Takara had never traveled internationally before.
The airport felt massive—like a breathing machine that swallowed stories and spit them back out across the sky. Announcements echoed above him, travelers bustled in every direction, and the weight of his suitcase tugged at his arm like doubt.
He stood at the departure gate, boarding pass in hand, heart pounding so loudly he was sure the entire terminal could hear it.
Gate 22B.
It felt symbolic, somehow.
Two hearts. Two decisions. One bridge between them.
Takara found a seat and pulled Kayo's journal from his bag. He hadn't opened it yet. Not really. Just clutched it like a lifeline the night it arrived.
He flipped it open now, slowly.
The first pages were filled with drawings—messy, rushed, raw. Sketches of Takara laughing, crying, talking in half-profile. Takara curled up on their old dorm bed, sipping tea, wiping his nose on his sleeve during a movie.
There was even one of him sleeping with his mouth slightly open.
Below it, Kayo had scribbled:
He'll kill me if he sees this, but he looks peaceful.
Takara laughed softly, lips trembling.
Further in, he found more recent pages. A full-page charcoal piece of Takara standing in the snow, looking toward a window—Kayo's silhouette on the other side of the glass.
The boy who always knocks, Kayo had written. Even when the door is locked. Especially when the door is locked.
Takara pressed a hand to the page.
"Boarding now for Flight 973 to Charles de Gaulle, Gate 22B," the speaker announced.
His stomach flipped.
This was it.
The flight was long and sleepless. Takara tried watching a movie, tried reading, but his brain hummed with static.
What if this didn't work?
What if Kayo didn't show?
What if Paris made him realize he didn't need Takara anymore?
By the time the plane began to descend, his hands were cold and his breath short.
He clutched the journal like a shield.
The terminal at Charles de Gaulle was a maze of glass, soft voices, and the scent of espresso.
Takara stepped off the jet bridge and scanned the crowd.
Dozens of signs. Dozens of reunions.
No Kayo.
His heart pounded harder.
He took a few shaky steps toward the arrivals area, eyes darting between faces. Still nothing.
Then—
There.
Against a column, half-shadowed by a pillar, stood Kayo.
Dressed in black. Headphones draped around his neck. Eyes locked on him like Takara was the only thing in focus.
Takara didn't remember deciding to move. His legs just carried him.
He walked straight into Kayo's arms.
They didn't speak at first. They just held each other.
Kayo's hands slid up Takara's back, fingers pressing like he was checking to make sure this wasn't a dream. Takara buried his face in Kayo's shoulder and inhaled—yes. Still the same scent. Still him.
When they finally pulled back, Kayo's hands cupped Takara's face.
"I'm sorry," he said, voice rough. "For making you wonder."
Takara shook his head. "I'd wait all over again."
Kayo leaned in, forehead pressed to Takara's.
"I was scared you'd change your mind."
"I was scared you would."
Kayo smiled, a rare kind of smile—one that cracked open his whole expression.
"I didn't."
And then, he kissed him.
Not like the chaste, nervous kiss they'd shared in college. Not like the uncertain brush of lips between two boys trying to figure out what they meant to each other.
This kiss was real.
It was want. It was apology. It was every lonely night and hopeful message and unfinished poem they hadn't dared speak aloud.
Takara kissed back with a desperation that surprised even himself.
His hands gripped Kayo's coat. Kayo's fingers tangled in his hair.
For a moment, nothing else existed.
No airport.
No future.
Just lips and breath and the relief of not being alone anymore.
They broke apart only when a flight attendant walked past and cleared her throat gently.
Kayo laughed, cheeks flushed.
Takara covered his face. "We're that couple now."
"You were always dramatic," Kayo said, slipping his fingers between Takara's. "I just caught up."
Kayo's temporary apartment was small and spare. A top-floor flat with slanted ceilings and creaky wood floors. There was no elevator, but Takara barely noticed the stairs.
He dropped his suitcase by the door and looked around.
It smelled like cinnamon and pencil lead. Like him.
"This is where you've been living?" he asked, spinning slowly.
Kayo nodded. "Not glamorous, but it's quiet."
"I love it," Takara said. "I love you in it."
Kayo's breath caught.
"You don't have to stay here the whole time," he said, voice suddenly shy. "There's a hostel down the street if you'd be more comfortable—"
"Do you want me to stay here?" Takara asked.
Kayo stepped closer. "Yes."
Takara smiled.
"Then I'm not going anywhere."
They spent the next few hours like magnets.
Cooking together in the tiny kitchen. Takara burning the garlic. Kayo smirking and taking over.
They sat cross-legged on the floor eating spaghetti off mismatched plates.
Takara talked about school, Rei, a squirrel he swore was stalking him on campus.
Kayo talked about the gallery internship, the professor who kept quoting Sartre, the night he watched the moon and thought it looked lonelier than he'd ever seen it—until Takara messaged him and made it feel full again.
"I kept thinking," Kayo murmured, "what if we're just good at long-distance? What if it falls apart when we're too close?"
Takara's hand reached across the space between them.
He laced their fingers.
"Then let it fall," he whispered. "And we'll build something better from the pieces."
That night, for the first time in almost two months, they shared a bed.
It was barely wide enough for one person.
They didn't care.
Takara lay on his back, Kayo curled beside him, head on his chest.
Neither of them slept.
Not because of nerves, but because there was too much to feel.
Too much skin and breath and love.
Too much longing finally met.
At some point, Takara turned and pressed a kiss just beneath Kayo's jaw.
"I thought about this every night."
Kayo shivered. "Me too."
They didn't rush it.
They explored like pilgrims—gentle, reverent, breathless.
Kayo's touch was patient but electric. Takara's was trembling and sure.
When their clothes fell away, so did the hesitation.
There was only closeness now.
Only warmth and whispered names.
Only hearts beating too fast to fake calm anymore.
They moved like they'd always belonged to each other.
And afterward, wrapped in each other's limbs, Takara whispered against Kayo's neck:
"Tell me this is real."
Kayo pressed a kiss to his temple.
"It always was."