chuckles nervously and rubs the back of his neck. “Nope. Just me.”

“I see,” Kambe says again, and Haru wonders what those piercing blue eyes are really seeing.

It’s clear that Kambe is ten times more wealthy than Haru could ever hope to be—no doubt his own place, wherever it is, is clean and well-tended and has a large staff maintaining it.

Haru can feel the headache building behind his eyes.

Living in this mansion is going to be terribly, awfully lonely.

When the rain finally lets up an hour later, Kambe gives him a resolute nod and disappears as quickly as he came without a single word of thanks.

Haru collapses onto the parlor sofa, still covered in a layer of grime, but much too tired and disheartened to care. As he falls asleep, he thinks he registers a slightly spicy scent lingering on the cushions beneath him. Kambe Daisuke’s cologne or aftershave, perhaps. It smells nice.

-

He stays asleep through most of the night and wakes up just before the sun peeks out over the horizon. So, ass o’clock in the morning, then.

The first thing he does is lament his decision to get some shut-eye on the sofa—the cushions really weren’t as comfortable as he first thought they were, and his back is aching with every step he takes.

So the second thing he does is go to the master bedroom and strip the bed of its sheets, tossing them into the wash. The mattress itself seems relatively new—still clean, and when Haru presses his hand into it, the imprint of his palm remains for a few seconds before the mattress returns to its original form. It’s much nicer than the futon he has back at his apartment.

After Haru showers and changes into a fresh set of clothing—sweatpants and a T-shirt, this time—he heads out to assess the state of the front yard. The grass is a little tall, but not yet to the point where it needs to be mowed. Haru wonders whether his grandfather mowed it himself, or if he hired someone to do it for him. He spots a shed a little ways off from the main house—maybe a lawn mower is stored there.

But no, when Haru pries open the door to the shed, he finds only a wheelbarrow, a few sacks of dirt, some fertilizer, and an array of gardening tools. That makes sense, Haru thinks, recalling the line of slightly overgrown, bright red rose bushes in front of the manor. Haru has never kept up with any house plants besides the occasional small succulent—his apartment wasn’t exactly a friendly space for more demanding wildlife—but he’s willing to give gardening a go. He doesn’t feel like continuing yesterday’s cleaning, and he rather misses being outside.

What Haru finds surprising is that he actually has cellular service and WiFi in the area. He watches a few random gardening videos before pulling on the thick gloves he finds on a shelf. They’re a little too big for him. They must be his grandfather’s then. Haru will put them to good use, he decides. He heads back into the house to pull on an older, long sleeved shirt before he begins his new self-appointed task. It’ll do him no good to get pricked by thorns.

Pruning rose bushes is rather therapeutic, as it turns out. They were already in decent shape anyway—Haru is just getting rid of brown, clearly dead bits of wood, as well as clearing away the base of the plants, pulling out weeds and clearing away the fallen, shriveled up leaves. He gets so absorbed in his task, he misses the sound of crunching gravel and nearly has a heart attack when a shadow falls over him.

Fucking hell.

Kambe Daisuke stands just a foot away from the rose bushes, peering curiously down at Haru.

“You are tending to the flowers.”

Haru raises his shears into the air. “Clearly. What are you doing here?”

Kambe clears his throat. “I am simply passing by. I spotted you and thought you were… an intruder.” He almost sounds embarrassed when he says it, but maybe Haru’s mistaken. He can’t really imagine someone like Kambe being ashamed of anything.

“Why the hell would there be an intruder way out here?” he asks.

Kambe pointedly looks behind him at the vast manor—Haru’s manor—and raises a brow.

“Right.” Haru scratches his head and picks out a leaf tangled within his toffee-colored locks. Of course he looks unkempt in front of Kambe and his perfectly fitted three-piece suit. What-fucking-ever. Haru flicks the leaf aside. “Well, it’s just me. Sorry to alarm you.”

Kambe waves him off and turns on his heel. “I’ll take my leave, then.”

“Sure.”

By the time Haru even thinks to ask what the hell Kambe meant by his simply passing by, the man is long gone, past the front gate and lost somewhere to the seemingly endless greenery surrounding them. Haru shakes his head. Now he’s not sure Kambe’s visit truly even happened—he could definitely be making things up.

Still, he feels a little warm inside at the notion that Kambe was possibly worried for him, even if the man is simply a figment of his imagination.

-

He’s not making things up, as it turns out, because the next morning, when Haru is scattering fertilizer around the rose bushes, he looks up to see none other than Kambe Daisuke riding a goddamn horse in front of Haru’s property.

Haru sets down his container of fertilizer and plants his hands on his hips. “What the actual fuck,” he says aloud, because that statement seems rather appropriate given the situation. When Kambe doesn’t magically disappear and Haru knows for sure that he’s not imagining things, he heads off toward the gate to figure out what exactly is going on. There’s something Kambe’s not telling him.

“I am simply passing by,” Kambe offers loftily as soon as Haru comes within hearing range.

“What the fuck does that even mean?” he asks. “How are you always passing by in front of my house? Where the hell do you live?”

Kambe dismounts his admittedly beautiful, sleek black horse, and points somewhere to the right of Haru’s own mansion. Haru first notes that Kambe is wearing clean, white gloves along with the rest of his riding attire—it looks almost unbearably good on him, damn it—and then he realizes that Kambe is pointing to another mansion in the distance. It’s just as large as, if not larger than, Haru’s own.

He holds up his hand to block the sunlight and squints. Oh, no, it’s larger. Definitely larger.

Kambe Daisuke is Katou Haru’s gorgeous, wealthy, asshole neighbor.

“Oh,” says Haru astutely.

“Yes. That is my home,” Kambe says, in case Haru missed it the first time. “It is customary for neighbors to become acquainted with one another, as well as each other’s manors.”

Haru’s right eyelid twitches. “Oh, really now? Is that why you showed up out of nowhere and barged into my house?”

Kambe stiffens. “I required shelter—”

“From the rain, yeah, whatever you say,” Haru mutters. “Did you really walk out into the rain just so you could use that line on me?”

His question is met with nothing but silence. The tips of Kambe’s ears are a little red now, and Haru doesn’t think it’s because of the summer heat. Haru snorts. He was rather irritated the night Kambe surprised him, yes, but in retrospect, it was a harmless gesture. And Kambe looks properly chastised now, though his head is still held high.

“Next time, just ask, you dickhead,” Haru says, and he doesn’t miss the way Kambe lets loose a little breath. “Now, tell me. Is it customary to invite your neighbors inside when you see them passing by?”

Kambe—Daisuke—clears his throat. “Yes, in fact, it is.”

“Well. C’mon in then. I’ll make us some tea.” Haru turns around and walks toward the house. He likes that he doesn’t have to look back to confirm that Daisuke is following him, just a few paces behind.

After having afternoon tea with Daisuke and sitting through a rather intense, though enjoyable round of verbal sparring, Haru sees him to the front gate and then gets back to making himself at home.

He’s tidied up most of the bedrooms downstairs, but he knows for a fact that the curtains in the parlor, dining room, and morning room desperately need to be replaced. He’s not even sure where he’d be able to get curtains of the length he needs. He’ll have to ask Daisuke about that, he supposes.

The familiarity with which he regards Daisuke now has a solid warmth settling into his chest. Maybe living out here won’t be quite so lonely after all. It seems that Daisuke is determined to show up almost every day just to pester Haru for whatever reason.

But back to his tasks. Haru needs to finish organizing his things in the master bedroom. His grandfather had kept many odd knick-knacks and journals in his drawers—he’ll have to move them all into either the storage room or the attic. And besides that, Haru also needs to properly hang up his clothing in the large walk-in closet.

“So much to do,” he murmurs, but he’s all too aware of how he likes to be kept busy. They’ll keep him going throughout the summer, all these tasks. And if he ever somehow finishes them all, he could always memorize Plato’s Republic and recite lines from it just to piss Daisuke off.

But Haru’s good mood doesn’t last very long—he’s in the middle of unpacking his duffle bag when he comes across his service weapon, buried between two sets of clothing. The First Division had forgotten to confiscate it, and Haru had brought it along with him for god-knows-what reason.

So now it’s here.

The thing is, Haru used to find his service weapon to be comforting. It was a solid weight at his hip, and it represented protection, and it meant that he could keep bad people from doing bad things.

But that was before Haru hurt a good person with it.

Haru takes the gun out of his bag and carefully places it in one of the closet drawers. He shuts it in there and then decides he’s done being productive for the rest of the day.

-

“How are you liking it? Living here?” Daisuke asks him one day when he finds Haru comfortably settled beneath a tree in his front lawn. Today is cooler than usual—it’s good weather for a picnic, Haru thinks. Maybe he’ll go inside and grab something for both of them to eat.

“It’s nice,” Haru admits. “I like it. But I’ll only be here for the summer.”

“Ah,” Daisuke says, his tone betraying nothing. “I see. You live in the city, then?”

“Yeah, that’s me. City boy, through and through.”

“But you like it here.”

Haru looks up at Daisuke and gives him a small smile. “Yes. But I like my job in the city too.”

It’s the truth. Haru may hate the sight of his gun, but he misses his job. He misses the feeling of being a part of something, striving for the greater good. He misses feeling important, and he misses the feeling of making a difference.

It’s a simple existence, out here in the countryside. But Haru misses the complicated things, too—all the crimes that need to be solved and people that need to be protected.

“Your job. What is it?” Daisuke finally asks.

“I’m a cop.”

Daisuke doesn’t seem surprised at his admission—perhaps Haru comes off more straight-laced than he’d originally thought. “I see,” is all he says.

“What about you, what do you do?” Haru asks.

Daisuke leans against the tree trunk and inspects the tips of his well-maintained riding boots. “Not much, I’m afraid,” he says quietly. “My family… has always been overprotective. My grandmother especially. She doesn’t approve of me living or working in the city.”

“You really care about what she thinks, huh,” Haru says, and it’s more of a statement than a question. “You’re a good grandson for that. And you’re—what, twenty-four? Twenty-five?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“Ah, twenty-seven,” Haru repeats with a sharp grin. “There’s still plenty of time left for you to do whatever the fuck you want to later on. Unlike me.”

Daisuke arches a perfect brow. “And how old are you?”

Haru sighs, long and loud, and slumps back against the tree. “A bleak twenty-nine. I’m running out of time,” he says dejectedly and laughs when Daisuke gives him a solid kick to his right thigh. It’ll bruise up, he’s sure, but he finds that he doesn’t mind it. Not with the quiet humor glinting in the ocean of Dasiuke’s bright eyes.

Haru brushes grass from his pants and stands. “How about a picnic?” he asks without bothering to keep the hopefulness from his tone. “I’ll grab some food from inside. And some tea.”

The offer of some tea seems to seal the deal for the posh bastard. Daisuke wrinkles his nose but gingerly settles down onto the grass anyway. “If you wish.”

“Hell yeah, I do.”

And so they eat together, sitting side-by-side at the base of the tree and looking out at the light blue sky, and the endless green, and even further beyond.

-

Really, it’s only a matter of time before Haru would have ended up here, he thinks, as he stands near the entrance to the Kambe manor a few weeks later. Daisuke has already been to Haru’s residence countless times, so—

It is time to repay the favor, Kambe had announced that morning before dragging Haru over to his own property, his elegant fingers curled around Haru’s wrist.

The Kambe family estate is gorgeous, to say the least.

There are long lines of straight-edged bushes surrounding the gravel road that serves as an entryway into the grounds, and rows upon rows of hydrangeas hug the front of the mansion itself, the same way the rose bushes do back at Haru’s mansion.

And Daisuke’s estate is infinitely grander. Haru’s is nice—light brown bricks and large windows and a pretty gate. But Daisuke’s home is just so vast, with its large stairway leading to the entrance, and its pure white exterior that contrasts sharply with the greenery all around it.

“Holy fuck,” Haru says, and Daisuke hums in agreement, clearly proud. “I can’t believe you live here.”

“I am certainly… fortunate.”

Haru snorts. “You think?”

The corner of Daisuke’s mouth quirks up a bit before he leads Haru into his home. They visit the parlor first, because that’s the first room Daisuke was reluctantly welcomed to at Haru’s mansion. 

In the parlor are several sofas and cushioned chairs, as well as a few wooden tables with engravings along the edges. The room is clean and well lit, but also cozy. There’s a large rug covering a majority of the flooring, and there are expensive pillows and throw blankets scattered across the sofas. The ornate design around the fireplace at the center of the room almost makes Haru wish he could be here during the winter, just to see it aglow.

“This is my favorite place in the mansion,” Daisuke admits, and Haru doesn’t miss the significance of that—that this is the very first place Haru is being let into.

“Not your own bedroom?”

Daisuke shakes his head. “It’s foolish. My parents and I spent much of our time here when I was younger. We’d sit around the fireplace, and they would read to me and tell me stories.”

“They’ve passed.”

“Yes.”

Haru’s heart hurts. “I’m sorry,” he says as gently as he can manage.

Suddenly, they hear a sharp intake of breath behind them, and they both turn to find a beautiful, dark-haired woman standing at the entrance to the parlor. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she says sincerely. “I didn’t know we were having guests, Daisuke-sama.”

“Suzue,” Daisuke says, stepping forward. He gestures to Haru: “This is Inspector Katou.”

Haru coughs. “Katou-san is fine. I’m not—” I’m not on the job, he wants to say, but he finds that he can’t force the words out. He didn’t realize how much he’s missed being in the field, but now it’s punching him in the gut and strangling him and biting him in the ass, all at once.

Fuck.

Daisuke seems to understand, though. “Katou-san, then,” he corrects.

“It is nice to finally meet you, Katou-san,” Suzue says, dipping her head briefly before smiling at him. “Daisuke-sama has said much about you.”

Daisuke clears his throat, and after Suzue’s smile grows a fraction of an inch, she leaves them be with another respectful nod.

“Suzue— she’s your…” Haru trails off.

“Cousin. She lives here as well.”

“Ah.”

There’s a moment of odd silence, tense and a little charged, before Daisuke abruptly turns away. “Come. There’s much more to see,” he says, and Haru does as he’s told.

Next is the library, which happens to be at least twice the size of the one in the Katou mansion. Haru isn’t sure how one can read all of these books in an entire lifetime, but he supposes they’ve been passed down from generation to generation, accumulating with each new descendant.

Is Daisuke planning to read all these books? Haru wonders. Will his children?

The thought of little miniature Kambe Daisukes running around the manor has something squirming around in Haru’s chest, equal parts humor and… and something else, something he can’t quite identify yet.

“When you get bored with your lackluster collection, as you inevitably will, you are welcome to borrow the books here,” Daisuke says generously, gesturing to the rows upon rows of books lining the walls of the room.

Haru can’t help but grin as he seats himself on a recliner in the far corner. “You just want me to visit your mansion and compliment it more,” he says, and he knows he’s right. “But, yes, I’ll be sure to raid your library whenever I feel like it.”

“Good,” Daisuke says, all dignified as if the tips of his ears aren’t reddening. “I will come to expect it.”

Haru just smiles even wider.

A week later, when Haru visits Daisuke’s home to do exactly that, he discovers that there’s a goddamn lake in Daisuke’s backyard.

“Ah, yes. I do go swimming or jet skiing on occasion,” Daisuke says when he finds Haru staring, slack-jawed.

“This is a lake,” Haru says in awe, standing at the edge of the water and realizing he can’t see the other end. He dips his toes in and finds the water to be perfectly cool, a nice respite from the summer sun. “A whole fucking lake.”

“Yes, I am well aware.”

When Haru turns to him, he finds that Daisuke has that smug little smirk on his face. 

“Oh, you asshole,” he says, half-laughing, and shoves Daisuke right into the water, uncaring of his too-expensive suit. The loud splash is more than a little satisfying, and he takes a moment to enjoy the sounds of Daisuke’s indignant spluttering. Then, he shucks off his shirt and whoops before jumping in too.

They frolic around in the water for about an hour before finally getting out, and when they do, Haru discovers that he has gravely miscalculated exactly how attractive he finds his neighbor.

Daisuke’s hair is wet but still pushed back, and his dripping clothing clings to his fit form, revealing gorgeous curves and wonderful muscles and glistening jawlines and— 

Haru really ought to jump back into the cold water to prevent a very imminent reaction, he thinks. But it’s a little too late for that, because Daisuke is walking away, and Haru, unfortunately, rather likes the view from behind.

Damn it.

Haru has not only miscalculated how attractive he finds Daisuke, he’s also miscalculated how much he likes him, that smug bastard.

Katou Haru is, indeed, quite fucked.

-

In his usual fashion, Haru doesn’t even try to reverse his impending doom. Every time he catches Daisuke passing by his house, he invites him in for tea and snacks, and sometimes, he even asks him to stay afterwards.

“Want to help me clean the windows?”

Daisuke’s nose scrunches up in mild disgust. “You ought to have staff for that.”

“I’m only staying here for the summer. Two more months. I’m not gonna hire anyone to clean for me,” Haru says, rolling his eyes. He tosses a rag at Daisuke’s chest and watches as it falls into his lap. “C’mon,” he coaxes, “help your neighbor out, won’t you?”

Daisuke carefully picks up the rag with just two fingers before setting it down on the small, circular table between them, where the tea set still rests. “I will need to change.”

“I’ve got clothes,” Haru says, grinning in delight because of course the neighbor card worked.

And so, ten minutes later, Daisuke is dressed in a too-big grey T-shirt and a pair of athletic shorts that don’t seem to be clinging to his hips too well. The shirt ends up being tucked in, and Daisuke looks more than a little bit disgruntled—and cute—by the time they head outside.

It’s hard work, Haru won’t lie. Cleaning floors is easier—you’re hunched over and not fighting the force of gravity. But scrubbing windows has Haru’s arms aching only an hour in, and despite his musculature, Haru knows Daisuke is feeling it too.

“I could’ve called my staff over,” Daisuke grumbles as he wrings out the rag into one of the small buckets of dirty water.

“You could’ve,” Haru teases from beside him, “but it’s more satisfying knowing you’ve done the work yourself, isn’t it?”

Daisuke only throws the wet and slightly green rag at his face, leaving him sputtering.

“I did what you wanted this time. Now you owe me.”

“That logic is completely flawed, but whatever,” Haru says, tossing the rag aside and placing his hands on his hips. He tilts his head and grins. “Do your worst, Kambe Daisuke.”

“It would be my pleasure, Katou Haru.”

As it turns out, Daisuke’s worst is actually— well, to be frank, it’s actually pretty fucking bad.

“Holy shit,” Haru says.

“There are indeed some massive shits in here,” Daisuke deadpans as he guides Haru through the Kambe stables. “Take your pick.”

There are at least a dozen horses of all different colors. Haru spots the black horse—the mare—that must be Daisuke’s in the far back. Haru himself settles on the first horse that doesn’t seem spooked by his presence: a light brown mare with gentle dark eyes. He immediately likes her, reaching up to pet the side of her neck.

“A good choice,” Daisuke says, leading the black mare out into the open. “This one is Cash—” Haru almost chokes on his own spit, “—and that’s Whiskey.”

“Whiskey,” he repeats, and Whiskey lightly bumps her head against his in response. She doesn’t chew on his clothing or his hair, which he takes to be a good sign.

Daisuke tilts his head and considers them both. “She already likes you.”

“Well, don’t sound so surprised,” Haru grumbles, reaching up to pet Whiskey again, tangling his fingers in her mane. “She’s a perfectly good horse, and I’m a perfectly good person.”

“Yes,” says Daisuke, slowly and thoughtfully. “You are.”

Haru blinks, but before he can consider the gravity of that statement, Daisuke is already showing him how to strap certain things on certain body parts, both on himself and the horses, and Haru’s already lost.

So, summarily, Daisuke takes Haru horseback riding, but really, it feels more like Haru got trampled on at least three different horses.

“It’s not your fault, girl,” Haru says, patting Whiskey’s flank as they slow down. They spent an hour trotting through the countryside, taking in the scenery, and have now returned to pasture near the mansion. “I’m just not as young as I used to be, and my joints are giving out. My hips can’t take much more of this. Don’t get me started on my back.”

Daisuke, right next to him on Cash, does not look very impressed. “Stop exaggerating.”

Whiskey pulls to a gentle stop and Haru practically tumbles off of her back, going limp in the grass. “I assure you,” Haru mutters into the dirt, “I am in immense pain.”

“Are you, now?” Daisuke dismounts in an infinitely more graceful movement and stands over Haru’s prone body. He kneels and presses a firm hand into Haru’s lower back, and Haru groans as the ache temporarily recedes.

“Please don’t stop doing that,” he begs, and so that’s how Daisuke ends up giving him an impromptu massage, pressing his knees firmly into Haru’s lower back and hips, loosening the tension in the muscles there.

“I didn’t anticipate a police officer to be so stiff,” Daisuke murmurs before digging his thumbs into Haru’s shoulders.

“Oh, fuck, that’s good— and the muscles we police officers use are not the same ones we used today, thank you very much.”

“Yes, I can see that.” Daisuke puts more weight on Haru’s back. “You need to ride more.”

Haru just barely stops himself from making a very inappropriate joke, because while he isn’t quite cut out for horseback riding, there are some other similar activities he could be convinced to participate in. “It’ll be awhile before you get me out here again, no matter how much I like Whiskey,” he sighs instead.

“Alright,” Daisuke acquiesces, “perhaps we’re better suited for the library after all.”

Haru huffs out a faint laugh that dissolves into a groan when Daisuke presses down on another sore spot, soothing away the ache.

-

Haru does, in fact, end up in the library again just a few days later.

He and Daisuke are settled on one of the recliners, their thighs pressing lightly together even though there’s enough room that they could be sitting and have a whole foot of space between them. Because Haru is a slow reader, Daisuke has taken it upon himself to read aloud to him.

“This is a favorite of mine,” Daisuke admits, opening up the well-worn book. “My mother liked to read it to me.”

Warmth curls up in Haru’s chest at that—at Daisuke’s willingness to share this with him.

Daisuke’s voice has always been rich and soothing, a low rumble that seems to draw attention. His accent is refined, smooth around the edges where Haru’s is more rough and caustic after long nights of investigating the underbelly of the city. Daisuke doesn’t make up unique voices for the different characters, but his inflection changes, moving up and dropping down and even more down; needless to say, Haru is already drifting off by the time Daisuke flips the first page.

He’s still registering snippets of the story, of course, because it’s Daisuke’s favorite, and that’s important. But what’s also important is—he tries to stifle a yawn—getting enough sleep. He settles his head on Daisuke’s shoulder and can feel the moment his breathing hitches.

“Katou?”

“Mm. Keep going.”

So Daisuke keeps going, and bits and pieces of the story filter in through the melted golden haze in Haru’s mind. He catches key words and phrases here and there—something about a knight and some tasks—and just before he slides into the oblivion altogether, he—

He bolts upright.

“Kambe,” he says.

Daisuke looks a little startled at his sudden movement. “Yes?”

“Have you been courting me?”

Daisuke seems to choke on thin air, but even after his coughing fit subsides, he doesn’t deny the allegation, instead electing to avert his gaze and stare down at the book in his lap.

Oh.

“Oh, I see.” Something at the back of Haru’s mind purrs, warm and happy and satisfied. Courting. Haru is living in a damn fairytale. He sighs and settles back down against Daisuke’s shoulder, closing his eyes. “Keep going.”

“Katou.” Daisuke hardly seems to be breathing. “Do you mean with the reading, or the—?”

The courting.

Haru waves a hand and somehow manages to not hit his own face. “Either. Both. Whichever you’d like,” he answers drowsily before lacing their fingers together.

So, Daisuke keeps reading. He keeps inviting Haru to the Kambe library, too, and continues passing by the Katou estate several times a day.

-

“What do you know about wine?” Daisuke asks from where he’s standing in front of Haru. His voice echoes, bouncing off the stone walls of the cellar.

“Not much,” Haru admits, peering at the rows upon rows of wine bottles. The lighting down here is bright, but frankly, all the bottles look the same to Haru’s untrained eye. “I’m more of a cheap liquor kind of guy.”

Daisuke hums disapprovingly. “Well, that won’t do. Is there not a cellar in the Katou manor?”

“I, uh—” Haru rubs a hand along the back of his neck. “I haven’t looked. It wasn’t a priority.”

Daisuke turns around and raises a brow. “The cellar is one of the most important rooms in any respectable manor,” he says, and Haru wonders if he’s reciting from some sort of handbook for pompous, rich families that have more money than they know what to do with.

“Should we go look for it, then?”

Daisuke stands on his toes—he’s still shorter than Haru like this—and pulls a dark wine bottle off of a high rack. He examines the label closely and looks pleased. “We might as well. I’d like to see your stores.”

“My grandfather’s,” Haru corrects.

“Yes,” Daisuke agrees, leading him back to the cellar entrance, bottle in hand. “He wasn’t a drunkard, was he?”

Haru can only snort at that. “I don’t know anything about him. Does it really make a difference?”

“Wine is consumed with elegance and restraint,” Daisuke states, and Haru thinks he really ought to acquire that handbook, somehow. Maybe it’s in the Kambe library somewhere; maybe he could get Daisuke to read it to him.

They end up leaving the Kambe family estate through a side door and walk through the meadow between their manors, the sprawling greenery with pockets of white and yellow and light pink flowers. The ground is slightly damp from the morning dew, but not wet enough to get their pant legs dirty. Maybe Daisuke can afford to get his trousers stained, but Haru would rather not.

After thoroughly exploring the first floor of the manor, they do, in fact, find the Katou wine cellar. It’s adjacent to the mostly-empty store room, near the back left of the house.

“If I find rats in here, I’m leaving,” Haru says, sticking his head through the door. He can’t make anything out in the darkness of the room.

Daisuke’s voice comes right next to his ear, a low baritone, and it sends little tingles down Haru’s spine. “No respectable manor has rats.” 

Haru isn’t sure if that statement is meant to be comforting or not, but before he can ask, Daisuke pushes the door open even further and feels along the wall for a light switch. He finds it, flicks it on, and the room is bathed in a golden glow.

“Oh,” Haru says, dumbstruck.

Where the Kambe cellar had metal shelves and racks to store their wine bottles, this room seems to be constructed almost entirely of wood. It’s smaller than the Kambe cellar, but cozier, with its bright yet warm lighting. There’s a small circular table and two cushioned chairs in the center of the room atop a deep red rug.

Daisuke sniffs. “No rats,” he confirms. “But your grandfather did indeed like wine.”

They spend a few minutes poking around. Surprisingly, there isn’t a whole lot of dust and cobwebs here. Haru’s grandfather truly did treasure his cellar, then. After a bit of observation, Haru concludes that the wine bottles themselves seem to be organized by both year of production and—Haru blinks rapidly as he reads the labels—the countries they were imported from.

“That’s rather unconventional,” Daisuke says when Haru shares this information.

“Why?” he asks, bewildered. The classification system seems perfectly reasonable. “How are yours organized?

“By price.”

Haru outright laughs. “Why am I not surprised?”

“This one is good,” Daisuke says, ignoring his comment and pulling a bottle from a shelf on the right, near the cellar entrance. “Not the best, of course. We wouldn’t want to waste that on someone who can’t appreciate it.”

“I can appreciate it just fine,” Haru says, taking the bottles from Daisuke’s hands and seating himself at the little table. Daisuke plucks two clean wine glasses from a cabinet in the corner before joining him. Their knees brush together.

“This,” Daisuke says, lifting the bottle from the Kambe mansion, “is—”

And here, Haru’s brain crashes because Daisuke is suddenly speaking a different language, and fuck, that accent is absolutley delicious. Screw the wine. Haru finds himself wanting a drink of something different.

“Uh-huh,” he says intelligently when Daisuke is done speaking. “And what about this one?” He points to the other bottle.

“That one, is—”

Haru is on cloud nine, floating away, as Daisuke’s smooth voice caresses his ears. Never mind that the words are entirely unintelligible.

Daisuke snaps his fingers in front of Haru’s eyes where they’ve almost gone crossed. “Stay with me now,” he purrs, crystal blue eyes glinting, like he knows exactly what he’s done to Haru’s two remaining brain cells. “Don’t you want a taste?”

“You know I do,” says Haru, already more intoxicated by the curve of Daisuke’s mouth than any wine could ever get him.

They sit and take slow sips of their drinks, murmuring quietly to each other. At some point, Haru extends his legs and lets his calves brush against Daisuke’s. By the time his second glass of wine is empty, Haru’s head is a little light, his chest is warm, and he thinks their legs are hopelessly tangled together, stuck like that for eternity.

He finds that he doesn’t mind that at all.

-

A week later, on a warm afternoon, Daisuke appears at the Katou residence and pulls Haru away from his near-perfect rose bushes.

I have more to show you, Daisuke had said, like he wanted to show Haru everything, and how was Haru supposed to argue with that?

So, it was inevitable, Haru thinks, that they would end up here, at the Kambe outdoor gun range.

Haru obviously hasn’t handled his service weapon—or any other weapon, for that matter—ever since his fateful mistake. There’s trepidation pooling in his gut, and the kind of anxiety that makes his head feel too light. Logically, he knows that there’s nothing he can hurt out here; there are just a line of targets, and Daisuke isn’t stupid enough to stand too close to anyone with a gun.

“We don’t have to,” Daisuke says, sensing Haru’s discomfort, but he can’t quite hide the curiosity in his eyes.

Well, Haru is curious too.

“It’s okay,” he forces himself to say. He takes a long, deep breath. It’s been at least a month and a half, maybe almost two months, since he was given administrative leave. “I can’t run from this forever.”

Outdoor shooting ranges are generally for the big guns, quite literally, but there are several targets set up at different distances: five meters, twenty meters, fifty meters, and then the hundreds. There are a range of weapons for each of the appropriate distances—no doubt, many of Haru’s more trigger-happy colleagues would be drooling over the collection, but Haru himself only feels… dread? No, not quite. Just unease.

Haru settles on a Glock in the end—standard and reliable, and most importantly, not his revolver.

It should be easy: steady, aim, fire, like he learned back at the academy all those years ago. But it’s a little harder to breathe than Haru remembers, which makes it hard to be steady, and hard to see the target, too—the rings of red and white circles.

Red, red, red. Blood red.

Haru exhales and puts the safety back on.

“Katou,” Daisuke murmurs. “Will you tell me about it?”

After setting the gun down with immense care, Haru plants his hands down on the waist-height wooden post in front of him and considers the backs of his hands, the lines and odd little scars he’s accumulated over the years. “Are you sure you want to know?”

“You’re not a bad person,” Daisuke says firmly, “so it can’t be bad.”

Haru gives him a sad smile. “I wish that’s how it worked.”

“Tell me,” says Daisuke, stubborn as ever. “Let me judge for myself.”

So, Haru tells him.

There was a suspect holding hostages at gunpoint. Haru and his partner, Hoshino, arrived on the scene to stop him. Haru was given the kill order. It should’ve been a clean shot—no complications, no surprises. And there weren’t at first. Haru took care of the suspect pretty easily. But then another person, a girl, picked up the gun and pointed it at Haru.

It was sheer instinct, then, that doomed him.

“That was self-preservation,” Daisuke says. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I killed her. I murdered someone,” Haru corrects. He hasn’t said it aloud before—he’s thought it plenty of times, but he hasn’t said it. He hasn’t had anyone to say it to, not even Hoshino.

Daisuke just shakes his head. “You didn’t mean to hurt anyone other than the original suspect.”

“Just because I didn’t mean to, doesn’t mean that—"

Daisuke takes one of Haru’s hands in his own and squeezes tight. It almost hurts. “Katou. Haru. You are so terribly good, it makes me want to throw up.”

Haru blinks, stunned. “Thanks?”

Daisuke is still holding his hand, but he’s playing with his fingers now, tracing up and down his long, calloused digits. The motion is comforting. “I’ve met you before, you know.”

“What?”

“Do you remember that time five years ago when you saved a little girl in the middle of a crosswalk?”

Haru closes his eyes and thinks back, and yes, he can see it—a little dark-haired girl with pigtails and bangs and crooked baby teeth.

“There was a car that ran a red light,” Daisuke continues quietly. “And the girl was crossing the street at the other end of the intersection. She didn’t see the car coming. But you did.”

“You were there,” Haru breathes, opening his eyes. There’s no other way Daisuke would know about this if he weren’t physically there.

“You don’t remember, but I was the one driving the car,” Daisuke admits, and fuck, Haru wasn’t expecting that. “It was a rare outing into the city. I needed to meet with the family lawyer. I wasn’t used to driving, and I wasn’t paying attention when the light turned red. You shielded the little girl. I wouldn’t have seen her if you hadn’t stepped in and thrown yourself in front of her.”

“Oh my god.”

Daisuke smiles, and it’s not smug. It’s a little sad, actually. “I almost killed her that day. You prevented that.”

“Why don’t I remember you?” Haru asks, because he’s sure he would’ve remembered someone like Daisuke no matter what. Even if he were to disappear tomorrow, never to be seen again, Haru would remember him—always.

“Your partner was the one who gave me a ticket and a stern lecture,” Daisuke explains. “You were comforting the little girl and calling her mother.”

Haru holds onto Daisuke’s hands and squeezes them back. He feels a little bit like he’s underwater, and Daisuke is a tether, keeping him afloat, and keeping him from drifting away. He almost can’t believe what he’s hearing, but there’s no way Daisuke is lying, not about this.

“Do you understand what I’m saying?” Daisuke asks softly when Haru remains quiet. “You’re a hero. You have been and always will be a hero. There’s no changing that.”

“I am who I am,” Haru says weakly.

“Yes,” says Daisuke, “and you are good.”

They leave the shooting range not long after. Daisuke goes first, saying something about reorganizing some of the weapons on the rack that Haru had apparently misplaced. Haru knows he didn’t touch that particular rack, but he knows what Daisuke is doing.

Giving him space.

Once Daisuke is out of sight, Haru lifts the Glock, flips off the safety, and aims. Fires.

The bullet lodges itself at the far right edge of the target.

Haru exhales slowly through his nose. That’s okay, he thinks, and the breeze ruffles his hair in affirmation. All good things take time.

-

After another two weeks of their general shenanigans: afternoon tea, library visits, a fucking carriage ride through the country—because of course Daisuke owns a damn carriage—a new crisis emerges.

A little bird with a broken wing.

“What did you do?” Haru asks, peering at the tiny, grey-feathered bird cradled in Daisuke’s hands. It’s very clearly not a baby bird, but it doesn’t look like a full-fledged adult either. Still vulnerable, Haru thinks.

Daisuke had called him just a few minutes ago sounding as panicked as a Kambe could sound, so instead of taking his usual scenic walk, Haru had driven his rickety, four-year-old car over to his mansion at top speed. Now, they’re seated together on a sofa in the parlor, metaphorically scratching their heads.

“I didn’t do anything,” Daisuke says darkly. “I only found it near one of the trees. It must’ve fallen from its nest.”

“Poor thing,” Haru coos at it, gently petting its head with a single finger.

“It’s trembling. Is it cold?”

“Scared, more likely. And in pain.” Haru squints at his neighbor. “I don’t suppose there are any vets out here, are there?”

Daisuke snorts. “I certainly wish.”

“Well, we need to take her to one so they can set her bones properly.”

“Fine. You hold her, I’ll drive.”

Haru raises a brow.

“I have gotten better at driving in the past five years,” Daisuke says, glaring haughtily. “We all need to face our fears.”

Well, he’s not wrong.

And, despite knowing Daisuke for two months now, Haru is still somehow surprised when his wealthy neighbor pulls up to the front of the manor in a sleek black, open-roof Rolls-Royce.

“This is the flashiest car I’ve ever seen,” he says, climbing in carefully as to avoid jostling the poor bird in his hands. 

Daisuke ends up reaching over to help him get his seatbelt on anyway. “She’s flashy and fast,” he purrs, evidently very proud of his car. “Too bad I can’t demonstrate. We have a guest with us, after all.”

“Yeah, I think our little birdie would appreciate not going a hundred miles an hour,” Haru snipes, but he can’t deny his curiosity. 

He wonders what Daisuke would look like racing down an empty street at night, the gas pedal to the floor, the street lights illuminating his sharp-cut features. Haru won’t get to see that today, but that’s okay. He has plenty of time to find out. 

“Just get us to a vet,” he says.

Daisuke smirks. “Keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times.”

And then he guns it down the country roads and lets the wind tear through their hair and swallow up their laughter.

-

“A week and a half. We have to keep her for a week and a half,” Haru says aloud.

“That is what the vet said, yes. Are you having hearing problems? How is your memory?”

“Fuck off, you bastard.” Haru looks down at the makeshift nest the vet had given them, where the small bird is now resting. Its wing has been properly splinted and should heal within ten days, the vet had said, before saddling them with bird feed and the little nest and the bird itself. Herself.

“Well, this should be interesting,” is all Haru can think to say.

Daisuke snorts. “You’re not the one who will be finding feathers in every corner of their house.”

“So she’s staying with you?”

“I have my staff and Suzue to help keep an eye on her. You only have yourself. And you’re here almost every day, anyway,” Daisuke points out, his logic as sound as ever.

Haru flushes a little bit at that last part. It’s true that he’s been spending more time at the Kambe estate rather than his own. It’s just lonely at his house, is all. And Daisuke is good company. And is courting him, apparently.

Haru’s ears are growing hotter by the second. They haven’t gotten anywhere near kissing, but they’re still physically affectionate and… emotionally intimate, Haru has to admit. He likes it. He likes it a lot. They’re not together, not officially. But they’re not dancing around each other, completely unaware of the other’s feelings either.

“Okay, fine,” Haru finally acquiesces, “she’ll stay with you. And I’ll come visit every day to make sure you’re taking good care of her.”

“I wouldn’t expect any less,” Daisuke says.

So, over the next week, Haru sees even more of Daisuke than he usually does. They do their normal indoor activities: Haru learns how to play chess and listens to Daisuke play the piano, and they feed the bird—Grey—together, and Daisuke reads to him late in the day.

One evening, Daisuke drags him off to the library a little later than usual. They had a little scare with Grey—she was making pitiful chirping noises that had Haru thinking that she’d somehow hurt her wing all over again, but in actuality, she was just thirsty while Daisuke kept offering her the crushed up, solid foods. 

So, by the time he and Daisuke settle down on the recliner in their little nook of the library, it’s already almost eight, and Haru is worn out by the day’s activities and worries.

It’s only natural that he falls asleep to the gentle cadence of Daisuke’s voice.

What he doesn’t expect, however, is waking up the next morning to sunlight splashing across his face, wrapped up in soft, silk sheets. He’s been settled in a guest bedroom overnight, he realizes when he sits up and takes in his surroundings, the one right across from the master bedroom.

When he walks out of the room, still dressed in last night’s clothing, Suzue spots him in the corridor and greets him with the brightest of smiles.

Haru feels right at home.

-

“I think I’m going to stay,” Haru says one afternoon, when they’re lounging around in Daisuke’s seemingly endless backyard. 

It’s another idyllic summer day, the sun bright and a light breeze rustling through the tree branches above them. The air is sweet, as it always is in their little corner of the world. There are a few white, fluffy clouds in the sky, and the lake water is rippling, and Grey is hopping around on the ground, chirping curiously at the little insects she finds hidden in the grass.

Haru is currently rather comfortable, though he’s laying on the ground. His head is resting in Daisuke’s lap, and Daisuke is leaning against a tree, slowly carding fingers through Haru’s hair.

He likes this. Haru likes this a lot. He’s thought about leaving, and he doesn’t really think he wants to. He misses his job, of course, but he just likes this—the warm, easy thing between them. Like floating in a warm pool, the water caressing your limbs and not pulling you down or holding you up, but letting you be.

Daisuke’s hand freezes for a moment. “You want to stay. Past the summer.” His voice sounds a little rough.

Haru breathes in and smells it again—the slightly spicy scent, the one that lingers on his sofa cushions and floats in the breeze between their mansions. “Yes,” he confirms, and he means it. He means it more than Daisuke will ever know.

There’s a long moment before the fingers return to their rhythmless movements, familiar and soothing. “I would like that,” Daisuke simply says.

So that settles that.

-

After the rose bushes are properly neatened up, Haru finds himself still itching to do something with the abundance of earth surrounding his house.

The backyard, he thinks. He could do something in his backyard.

“What do you think about a garden?” he asks, hooking his chin over Daisuke’s shoulder.

“The one at my estate is well-tended.”

“I mean a garden of my own, you ass,” Haru growls. “Not everything is about you.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Daisuke says from where he’s seated in Haru’s lap, and even though Haru can’t see his face, he can hear the damn smirk that must be gracing his handsome features.

Maybe the bastard has a point.

“You want a garden?” Daisuke asks.

“Yeah,” Haru says, “I’d really like that.”

“The rose bushes in front of your house are… very beautiful,” Daisuke admits, turning his whole body to face Haru. “You seem to like taking care of things.”

On cue, Grey chirps at them from a few feet away, likely confused at their odd position. He and Daisuke have been entangled with each other ever since Grey became a fixture at the Kambe manor, but even she hasn’t seen them like this, Haru’s arms around Daisuke’s middle and Daisuke’s legs framing Haru’s hips.

“I do like taking care of things,” Haru says, flicking the tip of Daisuke's nose.

Daisuke grabs at his fingers and gently twists them, but he seems to catch Haru’s meaning—his ears are turning pink. It’s cute.

“We’ll put together a garden, then,” Daisuke says, standing up in one fluid motion, still holding Haru’s hand. He straightens and brushes nonexistent grass off his trousers. “We’ll do anything you’d like.”

“Anything?” Haru asks teasingly, standing as well. We, we, we, he thinks, and the world seems wide open for the taking, endless green and crystal blue.

Daisuke pinches his waist none too gently but soothes away the sting with his confirmation: “Anything.”

-

As it nears the end of summer, Haru thinks he’s trapped in the calm before the storm. Everything has been going fine, so he’s not sure why he’s feeling so… off. He’s been oddly tense the past few days, and Daisuke has noticed, dragging him on long walks or late night swims in the lake to soothe the restlessness that’s been plaguing him.

In the mornings, he gets up along with the sun and works on the garden in his backyard. There’s a row of flowers to the left, of the elevated porch, and to the right, he’s working on getting some vegetables in. It’ll be nice to have fresh produce in his own backyard—he’s heard that it tastes better homegrown.

He spent the past few days gathering the seeds he wants from the Kambe mansion. Daisuke has lent him any tools the shed is lacking, and often shows up himself, wearing Haru’s grey T-shirt and athletic shorts, ready to get his hands dirty.

It’s more than a little endearing to see Daisuke working the ground, his motions slightly stiff and awkward and sweat giving his pale skin a light sheen. He wouldn’t do this for anyone else, Haru thinks, and tries to blame the redness of his face on the sun.

So, after many long days of digging, the groundwork is already laid out for Haru—all he has to do is plop the seeds down in the earth, cover them up, and tend to them until they sprout.

And tend to them after, because he’s staying. He’s staying in his newly-cleaned mansion, neighboring Daisuke’s, and he’ll have a garden in his backyard and he’ll co-parent a little bird with the man he’s absolutely gone for.

He has it all figured out.

“You’ve been working hard,” Daisuke says to him that night when they’re in the library, arms and legs intertwined. Daisuke has long given up on reading—Haru’s attention span, today, is absolutely shot to hell.

“I like being busy,” Haru says. It’s the truth, because he doesn’t like to lie, but maybe it’s not the whole truth.

“You’ve been more than busy.” Daisuke presses his nose into the space behind Haru’s ear, his soft, steady exhales tickling the side of his neck. “You always think too much.”

“Yeah,” Haru admits, sinking back into the firm warmth of Daisuke’s chest. “I do.”

Come sleep with me tonight, Daisuke says, and Haru doesn’t have the strength to argue. Daisuke’s bed is large, but there isn’t any space between them when they curl up under the silk covers. Haru rests his head on the junction of Daisuke’s shoulder and breathes him in, and Daisuke holds onto him tight, like he’s afraid Haru will slip away in the dead of night, gone with the wind.

-

The day before the official end of Haru’s administrative leave, the patch of cucumbers in his backyard begins to germinate, little specks of white and light green peeping through the dark soil.

Daisuke comes over that afternoon and brings a cheerful Grey with him. The little bird has healed up wonderfully—the splint was taken off her wing a few weeks ago—but when Daisuke had deposited her in her nest, she’d ended up tapping at the parlor window, begging to be let back into the house.

Feathers, Daisuke had grumbled.

Yeah, but you like her, Haru teased, flicking his nose.

Grey hops onto the bed of soil and tilts her head at the life poking out of the earth. She twitters a series of sweet, high-pitched noises and prods at Haru’s finger with her beak.

“Yeah, those are my cucumbers,” he says, stroking a finger down Grey’s back. He doesn’t bother to hide the pride in his tone.

“Congratulations,” Daisuke offers, sliding down to his haunches to get a better look. “They’ll taste good. Better than mine.”

“How do you know?”

Daisuke doesn’t smile, but his eyes are glinting in the sunlight peeking through the clouds, pools of soft brightness. “Yours are grown with love.”

“And yours aren’t?” Haru wracks his brain—it’s the Kambe staff that maintains the garden, he remembers.

Daisuke shakes his head. “Not the same kind.”

Yes, Haru thinks, his heart full. He really does like his garden. Their garden.

Life is good.

-

That night, Haru has a nightmare.

Or, at least, he thinks he had one. He wakes up in cold sweat, his shirt collar drenched and slightly sticky, but he has no idea why.

Restless. He still feels restless.

Tomorrow—or today, if it’s already past midnight—is the end of his leave. He should be back in the city by now, settling into his one-bedroom apartment and getting some sleep before another day at work in the First Division.

Haru kicks away his sheets, his hands itching for… for something.

It’s cold. He wishes Daisuke were here; Daisuke isn’t cold.

He can go to Daisuke, he thinks, but that’s not what ends up happening.

What actually happens goes a little something like this: Haru goes to his closet, opens a drawer, and pulls out his revolver. He tucks it into his waistband, changes out of his night clothing, packs his suitcase, and leaves the manor.

He goes to Daisuke’s in his rickety old car and heads straight for the shooting range.

It’s still nerve-wracking to be here, surrounded by guns and darkness and silence. Haru turns on the lights to the storage room and the rest of the firing range. After a bit of scrounging around, he locates the Glock he’d handled the other day, attaches a silencer, and heads off to the targets.

Haru becomes a different person when he’s carrying a weapon, he thinks. His mind goes a little quieter, and his existence seems less… loud. His footsteps are lighter, his eyesight sharper. He isn’t just holding a weapon—he is a weapon.

And weapons can be used for either good or evil.

The shooting range looks different with artificial lights. Less welcoming. Harsh, even.

That’s okay.

Steady, aim.

Fire.

Fire.

Fire.

Haru blinks a few times and realizes there are three dark holes right at the center of the target. His heart soars and then completely bottoms out.

Nothing good comes easy, it seems. Haru doesn’t cry, so the heavens do it for him; the light pitter-patter of rain meets the roof of the storage room and freckles Haru’s face and hair when he leaves the range.

When he reaches Daisuke’s door, he isn’t even sure if he has the strength to use the knocker or the doorbell. But it turns out he doesn’t have to—Daisuke opens it before he can even raise a hand.

“Daisuke,” he whispers, because that’s all he can say.

Daisuke is just standing there in his night clothes, all grey stripes and softness, and Haru is sure he’s warm. He’s always been warm and steady, like summer sunlight. He’s wide awake and solemn-faced, like he expected Haru to come, and he knows exactly what Haru came for.

I am who I am, Haru had said, and Daisuke had known exactly what he meant. Because Daisuke knew that Haru was good and that he’d always be good, and there was no changing that.

That job—the job in the First Division or in any of the divisions, catching criminals and saving lives, is his. It’s who he is, and Haru can’t let that slip away. That job has always called to him, just as it calls for him now, and he has to go.

And the rain outside now has become an absolute deluge, pouring down against the pavement—just like the day they met. It’s fitting. A nice, full circle ending, except this isn’t the ending. Haru doesn’t want this to be the ending.

“I have to go,” he says anyway, his voice cracking pathetically. He doesn’t want this, but he wants this, and it all hurts inside.

“I know,” Daisuke murmurs, pulling him close and pressing little kisses across the line of his jaw, the curve of his neck, and making it so, so hard to leave. “I know.”

Daisuke has always known, it seems, and courted him anyway. He read to him in the library, and raised a bird with him, and built a garden with him. Built a home with him. A life with him.

Haru reaches up and cradles Daisuke’s face, soaking up the warmth from his skin and breathing him in. He wants to cry, but he won’t let himself.

“I’ll come back to you. I’ll be back for you,” he promises, running his thumbs along Daisuke’s high cheekbones.

Daisuke only says, “I know you will,” with the brightest blue eyes before capturing Haru’s lips in a slow kiss—gentle and sweet—and then pushing him away. “Now go be a hero.”

And so Haru goes, crawling into his car, trembling and aching. He races away down country roads and leaves a piece of his heart behind, buried somewhere between the endless greenery and the cool lake water and the still-sprouting cucumbers in his garden.

-

Haru’s first day back at work is absolute shit. He, of course, has to take a psych eval and redo several other physical and skills tests to be let back into the field. He passes all of his assessments with flying colors and misses Daisuke more than ever.

Everyone congratulates him on being back, and they give him a warm welcome, but it’s not the same feeling as being welcomed into the Kambe estate through wide, ornate double doors. It’s not the same as Daisuke’s silent approval.

But Haru still wants this. He’s assigned a new task—a thick case file landing on his desk—and he dives right into his work and enjoys it. He likes knowing that he’s making a difference. This is who he is.

That doesn’t mean he isn’t dreading returning to his apartment, where there’s only one bedroom and a cramped futon and no birds or cucumbers or handsome neighbors that he’s—

That he’s fallen in love with.

It doesn’t shock him to come to terms with his feelings, the ones bone-deep and tattooed across his heart. It just hurts.

So, he loiters around at work. He converses with Hoshino until his colleague waves him off, citing his own long list of work-related tasks he needs to get to. Haru goes to the evidence room and begins the long process of reorganizing it because it’s insanely cluttered, and Haru has nothing better to do. When he gets bored of cleaning up the room, he stares out the office window, notices the clouds, and wonders if Daisuke can see the same ones from the Kambe mansion.

And then it’s late in the evening. Still stalling, Haru stops to grab greasy takeout on his way home. He trudges up the stairs of his apartment complex as slowly as he can, one step at a time, but inevitably, he ends up at home. And just as he’s sliding his key into the lock, his neighbor’s door opens.

Haru looks up, and his heart leaps into his throat when he sees a very familiar face—all elegant angles and a dainty nose and a smirk curling at the edges of pretty pink lips.

“Hello, neighbor,” Daisuke says, entirely too smug and kissable. “Will you be inviting me in for some tea?”

-

Haru was wrong about his futon, as it turns out. It’s not actually cramped at all—it’s absolutely perfect despite Haru’s long, gangly limbs, and the addition of, well, Daisuke himself.

“We can still live at our estates when you get a break,” Daisuke says quietly, his lips moving against the hollow of Haru’s throat.

Haru blinks up at the darkness in mild confusion. “But I thought you wanted to get away from there and live in the city.” The way Daisuke spoke about his grandmother—well, Haru had assumed Daisuke would rather be away from the Kambe manor despite how proud of it he may be.

Daisuke pulls away a little and considers him. “And I thought you liked living in the countryside.”

Ah.

“You idiot,” Haru says fondly, warmth curling at the base of his spine. “I like living in the countryside, yes. But I like being with you even more.”

Oh, Daisuke doesn’t mouth because Kambes are more dignified than that, but Haru can see him thinking it.

“I like you a lot, in case you hadn’t noticed,” Haru adds. It’s so very easy to say. Maybe some good things are easy, if you look in the right place.

Daisuke takes a moment to process Haru’s confession before saying in that lofty tone of his, “I actually hadn’t noticed at all. You ought to express that better.”

Haru just barely stifles a laugh.

“I will, then.” He pulls Daisuke closer and throws a leg over his thighs. The sheets aren’t silk by any means, but Haru is still warm and comfortable and right where he belongs. “Anything you want.”

“Anything?” Daisuke asks.

Haru flicks his nose. “Anything.”

And that’s the end of that.