Chapter Text
The holidays had been loud.
Between Tsutako's immaculate Christmas spread—where her daughter had climbed directly into Sanemi's lap within five minutes of his arrival and refused to leave—and the full-volume chaos of New Year's at the Shinazugawa house, where Shizu had cooked enough food to feed a small battalion and Teiko had talked Giyuu's ear off about his latest stream for three hours straight, December had been a marathon of noise. A warm one, but exhausting all the same.
By mid-January, the penthouse had settled back into the rhythm they'd built.
Sanemi's off-season was over. The new competitive split was ramping up fast, and the Kimetsu facility was running twelve-hour blocks again—VOD reviews at dawn, scrim after scrim against international opponents through the afternoon, and then Shinobu's tactical clinics bleeding into the early hours of the evening. Sanemi came home most nights with his wrists taped and his voice shot from barking callouts, dropping his duffel bag in the entryway and heading straight for the shower.
Giyuu had his own grind. His streaming schedule had thickened since the face reveal and the ad campaign—the viewership numbers kept climbing, sponsorship offers kept arriving in Sabito's inbox, and the community had grown large enough that even his "chill indie" nights were pulling six figures. He spent his mornings prepping overlays and editing clips, and his evenings behind the mic, guiding eighty thousand people through whatever game had caught his eye that week.
But for all the noise and the deadlines, the mornings still belonged to them.
The alarm went off at 6:45 on a Tuesday. Sanemi's hand slapped the nightstand blindly, silencing the shrill chirp. He lay there for a beat, one arm pinned under Giyuu's sleeping body, the other resting across his own eyes.
Giyuu didn't stir. He was pressed along Sanemi's left side, his dark hair splayed over the pillow, face slack with deep sleep. He'd streamed until 2:00 AM—some new puzzle game that required him to stack floating geometric shapes while his chat argued about optimal strategies—and the exhaustion had pinned him flat. His breathing was slow and warm against the curve of Sanemi's ribs.
Sanemi turned his head on the pillow. In the dim, pre-dawn glow bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the silver promise ring on Giyuu's left hand caught a thin line of light where his fingers were curled loosely against Sanemi's chest.
He looked at it for a long time.
Then he reached over with his free hand, picked up his phone from the nightstand, and opened the calendar app.
February 8.
Seventeen days.
Sanemi stared at the date, his thumb hovering over the screen. He already knew, of course. He'd known since the moment Sabito cracked under the pressure of a well-timed Uzui threat and coughed up the information. February 8 was wired into his brain the same way a signature combo was—permanently, reflexively, beyond conscious thought. It was the password to his phone, his PC, his streaming account, and his team-issued laptop.
He just hadn't figured out what to do with it yet.
Giyuu shifted against him, murmuring something unintelligible. Sanemi quickly locked the screen and tucked the phone back onto the nightstand. He let his heavy arm settle over Giyuu's waist, pulling him a fraction closer.
Seventeen days. He could work with that.
The problem landed in his lap at lunchtime.
Sanemi was in the Kimetsu facility break room, hunched over his phone with his legs stretched across two chairs. The rest of the team had cleared out for the gym, leaving him alone with a lukewarm protein shake and a group chat that was rapidly becoming his least favorite thing on the planet.
Sabito
yo Shinazugawa. 17 days.
you planning something or are you gonna wing it and get dumped
bc if you get dumped I'm taking custody of the penthouse and both cats
Sanemi
we don't have cats
Sabito
yet. answer the question
Sanemi scowled at the screen. The fact that Sabito had been counting down alongside him was both irritating and, if he was being fair, expected. Giyuu's best friend had an investment in this. He'd been there from the beginning—before the duo-queue, before the face reveal, before the Beijing arena. If anyone understood the pressure of getting this right, it was the loudmouth redhead who'd been moderating Giyuu's emotional bandwidth for years.
That didn't make his texts any less annoying.
Sanemi
I'm working on it. back off
Sabito
"working on it" = you have nothing
I knew it
listen. I'm telling you this as his bestest best friend and your future best man. Do NOT plan a surprise party. He will hate it.
Sanemi's thumbs froze over the keyboard. His mind instantly flashed to his own birthday—the blinding lights, twenty people screaming in the dark, and his own horrified face being immortalized on Uzui's Instagram story. Giyuu had organized every piece of that chaos, and it had been perfect because it had been for Sanemi—a man who thrived on noise even when he pretended to hate it.
Giyuu was built from different material.
Sanemi
I wasn't planning a party, idiot
Sabito
good. bc he already told me and I quote "Sabito, I don't want anything big. I mean it. Tell Nemi too."
he said this while holding the angry plushie btw. he was very serious about it.
Sanemi locked his phone and leaned his head back against the wall. The ceiling of the break room was covered in acoustic panels, and he counted them absently while his brain chewed on the problem.
No party. No crowd. No restaurant with a host who would make everyone sing. No surprises that involved other humans showing up at their apartment unannounced.
Giyuu wanted quiet.
The word sat in Sanemi's chest like a compass needle. He'd heard Giyuu say it a hundred times in a hundred contexts—on stream, in Discord calls, during that long-ago night when he'd first described his dream apartment. He wanted the silence, the empty air, the absence of everything except the person sitting next to him.
Sanemi's eyes drifted to his left hand, resting on his thigh. The silver ring caught the fluorescent lights. Inside the band, invisible against his skin, the engraved wave sat right over his pulse.
A really big window. I want to see the sunrise when we wake up, and the stars at night when you're done with your scrims.
Sanemi sat up straight, his spine going rigid as a thought crystallized into something solid.
The penthouse had the windows. They'd watched the city lights together a hundred times from the balcony, but Tokyo's light pollution swallowed the stars whole. On their clearest nights, they could see a handful of faint, distant pinpricks and nothing more. Giyuu had never complained—he'd just lean against Sanemi's side and point out the ones he could find, naming constellations in that soft, steady voice until one of them fell asleep.
But real stars—the kind that filled the sky so completely it looked like someone had shattered a jar of light across the dark—required leaving the city behind entirely.
Sanemi picked up his phone and opened a new search tab. His thumb moved fast.
He had seventeen days, a motorcycle, and a plan.
Over the next two weeks, Sanemi became suspicious.
He was subtle about it, or at least he thought he was. The late-night phone calls he took in the bathroom while Giyuu was mid-stream. The delivery he intercepted from the building lobby before Giyuu came down for his morning tea. The browser history he meticulously cleared every time he finished a search session. And, most damning, the three separate evenings he'd vanished from the penthouse for "extra scrims"—when in reality he'd been across town, standing in Tsutako's kitchen with his sleeves rolled up and flour on his jaw.
That had been the hardest part to arrange. Asking Giyuu's sister for help had required Sanemi to swallow a quantity of pride that could have choked a lesser man.
He'd texted her at 11:00 PM on the third night of his planning spiral, staring at his phone in the dark of his private office at the Kimetsu facility while the rest of the roster packed up around him.
Sanemi
Tsutako-nee. I need a favor. It's about Giyuu's birthday.
Tsutako
Oh?
Sanemi
I want to make him salmon daikon for his birthday. But not my version. I want to make yours. The one he grew up eating.
Sanemi
Can you teach me the recipe?
The reply had come back in less than ten seconds.
Tsutako
Come over Wednesday. 6 PM. Bring your own apron—mine won't fit your shoulders.
She hadn't teased him about it, which was somehow worse. When Sanemi had shown up at her front door that first Wednesday evening—still in his practice sweats, smelling like the training facility, looking like he'd rather walk into a ranked 1v5 than admit he needed cooking lessons—Tsutako had just handed him a knife and pointed at a pile of daikon on the cutting board.
The first session was a disaster. His rounds were uneven, his peeling was too shallow, and the daikon came out chalky in the center because he'd cranked the heat too high and refused to wait. Tsutako had eaten a piece, set her chopsticks down, and said nothing. She didn't have to. Sanemi had tasted it himself and knew it was wrong—the broth hadn't reached the core, and the salmon had gone tough from being rushed. He left her apartment that night scowling at his phone and already planning to come back.
The second session was closer. He kept the flame low without being told, and his knife work had tightened up—thick rounds, two centimeters each, the skin peeled deep enough to strip the bitterness. But he added the salmon too early, and the chunks fell apart into the broth before the daikon had finished absorbing the stock. Tsutako had fished a piece of the disintegrated fish out of the pot and held it up on her chopstick without a word. Sanemi had stared at the ceiling for a solid ten seconds before muttering, "Wednesday."
"This is the part he loves," Tsutako had told him quietly during the third attempt, watching Sanemi stand over the pot with his arms crossed, finally waiting instead of fighting. "The daikon has to be soft enough to fall apart with chopsticks. If you rush it, the center stays hard and the flavor doesn't reach all the way through. Giyuu will know the difference."
Something about the certainty in her voice—the decades of knowing her brother, of feeding him through grief and quiet—had settled into Sanemi's hands alongside the muscle memory.
The third session, the dish was right. The daikon had gone translucent, the broth soaked through to the center of each round, and the salmon was tender enough to flake apart at the nudge of a chopstick. Tsutako had tasted a piece of the daikon, set her own chopsticks down, and given him a single, devastating nod.
"He's going to cry," she'd said.
"He better not," Sanemi had replied, though his throat was tight.
Giyuu noticed on Day Three.
He didn't say anything. He just watched Sanemi pocket his phone a little too fast after a text came in, and then turned back to his monitor with a quiet hum. The next morning, when Sanemi emerged from the bathroom looking suspiciously pleased with himself, Giyuu simply handed him his coffee and asked if his wrists were feeling better after practice.
By Day Ten, Sabito was losing his mind.
Sabito
he knows you're planning something
Sanemi
no he doesn't
Sabito
Giyuu texted me this morning. And I quote: "Nemi has been acting strange. He keeps going to the bathroom with his phone and coming out smiling. Should I be worried?"
Sanemi
shit
Sabito
I told him you were looking at new mouse pads
Sanemi
...that's the best you could come up with?
Sabito
YOU TRY LYING TO A GUY WHO CAN READ YOUR JUNGLER'S POSITION WITHOUT VISION. HE'S PERCEPTIVE, SHINAZUGAWA
anyway. is the plan set? do you need help with anything?
Sanemi scrolled through his notes app, scanning the checklist he'd been building for ten days. He'd called three different places, reserved one, arranged logistics with the building's concierge for the motorcycle parking, and bought a thermal bag that could keep food warm for a three-hour round trip. The final confirmation had come through that morning.
Sanemi
plan is set. I need you to do one thing
Sabito
name it
Sanemi
keep him distracted on the 8th until 5pm. I need time to prep
Sabito
done. I'll drag him to the retro game store or something. he'll spend four hours in the indie section without blinking
Sanemi
perfect
Sabito
...hey Shinazugawa
Sanemi
what
Sabito
you're doing good. he's going to love it.
Sanemi locked the phone. He looked up at the massive training monitor, where the game client was loading the next scrim block. His reflection stared back at him from the dark screen—scarred, sharp-jawed, and wearing the faintest ghost of a smile he hadn't felt in days.
Sanemi
yeah. I know.
February 8 arrived cold and bright.
The winter sun climbed over the Tokyo skyline and flooded the penthouse through those massive windows, painting the bedroom in long, sharp rectangles of gold. Sanemi had been awake since 5:00 AM, which was unusual for a man who normally had to be pried from the mattress with threats and espresso.
He lay on his side, propped on one elbow, watching Giyuu sleep.
Giyuu was on his stomach, one arm tucked under the pillow, his face turned toward Sanemi. His dark hair was a mess—long, tangled strands falling across his closed eyes and over the edge of the pillow. The early light traced the elegant line of his shoulder where the oversized shirt had slipped down, and the steady rise and fall of his back was the only movement in the quiet room.
Sanemi reached out. He pushed a lock of hair away from Giyuu's face, his calloused fingers grazing the warm skin of his temple. Giyuu didn't wake—just let out a soft, unconscious hum and shifted a fraction closer to the warmth of Sanemi's hand.
"Happy birthday, Yuu," Sanemi whispered into the silence.
He stayed there for another ten minutes before sliding out of bed to start the day.
When Giyuu eventually padded into the kitchen an hour later, barefoot and drowning in the Kimetsu hoodie that had become his default winter uniform, Sanemi was at the stove. The kitchen smelled like miso and rice and something sweet.
"Morning," Giyuu murmured, his voice thick with sleep. He stopped at the edge of the kitchen island, blinking at the spread.
Sanemi had made a full breakfast—not the usual rushed eggs-and-toast of a weekday morning, but a proper, multi-dish layout. Grilled salmon sat on a ceramic plate next to a bowl of fresh rice, a small dish of pickled vegetables, and a steaming cup of matcha. At the far end of the counter, looking absurdly out of place next to the soy sauce, was a single cupcake with a lit candle.
Giyuu stared at the cupcake, then at Sanemi, then back at the cupcake.
"It's store-bought," Sanemi said, turning off the stove and tossing the dish towel over his shoulder. He leaned his hip against the counter, crossing his arms, a challenging smirk tugging at the scar over his lip. "I'm not a baker. Don't make it weird."
Giyuu walked over. He stood in front of the small cupcake, the candlelight flickering against his blue eyes. He didn't say anything for a long moment, just stared at the tiny flame like it was the most confusing object in the room.
"Make a wish," Sanemi prompted gruffly. "The wax is dripping on the frosting."
Giyuu closed his eyes. He stood there for two full seconds—long enough for Sanemi to wonder what someone who had everything he'd asked for could possibly wish for—and then he leaned down and blew the candle out in one soft breath.
The thin trail of smoke curled upward and vanished.
Giyuu straightened up, his expression perfectly neutral, and reached for his matcha. "Thank you, Nemi."
"Happy birthday, Yuu," Sanemi murmured, reaching over to brush a strand of dark hair from Giyuu's forehead. "Now eat. Before it gets cold."
They ate side by side at the kitchen island, their shoulders pressed together. Sanemi watched Giyuu work through the salmon with that quiet, single-minded focus he always had when the food was good—his chopsticks moving in a steady, contented rhythm, his eyes half-closed with satisfaction.
Halfway through the meal, Giyuu set his chopsticks down and looked at him.
"You cooked all of this before I woke up."
"Yeah."
"Your alarm was set for 5:00 AM. I felt you get up."
Sanemi's hand froze around his coffee mug. "You were awake?"
"For a moment." Giyuu's gaze dropped to the counter. "I heard you greet me."
Sanemi stared at him. His neck went red. "Eavesdropping on a man while he's being sentimental is a felony, Tomioka."
"I wasn't eavesdropping." Giyuu picked up his chopsticks again, a tiny, devastating smile resting on his mouth. "I was just... lying very still."
"Menace," Sanemi whispered, leaning over to press a lingering kiss to Giyuu's temple.
By noon, Sabito had arrived—arms full.
He stepped through the front door carrying a canvas tote bag in one hand and a large gift bag stamped with the Kimetsu E-Sports logo in the other. He dumped both onto the kitchen island with a dramatic huff.
"Delivery service," Sabito announced, shaking out his arms. "Tsutako-nee asked me to drop this off on my way." He nudged the canvas tote toward Giyuu. Inside was a neatly wrapped box tied with a dark blue ribbon, and tucked beside it, a handwritten card in Tsutako's clean, elegant script.
Giyuu reached for the card first, his expression softening as he read it. He pressed it flat against his chest for a moment before setting it down and unwrapping the box with slow, deliberate hands. Inside was a thick, hand-knit scarf in a deep navy blue—clearly made by hand, the stitchwork dense and warm. A small tag sewn into the corner read:
For my little brother. Stay warm. I love you!
—Nee-san.
Giyuu ran his fingers over the wool, his throat working. He folded it and set it gently on the counter beside the card.
"And this," Sabito continued, sliding the Kimetsu bag forward, "is from the team. Uzui made me promise to tell you it was 'flamboyantly curated.' Rengoku wrote you a very enthusiastic card that's mostly in capital letters. And Mitsuri attached a box of homemade chocolates shaped like little stars."
Giyuu opened the team bag and pulled out the items one by one—a signed team photo with personalized messages scrawled in marker across the border, the chocolates nestled in pink tissue paper, and a small wrapped box from Shinobu that turned out to be a high-end ergonomic wrist rest with a dry note that read:
For those 2 AM streams. Take care of your wrists, Tomioka-san. They're the only ones you have. Happy birthday.
— Kocho.
Sanemi leaned over to read the note. "She's not wrong. Your wrist angle during those late sessions is a disaster."
"My wrist angle is fine," Giyuu murmured, though he set the wrist rest aside with visible fondness.
"Oh, one more," Sabito added, pulling a slim envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket. "Makomo asked me to give you this separately."
Giyuu opened the envelope. Inside were two tickets to the Tokyo Philharmonic's upcoming performance of the orchestral suite from one of his favorite games—the haunting, sweeping soundtrack he'd played on stream dozens of times during his ambient sessions. The seats were in the center balcony.
Giyuu turned the tickets over in his hands, running his thumb along the embossed print. "She remembered," he said quietly.
"She's been listening to your streams longer than you think," Sabito shrugged. "She said you'd know which game."
Sanemi pushed off from the kitchen counter and disappeared down the hallway toward their bedroom. He came back a moment later carrying a large paper bag and a small, flat box tucked under his arm.
"These are from my family," Sanemi said, setting the paper bag on the island beside the others. "Mom knitted you gloves." He pulled out a pair of thick, hand-knitted gloves in dark gray wool, setting them on the counter. "She said she noticed your hands are always freezing whenever we visit. Teiko drew you something." He paused, his mouth twitching. "Don't ask me what it is. She said it's 'fan art' and I'm choosing not to look at it. Genya picked out a book he thought you'd like, and the little ones made you cards."
Giyuu pulled out the stack of handmade cards first. They were covered in crayon drawings and wobbly hiragana—Sumi had drawn a picture of Giyuu and Sanemi holding hands next to what appeared to be either a very large dog or a small horse, and Koto's card just said HAPPY BDAY GIYUU-NII in massive, uneven letters with a sticker of a goldfish pressed crookedly into the corner. Giyuu held each one like it was made of glass, his blue eyes going dangerously bright as he lined them up on the counter.
"And this," Sanemi said, his voice dropping as he held out the small, flat box, "is from me."
Giyuu looked up from the cards. He took the box, turning it over in his hands before lifting the lid.
Inside, nestled in a bed of dark foam, was a single artisan keycap. It was handcrafted resin, deep blue with a translucent wave design frozen inside the casting—the light catching the tiny, suspended bubbles so it looked like a piece of the ocean had been trapped in miniature. Giyuu had been staring at the maker's page for weeks, pulling it up on his second monitor during dead air on stream, zooming in on the pour details before closing the tab and telling himself it was too indulgent to justify.
Giyuu's lips parted. He lifted the keycap out of the foam, holding it up to the kitchen light. The blue resin glowed.
"You noticed," Giyuu said, his voice very quiet.
"You had the listing open on your browser four separate times, Yuu. You're not subtle." Sanemi crossed his arms, leaning back against the counter. "It's for your Escape key. I already checked the stem—it fits your board."
Giyuu closed his fingers around the small, cool piece of resin. He didn't say anything for a second—just stood there holding it, his thumb running over the smooth surface.
"Thank you, Nemi," Giyuu whispered. "You didn't have to get me anything else after this morning."
Sanemi shrugged. "Don't make it weird. Just put it on your keyboard later."
Sabito clapped his hands together, clearly satisfied with the delivery, before pivoting straight into phase two of the operation.
"I found a store in Akihabara that just got a massive shipment of rare PS1 titles," Sabito announced, standing in the entryway with his jacket already on and his car keys spinning around his index finger. "Giyuu, we're going. No arguments. Consider it my birthday gift—I'm buying you one game of your choice, as long as it costs less than my dignity."
"So anything in the store, then," Sanemi smirked.
"I will end you, Shinazugawa."
Giyuu looked from Sabito to Sanemi, who was rolling his eyes.
"Go," Sanemi said, not looking up from his screen. "I've got scrims this afternoon anyway. I'll be here when you get back."
Giyuu studied him for a long moment, looking for a crack. Sanemi kept his face blank.
"Okay," Giyuu finally conceded. He pulled on his coat, tucked his phone into his pocket, and paused at the door. "Nemi."
"What?"
He crossed back to the kitchen in three quick steps, rose onto his toes, and pressed a soft kiss to Sanemi's mouth. It was brief and warm, and when he pulled back, Sanemi's ears had gone a deep, furious pink.
"Thank you for this morning... for the breakfast."
“Anything for you,” Sanemi said, giving Giyuu a peck on the lips.
From the entryway, Sabito let out a loud, theatrical retching noise. "I am standing right here. In broad daylight. With my shoes on. Can we please go before I develop an allergy to romance?"
Giyuu ignored him entirely, giving Sanemi one last smile before turning toward the door. “I’ll see you later, Nemi.”
The quiet sincerity of it hit Sanemi right in the sternum. He swallowed hard, forcing his voice to stay level. "Yeah, yeah. Go look at your ancient video games, nerd. I'll see you at five."
The door clicked shut. Sanemi listened to the muffled sound of footsteps retreating down the hall, followed by the distant chime of the elevator.
Then he moved.
He'd timed this down to the minute. He had roughly four hours before Giyuu came back, and every single second was accounted for. He pulled up his checklist on his phone, cracked his neck, and got to work.
The first task was the food.
Everything Tsutako had drilled into him over three Wednesday evenings came flooding back the moment he set foot in the kitchen. He pulled the daikon from the fridge, grabbed his sharpest knife, and began cutting thick rounds—two centimeters each, peeled deep to strip the bitter outer layer. He blanched them first in a pot of plain water, just long enough to soften the edges and pull the bite out, then drained and set them aside.
The real pot went on next. Dashi, soy sauce, mirin, sake, a spoonful of sugar—the same ratios Tsutako had made him write down on the back of a grocery receipt. He set the flame low, fighting every instinct to crank it, and laid the daikon rounds into the simmering stock. The scent filled the penthouse within minutes, and Sanemi stood over the pot with his arms crossed, watching the liquid work its way into the pale flesh of the radish.
The salmon came later. He cut it into thick chunks, salted them lightly, then poured hot water over the pieces in a strainer to clean the surface—the way Tsutako had shown him, to keep the broth from turning cloudy. He nestled the salmon on top of the daikon in the pot, set the lid on, and let everything simmer together. He could hear Tsutako's voice in his head the whole time: "If you rush it, the center stays hard and the flavor doesn't reach all the way through. Giyuu will know the difference."
He didn't rush it.
While the food simmered, he handled the logistics.
He packed the thermal bag first—the insulated carrier he'd ordered from a camping supply store, lined with heat packs to keep the food warm for the two-hour round trip. Next to it, he set a rolled-up wool blanket, a small battery-powered lantern, and a thermos of hot tea.
From the hall closet, he pulled out a large canvas bag containing his final purchase: a compact, high-quality portable telescope. It had arrived three days ago, and Sanemi had hidden the box inside a stack of old Kimetsu merch in his private office, terrified that Giyuu's observant eyes would spot the shipping label.
He set everything by the front door and checked the time. 3:47 PM.
His phone buzzed.
Sabito
he found a mint-condition copy of some game from 1998. he's been reading the back of the case for 20 minutes. you have time.
Sanemi
good. keep him there until 4:30
Sabito r
oger. also he bought you a birthday gift
Sanemi
what? my birthday was months ago
Sabito
he said he "owed you one." I don't know what it is but he wrapped it himself and the tape job is horrifying. it's very endearing.
Sanemi let out a huff that was halfway between a laugh and a groan. Of course Giyuu had gotten him something. The man had spent weeks feeling guilty about not knowing his birthday—there was zero chance he'd let his own pass without evening the score.
He finished plating the salmon daikon into the thermal containers, sealed them, and tucked the package into the insulated bag alongside the rice, a small container of pickled vegetables, and two pairs of wooden chopsticks.
By 4:15, everything was staged by the front door. Sanemi stood back, his hands on his hips, surveying the supplies like a general reviewing his battle plan.
The thermal bag sat next to the blanket and lantern, the telescope case propped against the wall, the thermos wedged beside it, and two helmets resting on the console table.
He nodded once, satisfied, and went to shower.
At 5:04 PM, the front door opened.
Giyuu stepped inside, his cheeks pink from the February cold, a small paper shopping bag tucked under his arm. Sabito lingered in the hallway behind him, catching Sanemi's eye over Giyuu's shoulder and giving a sharp, encouraging nod before vanishing toward the elevator.
Giyuu toed off his shoes and looked up.
Sanemi was standing in the entryway. He was dressed in dark jeans and a heavy black sweater, his motorcycle jacket slung over one arm. The entryway behind him was conspicuously lined with packed bags and gear.
Giyuu blinked, his gaze moving from Sanemi's face to the bags, to the two helmets sitting on the console table. His lips parted.
"Nemi... what is all this?"
"Your birthday present." Sanemi stepped forward, reaching out to take Giyuu's coat from his shoulders. He hung it on the hook by the door and turned back, his purple eyes burning with a restless, barely contained excitement he was trying very hard to disguise as casual indifference. "Get changed. Wear something warm—layers. We're going for a ride."
Giyuu looked at the helmets again. "On the motorcycle?"
"Why? Do you prefer to go by car? I don’t mind, but I thought you might want to give the bike a try."
A flush crept up the back of Giyuu's neck. He'd seen the motorcycle in the underground lot a dozen times, and he'd watched the ad footage of Sanemi riding it more times than he would ever admit to another living soul. But he'd never been on it.
"Where are we going?" Giyuu asked, his voice dropping into that soft, curious register that always made Sanemi want to give him anything he asked for.
Sanemi shook his head. "Wear something warm. Trust me."
Giyuu hesitated for three full seconds—reading Sanemi's face, looking for a clue, finding nothing but fierce affection and a challenge—and then disappeared down the hall toward the bedroom.
He came back six minutes later in a thick cable-knit sweater, a heavy wool coat, and a scarf wound high around his chin. He was holding the small paper bag from the game store.
"Before we leave," Giyuu said, his cheeks coloring as he held the bag out toward Sanemi. "This is for you. I know your birthday already passed, but I wanted to give you something today."
Sanemi took it, his brow furrowing. He reached inside and pulled out a small, flat object wrapped in what could only be described as a war crime of clear tape and crumpled tissue paper. Sabito had not been exaggerating—the wrapping looked like it had been assembled by someone wearing oven mitts.
He tore through the layers with his teeth, ignoring Giyuu's embarrassed wince, until the object fell into his palm.
It was a custom-made enamel pin. The design was simple: a tiny, stylized wave and a gust of wind, intertwined in a circle. The colors were a deep ocean blue and a sharp silver-white, and the metallic finish caught the hallway light.
Sanemi stared at it.
"I found an artist online who does custom work," Giyuu explained, his voice growing smaller with each word. "I thought you could put it on your team jacket, or your gear bag. It's wind and water. Like us." He paused, fidgeting with the edge of his scarf. "It's small. I'm sorry it's not—"
Sanemi moved. He closed the gap, cupped the back of Giyuu's neck, and kissed him hard enough to make Giyuu stumble backward into the wall. The shopping bag crinkled between them, crushed by the press of Sanemi's chest.
When Sanemi pulled back, his eyes were bright and his breath was unsteady. He held the pin up between his thumb and forefinger, turning it so the enamel caught the light.
"This is going on my jersey," Sanemi said, his voice rougher than he intended. "Right over my heart. Every match. Every stage. Every damn camera in the building is going to see it."
Giyuu's flush spread from his neck to the tips of his ears. He looked down, unable to hold the intensity of Sanemi's gaze. "You don't have to put it on the jersey. It might violate the sponsor dress code—"
"I'll fight the sponsors."
"Nemi—"
"I'll fight every single one of them, Yuu." Sanemi slipped the pin into the inner pocket of his motorcycle jacket, right against his chest. "Now come on. We're losing daylight."
The underground parking garage was cold and echoing. Their footsteps bounced off the concrete as Sanemi led them to the far corner where the matte-black motorcycle was parked beneath a dust cover.
He pulled the cover off with a sharp yank, revealing the sleek machine underneath. It looked aggressive even standing still—low-slung and angular, polished to a lethal shine. Sanemi ran his hand along the tank, checking the pressure gauges out of habit, before swinging one long leg over the seat and settling his weight.
He turned back to Giyuu, who was standing three feet away, holding his helmet like he wasn't sure which end went on.
"Have you ever been on one of these?" Sanemi asked, his lips twitching.
"You know I haven't."
Sanemi held out his hand. "Come here. Left foot on the peg first. Hold onto my waist—tight. When I lean, you lean with me. Don't fight it."
Giyuu approached slowly. He took Sanemi's hand, his cold fingers gripping tight, and swung his leg over the back of the seat. The moment he settled behind Sanemi, pressed chest-to-back, his arms instinctively wrapped around Sanemi's midsection. He locked his hands together against Sanemi's stomach, his face pressing between Sanemi's shoulder blades.
"Tight," Sanemi repeated, his voice vibrating through his back and directly into Giyuu's chest.
"I am holding tight," Giyuu mumbled, though his grip tightened another degree.
Sanemi kicked the engine to life. The deep, rolling growl filled the concrete garage, vibrating through both of their bodies. Giyuu's fingers curled into the leather of Sanemi's jacket.
They pulled out of the garage and into the cold February evening. The Tokyo streets blurred past in streaks of neon and headlights, the winter air biting at any exposed skin. Giyuu pressed closer, tucking his face against the warmth of Sanemi's back, and for the first fifteen minutes, he kept his eyes squeezed shut.
Then, as the highway opened up and the dense cityscape began to thin—buildings shrinking, billboards fading, the light pollution dimming at the edges—Giyuu opened his eyes.
The sky was changing.
What had been a washed-out, orange-gray canvas over Tokyo was deepening into something richer. Blues and purples bled across the horizon as they climbed higher along the mountain road, the engine growling steadily beneath them. The air smelled different out here—clean, sharp, tinged with pine and the faint bite of frost.
Giyuu lifted his head from Sanemi's back, his eyes widening behind the visor of his helmet. The trees lining the mountain road were skeletal and dusted with a thin layer of frost, their branches forming a dark lattice against the darkening sky. And beyond them, through the gaps, stars were beginning to emerge.
Real stars. Dozens of them. Hundreds.
Giyuu's arms tightened around Sanemi's waist, and he heard a sound he couldn't identify—a sharp intake of breath that the wind tore away before it could fully form.
Sanemi pulled off the main road onto a narrow gravel path that wound upward through a sparse forest. The motorcycle grumbled in protest at the uneven terrain, but Sanemi navigated it with steady hands until they reached a small clearing at the top of the ridge.
He cut the engine. The sudden silence was immense—a physical weight that pressed against Giyuu's eardrums after the hours of road noise.
Sanemi swung off the bike first, pulling his helmet off and setting it on the seat. He ran a hand through his flattened hair, spiking it back up by reflex, and turned to help Giyuu dismount.
Giyuu pulled his helmet off. The cold hit his face like a slap, and his breath plumed white in the freezing air. But he wasn't looking at Sanemi. He was looking up.
The sky was shattered.
There was no other word for it. Without Tokyo's light pollution, the winter sky had opened up into something vast and overwhelming. The Milky Way stretched across the darkness in a luminous river of silver and pale blue, so dense it looked like spilled paint. Stars clustered in impossible numbers—thick, bright, ancient—and the sheer depth of the field made the ground beneath Giyuu's feet feel smaller, more precious.
His lips parted. He didn't say anything. He didn't move. He just stood there in the small clearing on the ridge, his dark hair shifting in the mountain wind, his face tilted toward the infinite.
Sanemi watched him.
He busied himself with unpacking so he wouldn't do something embarrassing, like cry.
He spread the thick wool blanket over a flat patch of dry grass, anchoring the corners with rocks. He set up the battery-powered lantern at a low, warm glow—bright enough to see by, dim enough not to ruin the dark adaptation of their eyes. He unpacked the thermal bag, arranging the sealed containers of salmon daikon, rice, and pickled vegetables. The thermos of tea went next to them, the cap already steaming when he cracked it open.
The telescope was last. He assembled it from its compact travel case, adjusting the tripod legs until it was stable on the uneven ground. He wasn't an astronomer—he'd needed a forty-minute YouTube tutorial and Teiko's help over FaceTime to learn which eyepiece went where—and the first time he looked through the lens, he saw nothing but a smeared white blur.
He swore under his breath, fumbling with the focus knob. The cold was making his fingers clumsy, and the tripod kept shifting on the frozen ground. He had to reposition it twice before the image sharpened into anything resembling a star field, and even then, he wasn't sure he was pointing it at the right cluster.
"Yuu," Sanemi called, his voice carrying across the small clearing. "Come sit down before you freeze standing up."
Giyuu tore his gaze away from the sky. When he looked at the setup—the blanket, the food, the lantern, the telescope—his composure cracked.
"Sanemi..."
"Don't," Sanemi warned, pointing a finger at him. "Don't do the thing where you get emotional and then I get emotional and then we're both standing on a mountain crying in February. Just sit."
Giyuu crossed the clearing, his boots crunching on the frosted grass. He didn't sit. Instead, he stepped directly into Sanemi's space, wrapped his arms around his neck, and buried his cold face against the warm leather of Sanemi's jacket.
"You did all of this," Giyuu said, his voice muffled and thick. "You drove me two hours into the mountains. You made my food. You brought a telescope."
"I did."
"Because I mentioned stargazing once."
"You mentioned it when we were looking for the apartment. You said you wanted a window where you could see the stars." Sanemi's arms came up, wrapping around Giyuu's back, his chin resting on the top of his dark hair. "I couldn't give you the stars from the penthouse. Light pollution is a bitch. So I brought you here."
Giyuu's shoulders trembled. He pressed his face harder into Sanemi's collar.
"I love you," Giyuu whispered, and the words came out cracked at the edges, wet with something he was fighting to keep contained.
Sanemi closed his eyes. He held Giyuu against his chest, the mountain wind buffeting around them, the stars burning silent and absolute above their heads.
"I love you too, Yuu. Happy birthday."
They ate on the blanket, sitting hip-to-hip with the wool pulled over their laps.
Giyuu ate the salmon daikon with a quiet, reverent intensity that Sanemi had only ever seen from him when the food was exceptional. He went through his first portion without speaking, his chopsticks moving in that focused rhythm, before finally looking up at Sanemi with wide, shining eyes.
"You made this yourself," Giyuu said. It wasn't a question.
"Yeah." Sanemi reached for the thermos, unscrewing the cap to buy himself a second. "Your sister taught me. I went to her place three times to practice."
Giyuu's chopsticks stopped moving. "Nee-san taught you," he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper.
"She said you'd cry if I got it right." Sanemi took a long sip of tea. "So don't. Don't do it, Tomioka."
Giyuu pressed his lips together. He took another bite. "The broth is a little different from hers," he said after a moment.
Sanemi's jaw tightened. "Different how?"
"Sweeter." Giyuu looked at him. "I like it better."
Sanemi shoved a large bite of rice into his mouth. "Eat. There's more in the bag."
They cleared the containers in comfortable silence, passing the thermos of tea back and forth until the warmth settled into their bones. When the food was packed away, Sanemi turned to the telescope.
"Come here," Sanemi said, crouching beside the eyepiece. He adjusted the angle, pointing the lens toward a bright cluster near the horizon. "Look through this."
Giyuu knelt beside him, tucking his long hair behind his ear before leaning down to press his eye against the cold metal of the eyepiece. He went still.
"Oh," Giyuu breathed.
Through the lens, the star cluster exploded into resolution—what had been a smudge of light to the bare eye was now a vivid, glittering swarm of individual points, each one burning a different shade of white and blue and pale gold.
"That's the Pleiades," Sanemi said, his voice dropping into a low murmur. "The Seven Sisters. I looked it up. It's one of the closest open clusters to Earth. The brightest ones are named after figures from mythology."
Giyuu pulled back from the eyepiece, his expression soft with wonder. "Since when do you know about star clusters?"
"Since I spent two weeks trying to figure out what to show you up here." Sanemi rubbed the back of his neck, his scars flushing pink in the lantern light. "Teiko helped. She sent me a list of what's visible this time of year. Don't tell her I said that."
Giyuu smiled—the full, unguarded version that made his eyes curve at the corners and transformed his entire face. He leaned over, resting his head on Sanemi's shoulder while still looking at the sky.
"Show me another one."
Sanemi adjusted the telescope, his movements clumsy but determined. He pointed the lens toward a faint, fuzzy patch higher in the sky. "That one. See the shape? It's Orion. The hunter. The three stars in a line are his belt."
"I can see them without the telescope, too," Giyuu said, tilting his head back. "Three in a row. And then the two bright ones above and below."
"Yeah. Betelgeuse is the red one at the shoulder. It's dying. It's going to explode in the next hundred thousand years or so."
Giyuu let out a soft hum. "That's a long time."
"Not for a star." Sanemi wrapped his arm around Giyuu's shoulders, pulling him closer against the cold. "But I figure we've got our hundred years first."
Giyuu was quiet for a long moment, his breath pluming white in the freezing air. Then, without lifting his head from Sanemi's shoulder, he reached down and found Sanemi's left hand. His fingers traced the silver ring, his thumb running over the band until it found the spot where the engraved wave sat hidden against Sanemi's skin.
"Can I tell you my wish?" Giyuu murmured.
"You're not supposed to tell. It won't come true."
"I don't believe in that." Giyuu turned his head, pressing his cold nose against the side of Sanemi's neck. "I wished for this morning to happen every morning. The breakfast. The quiet. You being there when I open my eyes."
Sanemi didn't answer. He just pulled Giyuu closer on the blanket, wrapping both arms around him until Giyuu's back was against his chest.
"You don't need a birthday wish for that," Sanemi said, his lips brushing against the shell of Giyuu's ear. "That's just called living with me."
Giyuu let out a sound that was caught between a laugh and a sigh, and he curled into the warmth, his fingers gripping the lapels of the jacket.
Above them, the sky burned on—ancient and indifferent, incomprehensibly vast. The mountain wind moved through the bare trees, carrying the sharp scent of frost and pine, and for a long time, the only sound was the slow, synchronized rhythm of two people breathing.
They stayed on the ridge until the cold finally won.
It happened gradually—Giyuu's fingers growing stiff inside his gloves, Sanemi's ears burning numb despite the collar of his jacket. The lantern flickered as the battery began to wane, casting long, dancing shadows across the frost-stiffened blanket.
"We should head back," Sanemi murmured, though he made no move to stand. His arms were still locked around Giyuu, who was curled against his chest with his eyes closed, his breathing slow and dangerously close to sleep.
"Five more minutes," Giyuu whispered.
Sanemi huffed. He tilted his head back, looking up at the sky one last time. The Milky Way arced overhead. From this ridge, far from the digital noise and the screaming arenas, they were just two people on a mountain.
He gave Giyuu's shoulder a gentle shake.
"Come on, birthday boy. If we stay any longer, we're going to become permanent fixtures of this mountain."
They packed up in the dark, their movements slow and reluctant. Sanemi secured the gear to the motorcycle with practiced efficiency, his breath fogging in the freezing air. Giyuu helped fold the blanket, his fingers fumbling with the cold but his expression entirely at peace.
The ride home was slower than the ride out. The mountain roads were dark and winding, and Sanemi kept his speed steady, conscious of the precious cargo pressed against his back. Giyuu's arms were locked around his waist, his face tucked between Sanemi's shoulder blades, and Sanemi could feel the rise and fall of his breathing through the layers of leather and wool.
As they descended back toward the city, the stars began to fade. The orange glow of Tokyo crept back over the horizon, swallowing the darkness one streetlight at a time. By the time they pulled into the underground garage, the sky was the same washed-out gray it had always been.
The penthouse was warm and dark when they stepped inside.
Sanemi kicked off his boots and dropped the gear bags by the door. Giyuu unwound his scarf with stiff, cold fingers, his nose and cheeks flushed a deep pink from the wind.
They moved through the apartment without speaking, guided by muscle memory and the soft blue glow of the city skyline through the windows. Sanemi hung his motorcycle jacket in the closet, pausing to transfer the enamel pin from the inner pocket to the collar of his official Kimetsu jersey hanging beside it. He pressed his thumb against the metal, feeling the tiny ridges of the wind and wave design, before closing the closet door.
Giyuu was already in the bedroom, pulling his sweater over his head. The cold had sapped the last of his energy, and he moved slowly, his eyelids heavy.
Sanemi stepped in behind him. Without a word, he reached out and helped pull the sweater free, tossing it onto the chair in the corner. He retrieved one of his own oversized t-shirts from the drawer and pulled it over Giyuu's head, smoothing it down over his shoulders.
Giyuu blinked up at him, his arms hanging loosely at his sides, looking small and sleepy and entirely too pretty in the dim room. "You're dressing me like a child, Nemi."
"You're moving at the speed of a frozen sloth. Someone has to help." Sanemi stepped back, pulling his own sweater off and swapping it for a pair of worn joggers. He climbed into the bed first, holding the duvet up so Giyuu could slide in beside him.
The moment they were horizontal, Giyuu rolled over and attached himself to Sanemi's side like a barnacle. His leg hooked over Sanemi's hip, his arm draped across his chest, and his face pressed into the warm hollow of Sanemi's neck. The cold was still clinging to his skin—his nose, his fingers, the tip of one ear—and every point of contact made Sanemi hiss.
"Your nose is literally ice," Sanemi complained, though his arm immediately curled around Giyuu's back, pulling him closer.
"Then warm me up," Giyuu mumbled, burrowing deeper.
Sanemi pulled the heavy duvet over both of them, cocooning them in warmth. His hand found the back of Giyuu's head, his fingers sinking into the dark, tangled hair and rubbing slow, soothing circles against his scalp.
The city glowed faintly through the massive windows. They couldn't see the stars from here—they never could—but Giyuu didn't look at the sky tonight. He looked at the silver band on Sanemi's left hand, resting against the white sheets just inches from his face.
"Nemi?"
"Mm."
"Tonight was the best birthday I've ever had."
Sanemi's fingers paused in Giyuu's hair.
"Better than Disneyland?" he managed, keeping his voice light.
"We went to Disneyland for your birthday."
"Details."
Giyuu let out a quiet, breathy laugh, the sound warm and close against Sanemi's skin. "Yes. Better than everything."
Sanemi pressed his lips to the crown of Giyuu's head and held them there, breathing in the cold, pine-tinged scent that still clung to his hair.
He thought about the ring he hadn't bought yet. The question he was still carrying, getting heavier and more certain with every passing day.
Soon, he thought. But not tonight. Tonight is his.
"Goodnight, Yuu," Sanemi whispered.
Giyuu was already asleep.
Sanemi smiled into the dark, pulled his boyfriend closer, and let the silence take him under.