Work Text:
Now or never. Do or die. Life won’t wait.
Keigo sucks the next breath in through his teeth and holds it. The new Commission bureaucrats who started sniffing around his ‘business practices’—with no idea how proficient a troll they were baiting—have at last departed in rightful shame, and he finally has the conference room all to himself.
He taps the little icon of the phone to start the call. It’s the same motion as the last ten thousand times, but it’s not, too. It’s a world apart.
The line catches after half a ring. If you look at it the right way—sideways, tilted, squinting, maybe with a flattering filter or two—that’s kind of romantic.
Keigo’s used to making do.
“What?” Enji says.
Adorable.
“Hey, number one,” Keigo says. Stay cool, idiot. Act normal. The whole point is that it’s a foregone conclusion. It’s nothing new. Most of the Billboard thinks they’re already shacked up. Rumi laughed in his face and called him a liar when he tried to explain to her that it’s the definition of a situationship, actually, and regrettably everyone’s pants have stayed put. “What are you doing on Friday?”
“Working,” Enji says, “obviously.”
Adorable times two.
Keigo can’t lose his nerve, here. When you get down to it, nerve is about all he’s ever had. It’s gotten him this far. One more leap of faith.
“How about Friday night?” he asks.
“Still working,” Enji says. “Obviously.”
Power through it. This is who he is. “Any chance you could duck out at seven?”
Enji huffs. Adorable squared. “Why?”
Yoloswag. “I want to take you out to dinner.”
Enji sighs. Which is… better than many of the alternatives. Stay positive. “Fine.”
Keigo’s heart soars. “Really?”
He can hear the glower. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? Why is Friday so important, anyway?”
Keigo swallows. Breathes. Survives. The usual drill. “It’s Valentine’s Day, big guy.”
Enji snorts. “Then you’d better make a reservation if you want to get a seat anywhere in the city.”
Keigo blinks. “I did.”
“It’s going to be crowded,” Enji says, in the tone of one discussing encroaching toxic waste. “If you really want me to buy you food, let’s do it tomorrow instead.”
Oh.
Well.
All things considered, this is not, in fact, a surprise.
Deep breath. Easy does it. No guts, no glory.
“Enji,” Keigo says, “I’m asking you out on a date.”
His heart slams in his ears for the duration of a petrifyingly long pause.
Then Enji makes a Hm noise. Or possibly a Hmph noise. It’s a bit ambiguous.
“Well, that’s stupid,” Enji says.
That is less ambiguous.
Keigo chokes on his own spit.
“Breathe,” Enji says, as if that’s not what Keigo is trying to do, despite relevant obstacles.
“You—” Maybe the pathetic wheeze will help. Probably not. But you never know. “Why is—you know that everybody thinks we’re fucking, right? Because we’re so obviously codependent, and we’re constantly shunning other people to spend time together, and we finish each other’s sentences—well, I finish yours wrong on purpose, but I know what you were going to say—”
“Are you making a presentation?” Enji says. “I’m not arguing with the basic premise.” What in the name of fried chicken and the forces of the universe— “But that makes your suggestion even more stupid. Why the hell would we need to waste time and money on some overpriced, overcrowded scam of a meal on Valentine’s Day if it’s already that obvious?” There’s a pause. Keigo can practically hear the gears turning, swift and smooth and merciless. “Are you trying to make a public announcement?”
In spite of the pertinent detail that everyone knows—well, thinks they know—about the whole thing already, this is, as it happens, just about the only thing that Keigo has ever cared about enough to want to keep it to himself.
“Let’s go back to the part where you weren’t arguing with the premise,” he chokes out. “Are you—are we—is that—”
“You’re an idiot,” Enji says, quietly.
Keigo wilts a little. Normally he earns that one. “Sorry. I’m—it’s—kind of a lot. All the non-critical functions kinda rebooted, and my speech centers—”
“Not that,” Enji says. “You’re an idiot for wanting to go through with this in the first place.”
Right. Okay. At least a few pillars of the universe remain unshaken.
“No,” Keigo says, patiently, “you’re an idiot for continuously refusing to see how amazing you are.” That feels inadequate to convey the depth and complexity of his feelings, so he adds: “And how hot you are. Figuratively. Literally. Metaphorically. Take-ally.”
Enji sighs loud enough that it sort of crackles on the phone. “I’m not—”
“Hang on,” Keigo says, clambering out of the conference room chair that he turned backwards so that he could slouch on it without wingterference. “Hold that objectively incorrect thought. I need to go find someone to pinch me.”
“Stop being so dramatic,” Enji says.
“I’ll die first,” Keigo says. It’s not like the histrionics are news to Enji. And apparently—somehow, inexplicably, unfathomably—he’s decided that he wants to give this a shot all the same. “Are you sure about this?”
Enji is silent for so long that Keigo freezes with his hand outstretched towards the door handle. He must look like the dumbest statue of all time.
Okay. Given the average art gallery, as a matter of statistics, there must be some that are worse.
But this one sucks.
The unfamiliar stillness of his body makes it all the easier for his heart to leap up into his throat and try to strangle him for good measure.
He scrounges for words. I’m sorry doesn’t work. It’s never enough. Maybe I can be better—that’s more Enji’s style, but he always knows when Keigo’s full of shit, and he also knows that you can’t teach stupid birds new tricks.
Keigo swallows.
He lowers his hand.
He opens his mouth.
And Enji—Enji, Enji, Enji—beats him to the punch.
“You’re protecting me,” Enji says. There’s something beneath it—his voice is low again, but there’s a tone in it that Keigo doesn’t hear very often.
Appreciation, maybe.
Or wonder.
“Someone’s got to,” Keigo gets out. “Fuck knows you’d throw yourself off a cliff if you thought it would contribute to your twelve-step redemption plan.”
“A cliff wouldn’t pose all that much of a danger,” Enji says, in the precise deadpan that he uses when he’s aware that Keigo’s bullshitting, but he secretly wants to play along. “And neither do you.”
The contrast of Keigo’s heart pirouetting and his guts shriveling is bizarre. “You know what I—”
“I do know what you mean,” Enji says. “Which is the whole point, isn’t it?”
Keigo shoves the goggles up into his hair and rubs his eyes. He might still be dreaming. He shouldn’t get used to this. “Listen—”
“You listen,” Enji says. “Hawks. I’m not fragile. And I know what I want.” There’s a new trace under the words now—an even rarer one. It’s a sliver of a smile. “Do your worst.”
The calm authority polishing the steel in his voice makes Keigo’s scalp tingle.
“Challenge accepted,” his mouth says.
“I can handle you,” Enji says, which makes the tingling thing even worse.
Keigo’s ability to articulate thoughts has not yet fully recovered from the previous barrage, and that sets him back all over again. “Oh, yeah?”
“Instead of dithering around until Friday,” Enji says, “come over. And I’ll prove it.”
Keigo stares over at the door handle, then down at his boots. There’s a scar on the front of the right one, just past the curve of the toe, from a particularly nasty episode with a collapsing building earlier this week. This really might be happening.
Then again, that’s exactly the sort of thing that his unconscious brain would use to try to convince him that a dream was true, because his brain is a scheming scumbag asshole bastard at the best of times.
“You’re for real,” Keigo says, helplessly.
“Yes,” Enji says, every bit as solid as ever. He draws a deep breath, which is your only warning that he’s about to slather down a layer of sincerity. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that running from yourself will destroy you, and you might as well take a machete to your entire life.” His voice goes quieter again. “If you’re ready to try, I’ll do everything I can to meet you where you are.”
Keigo stumbles backwards to the chair and sits down—positioned correctly this time, albeit facing the door because of where he left it. It puts the wings at an awkward angle, but his knees were going gooey, and it’s not like Enji is suddenly going to start pulling punches.
“It’s not stupid,” Keigo says before he can stop himself. “Loving you is not stupid.”
Enji goes silent again.
Too much, too fast, right? Same story as always. Same crash, same burn.
“If you change your mind about that with more time and more data,” Enji says, measuredly, “I won’t hold it against you.”
“I’m not going to,” Keigo says.
“You might,” Enji says.
“Watch me,” Keigo says.
He can hear the hint of the smile again. It’s so beautiful it kind of snatches the air out of his lungs—like a constellation coming into perfect clarity on a cold, dark night.
“I intend to,” Enji says. He clears his throat. “So are you coming over or not?”
Keigo recruits a sharpened feather to stab himself in the bicep a couple times, which seems close enough to a pinch in a pinch.
He does not wake up.
He glances out the window. The little windsock outside is pointing in exactly the right direction.
Keigo doesn’t believe in signs. He doesn’t believe in fate. He has no illusions that the universe is kind, or that life is fair, or that anybody upstairs is helping.
But sometimes—sometimes—things fall right the fuck into place. Sometimes coincidence comes in clutch. Sometimes you get lucky.
Nobody’s better at running with it than a man who’s too damn fast.
“I can be at your agency in half an hour,” he says.
“Make it the house,” Enji says, “and forty-five minutes. I’ll get you something to eat.”
Oh. Fuck. Oh, fuck. This really is for real.
And for keeps.
“Question,” Keigo manages. “What does swooning feel like? I think I’m swooning.”
“Shut up,” Enji says. “Just get in the air.”
Keigo’s head is already well above the level of cloud nine, so that sounds even easier than usual. He smacks the goggles back into place. “Roger that. What if I swoon while I’m flying?”
“Then you’ll miss the food,” Enji says, “because you’ll be splattered across a window somewhere.”
“Excellent point,” Keigo says. Head high, shoulders square. Go time. He flings the door open and heads down the hall. Jumping out of windows is one of the purest joys of this job. “See you soon.”
“Focus on flying,” Enji says.
“Of course,” Keigo says, even though he will, obviously, be focusing on the prospect of an evening with fried chicken and carte blanche to stare at Enji’s tits. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
“As we established in some detail,” Enji says, “it’s not Valentine’s Day yet.”
Forty-five minutes is plenty of time to make a quick pit stop and pick up a box of chocolates bigger than Enji’s head. Maybe they’ll even have one bigger than his ass.
Everything really is coming up roses. Just this once.
“Eh,” Keigo says, slinging open the door to the balcony that gives him the best lift. The wind howls. The sky is still bright blue and wide open. Perfect day. “Close enough.”