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Chapter Text

He realized something was off when he woke up next to emptiness.

Usually, Hiraga procrastinates getting up until it's absolutely necessary to, preferring to curl and uncurl at his side, shielding himself from the morning sun. Roberto only wakes him up - with a kiss to his forehead and a comforting hand on his shoulder - when the smell of scrambled eggs has become overbearing and his coffee has gone lukewarm.

But not today. Today, Hiraga is standing proudly in the doorway, balancing two coffee cups and a plate of… something.

«Happy birthday» he says, carefully sitting on the bed next to Roberto and placing the plate on his lap. «I couldn't find any trays…»

Still in slumbering confusion and a little groggy, Roberto stamps a sleepy kiss on Hiraga's cheek, «Thank you» he says, holding the plate with one hand as to not spill it on the bed, «they're in the cupboard above the oven».

Hiraga shrugs his shoulders with a smile; he sips his coffee and then stares at him expectantly. On the plate, two soggy pieces of jam-covered crispbread are fighting for space with a few slices of smoked scamorza, a boiled egg and a handful of wilted spinach and haphazardly cut tomatoes.

Roberto's heart is brimming with joy as he breaks off a piece of cheese and brings it to Hiraga's mouth. «Did you wake up early to prepare all of this? It's lovely».

Hiraga parts his lips to accept the offer, his tongue brushing against Roberto's fingertips. «Of course not, I made it last night and hid it in the microwave».

He makes a mental note to tell Hiraga to never, ever leave an egg unrefrigerated again, then he picks up one of the crispbreads and eats it like it’s the best damn thing he’s ever had.  

Roberto isn't one for big breakfasts: a cappuccino, half a croissant and he's good to go. But Hiraga is wearing only Roberto's too-big bathrobe, the scent of lemon soap and a bright smile, so he can’t complain.

Chapter Text

Too late he speaks: the sword, which fury guides,

Driv'n with full force, had pierc'd his tender sides.

Down fell the beauteous youth: the yawning wound

Gush'd out a purple stream, and stain'd the ground.

His snowy neck reclines upon his breast,

Like a fair flow'r by the keen share oppress'd;

Like a white poppy sinking on the plain,

Whose heavy head is overcharg'd with rain.

And Hiraga is sleeping on his lap. Roberto brushes his fingers through his black hair while reciting the verse in clear, scholastic Latin, just like Hiraga likes it, and he sees for a second the reflection of that bright Etruscan moon in the dark crown of his hair, and there is no doubt in his mind that he too would do to Hiraga as Nisus did to Euryalus.

The doctor told them to avoid applying any pressure to the muscle for at least three weeks, so Hiraga’s bandaged leg lies on a pillow, despite his fiercest protests. On the coffee table in front of them, Roberto’s discarded wine glass sits dangerously close to an unsaved Word document on Hiraga’s laptop.

It has become a sort of ritual for them: Hiraga becomes hyperactive after a nice meal, so to avoid him overworking his leg, as a compromise they settled on lying on the couch and watching documentaries. No matter how hard he tries to fight against the somniferous effect of his antibiotics, Hiraga still ends up falling asleep. 

They had run for so long. There was a shot, and then they ran, and ran and ran and ran, and the trees became grey shapes in the night and the dirt roads of the Romanian countryside hailed stones under their feet. They ran until Roberto heard Hiraga scream, and he turned around and saw blood streaking down his thin calf.

By then they were already close a village, and they managed to flag down a confused but kind farmer, who took them in his beat-up Dacia Solenza to the nearest hospital, one hour away. Hiraga did not say a word in the car.

When they got to the four-walls hospital - pink plaster and orange doors - and they saw his wound under its neon lights, Hiraga laughed: a dog bite. And as he laughed, he cried too. He tried to reassure Roberto, his cheeks red and wet with tears, and said I’m sorry, the adrenaline wore off.

So here they are now, back home, with seven stitches and an unsolved case. The TV has been muted thirty minutes ago, when Hiraga yawned and asked Roberto to read him something. His red couch has never been softer.

Roberto glances at the screen and is suddenly face to face with a wide-eyed Rhesus macaque; closing his book, he nudges him awake. He knows Hiraga loves documentaries about monkeys.  

Despair, and rage, and vengeance justly vow'd,

Drove Nisus headlong on the hostile crowd.

Volscens he seeks; on him alone he bends:

Borne back and bor'd by his surrounding friends,

Onward he press'd, and kept him still in sight;

Then whirl'd aloft his sword with all his might:

Th' unerring steel descended while he spoke,

Piered his wide mouth, and thro' his weazon broke.

Dying, he slew; and, stagg'ring on the plain,

With swimming eyes he sought his lover slain;

Then quiet on his bleeding bosom fell,

Content, in death, to be reveng'd so well.

Chapter Text

Ah! They have a stand mixer! They really need to use Airbnb more often.

«According to the CCTV camera on Rue du Pont Lèvis, Fabienne left the gas station at 05:43 AM. She would have had plenty of time to stage the miracle», Hiraga says, rapidly tapping at his phone screen. «Can we use that?»

«Oh, I’m sure if we wash it and put it back it’ll be fine», Roberto opens the worn down box, looking for an instructions booklet. «What they don’t know can’t hurt them».

«No, I mean, are we allowed to use this recording as evidence? Most wouldn’t call the way we obtained it legal», he says with a pout, as if disappointed with Law itself.

Roberto shrugs, his attention now captured by a small kitchen drawer. «I don’t think that would be a good idea, Saul wouldn't approve. Oh, and» - were those Imperial system measuring cups? Glory in Heavens! No more grappling with American recipes and their incomprehensibly vague quantities! - «tell Lauren I said hi, will you».

He sets down the cups, almost giddy with excitement. Brownies are definitely in order, Hiraga would love them. And some soft pretzels too. And hummus, to dip them in - or maybe baba ghanoush, he’s pretty sure he saw a grilling plate somewhere. Finally, no more stale omelette and watered down coffee at low level continental buffets. The possibilities! Did he forget anything? Pink peppercorn, smoked salmon, rye bread - ah, there’s a boulangerie a street away, right next to a Carrefour, he might pass by them tomorrow morning and buy a baguette and some margarine. Vive la France! Eggplants, garlic, mustard for the pretzels—

«Uhm, Roberto?»

Hiraga is staring intently at his phone, thumb hovering over the screen and brows furrowed in concentration.

«Yes?»

«What does ma sborat mean?»

Roberto almost drops the mixing bowl. «Where did you read that?»

«Lauren just texted me this» and he shoves his phone in Roberto’s face with a little more force than intended. Curiosity is slowly creeping onto his features, which is never a good thing, Roberto reckons.

me: Thank you again for obtaining the recordings for us.

me: Also, Roberto says hi! :)

Lauren: ma sborat

How eloquent. He turns back to his grocery bag and shuffles its contents awkwardly, pretending he hasn’t heard Hiraga. «Come on, do you want to help me separate the yolks from the egg whites again?»

Hiraga puts the phone down and grabs a shot glass for the eggs; still, he is relentless. «But what does it mean?»

«It’s, uh—… ah, I’ll tell you some other time. Remind me to», Roberto stutters out, knowing that Hiraga will promptly forget about it. «Let’s put Lauren in time out for now and take care of dinner, alright?».

Hiraga shrugs his shoulders and quietly grabs his phone again, opening the notes app and writing dont forget to ask roberto what ma sborat means.

Chapter Text

«Dada?»

«Oh God», an amused smile tugs at Roberto’s lips, «I surely hope not».

The room breaks into laughter. The hilarity seems to be lost on Peter (and, maybe, Hiraga), but he is basking in the sight of his mom slapping her own thigh and struggling to breathe, so he starts bouncing on the carpet again and repeating Dada! Dada! Dada!

«I’m sorry», Anna Dolores wipes a tear from her eye, «that’s the only word he knows. Not sure how that happened».

The sun has started to beat directly into Anna’s cramped kitchen, so all four of them move into Anna’s slightly less cramped living room, coffee mugs and pacifier in hand. It’s hard to navigate the apartment when the floor is littered with deadly and brightly colored contraptions - like a poisonous animal, Hiraga thinks: jingling toys and sticky plushies and gummy teethers and what appear to be the remnants of a baby mobile.

Hiraga was tasked with holding him this time - Anna seems to be making a game out of it - and Roberto can’t tell whether Peter or Hiraga is more upset by this outcome. The boy is kicking in his arms, crying and tossing and doing whatever is in the power of a thirteen months old baby to get out of his embrace - if you can even call it that. Hiraga is holding the baby at an almost 90 degree angle, frozen in the same position he was when Anna handed him the baby. He’s looking from her to Roberto and back to Peter with a panicked expression, trying to put him down while also being too scared to drop him.

«The neck, Hiraga. Support the neck». Anna is taking her sweet time moving her chair from the kitchen to the living room - the initial pretext for making Hiraga hold him - and enjoying herself while doing it. After all, she hasn’t had a break since Peter was born. Hiraga will survive.

Roberto decides to put an end to Hiraga’s misery and extends his arms towards him, cooing and smiling at Peter. When the transfer is complete, Hiraga can finally breathe again.

Babies are…heavy. That’s as much as he can say. Peter has immediately calmed down, distracted by the change in scenery, and is now staring at Roberto with his big, brown eyes. In a split second, he starts tossing again, extending his pudgy arms towards Roberto’s hair. Tentatively, he lowers his head, and Peter wastes no time in grabbing a thick handful of brown locks. The tightness in Roberto’s chest is indescribable.

«You’ll regret that», Anna says, sipping her lukewarm coffee, «he’s stronger than he seems». The short cut that replaces her blond locks seems to be a testament to just how serious she’s being. And she’s not wrong either: the gel in his hair is mixing with the saliva, sweat and traces of baby food on Peter’s fingers, but Roberto doesn’t have the heart to pull away.

(Later, he’ll think back to this moment, to the smell of banana puree and no-tears shampoo, to the lullaby coming from an abandoned music box somewhere in the kitchen, to the way Hiraga is looking at them with irremediable fondness, and he’ll fantasize about something he can’t have).

«Anyway,» Anna turns back to Hiraga, «what did McGee want from me?»

Happy to be talking business again, Hiraga perks up and fishes a thick manila folder from his satchel: «He says he has a mission for you».

Chapter Text

«You two make a lovely couple!»

Roberto and Hiraga stop in their tracks. An all-too-enthusiastic teenager is shoving a bright green flier in their faces; behind him, two women are manning a small booth about— something about renewable energy. Or maybe vaccines?

«Oh, I’m sorry, we’re not interested», Roberto says after waking up form his stupor. He turns the boy’s hand away as politely as he can.

«May I at least offer you a promotional pen? They’re completely free, and only 60% plastic—»

«You may not, thank you», he said, tightening his grip on Hiraga’s wrist and picking up the pace.

Choosing a Saturday to visit Bologna was, in retrospect, a bad idea: with school out for the summer, the city swells with insistent vendors and idealistic students trying to sell anything from indie magazines to cheap bracelets to weed. There’s not much they can do other than avoid Piazza Verdi and hope to get to the Pinacoteca before the exhibit on Medieval Jewish art ends.

When they’re at a safe distance, Roberto stops to throw both their gelato cups in the trash and Hiraga finally speaks up: «What was that all about?»

«What, did you want a pen?»

«Kind of».

«Believe me, you don’t. You can’t get rid of those guys once you give them some attention», Roberto says, taking Hiraga’s hand again (mostly out of habit, really) and walking on. «Next thing you know, you’re subscribed to Lotta Comunista and Meat is Murder Magazine».

Hiraga chuckles, in a way that makes Roberto wonder if he got the joke. They’ve been strolling through the city since 10AM to catch a live recreation of a 17th century body dissection in the Teatro Anatomico, and the unforgiving Bolognese sun has reddened Hiraga’s cheeks beyond recognition, until Roberto convinced him to stop by the market and buy a sun hat. «That’s not what I meant, though».

«What did you mean, then?»

«Didn’t you hear» — Hiraga is staring straight into the ground while he speaks, the black ribbon of his hat obscuring his eyes — «what he said to us first?»

Oh—

«You don’t have to worry about that. It’s a pretty typical selling strategy», Roberto masks his disappointment with a chuckle, «he probably didn’t mean it».

Hiraga doesn’t say anything else, and Roberto is becoming increasingly aware of the fact that he is still holding his wrist. He thinks of ways to inconspicuously let go, until Hiraga retracts his hand himself and adjusts his hat again. Is he embarrassed? He does look like it. Is it because he was assumed to be gay? No, it can’t be… Hiraga would never care about such a silly thing. Is it because he was assumed to be his boyfriend? He tries to convince himself otherwise, but there can be no other explanation to why Hiraga is now slowly walking in front of him — away from him. Roberto’s shame hits the nape of his neck like a burning hot iron.

He’s so entranced in his thoughts that he doesn’t even notice the beating sun on his scalp being replaced by a soft chill. They’re now under the never ending porticos again, escaping the sun’s aggression but walking right into the den of charismatic university students holding key chains and free samples. Roberto almost loses sight of Hiraga’s bright red shirt in the crowd, distracted by the overpriced bars and fusion restaurants lining the porticos and by the rumbling of his stomach. It will be dinner time soon enough, won’t it?

He stops to check out a small sandwich place, motioning for Hiraga to do the same - surely a light meal will make him forget his embarrassment. But before they can fully reach the shop, they’re ambushed by a bored woman waving perfume strips outside a nearby natural cosmetics store.

«Buonasera, would you like to try our new limited edition Tuscan Gardens collection? We just added to the offer Sunny Orchard, Flower path, Fountain of Delights…». She recites the perfume names with no intonation or care, like a chore, and Roberto knows that she’s just as embarrassed as they are by this. He opens his mouth for a quick no, grazie, buona serata, when Hiraga cuts him off.

«I would love to», and he takes one of the strips and inhales its scent. «Actually, could you help me? I am looking for a perfume for my boyfriend, but I’m not very good at these things».

Roberto can’t tell who’s more shocked: the shop clerk for actually finding someone who’s interested, or himself for being, apparently, the boyfriend.

«Yes! Of course! What are you looking for, exactly? Come in, we have a wide selection of men’s fragrances…»

Hiraga steps into the shop, taking his hand, and Roberto decides that yes, this is definitely a heat stroke and Roberto needs to take him to the hospital immediately. He takes advantage of the clerk turning around to whisper in Hiraga’s ear: «What’s going on? Are you feeling okay?»

«Relax», Hiraga squeezes his hand tighter, «we’re 4 hours and 49 minutes away from Rome. Nobody will find out». He winks at him and turns back to the salesgirl.

Well, who’s Roberto to argue with that logic? He squeezes Hiraga’s hand back and watches as the clerk excitedly lists their selection of summer appropriate fragrances. He suddenly pipes up: «Actually, do you have some kind of aftersun lotion too? My boyfriend forgot to put sunscreen on today».

They manage to catch the 7PM Frecciarossa and get home by 10PM, after making the clerk’s day, arms full of perfumes and shower gels and moisturizers.

Hiraga is right, nobody in Rome could even dream of what they had done, but as he thoughtlessly rinses off the mango lip balm Hiraga applied to him on the train ride and lines up the new body washes and shampoos in his empty bathroom, he does feel like they took a piece of Bologna with them.

Chapter Text

He wakes up a little earlier that day. Not that he has to try - his skin, salty with mid July heat, is now feeling the chill coming from the open window. His damp bed covers are bunched up on the ground, and he almost trips on them while making his way towards the window.

Outside, the Sirocco is billowing red dust over the sea. Inside, mom is humming a Patty Pravo song. Dad isn’t home.

And, in two hours, he’ll officially be ten years old.

He looks out of the window for an indeterminate amount of time, taking in the sight of the white crests hurling themselves against the black rocks of the Sicilian beach. As a child, Roberto used to think he could control the weather and the seas with his mind, and would stare at the waves for hours, hoping for an imperceptible change in their flow — that is, until his father laughed at him and told him ain’t no water changing its course for you, boy.

He carefully closes the exterior shutters, hooking them together so that fresh air could still come in without filling the room with dust. Mom wouldn’t like that — and she definitely wouldn’t like seeing his sheets on the floor. He picks them up and does his best to give them a vaguely square shape, before abandoning them on the bed. Mom would take care of them, he is the birthday boy after all.

Tu mi fai girar, tu mi fai girar, come fossi una bambola…

«Mamma, I can’t stand that song», he says, stepping barefoot into the kitchen.

His mother jumps back from the counter, startled. «Roberto!», she says, her hands struggling to hide something behind her back, «Bon compleannu».

Roberto walks up to her and kisses her on the cheek. «Thanks. What’s that behind your back?»

«What’s what?»

«Mamma».

It’s that age where kids want to be taken seriously, and Naomi knows it. With an exaggerated sigh, she moves away from the counter, where sugar frosting is dripping from the spatula onto a spongy, ricotta filled cake. «I was decorating your cake».

Ah, homemade cake. That’s codeword for we couldn’t buy you a present, I’m sorry.

«Dad went out to buy a few bottles of Fanta and Chinotto».

That’s codeword for we couldn’t buy you a present because your father has been squandering our money on booze again, but he’s really sorry, so don’t be mad at him, OK?

Despite his best efforts, the disappointment on his face must be evident. His mother squeezes his shoulder and then kisses his parting line. «Don’t you wanna help me decorate? We can get it done before daddy comes home».

Twenty years from now he’ll know that this cake is called cassata, and he’ll laugh in the kitchen and sing along to Patty Pravo while his lover eats the candied fruit off of his slice.

But right now he’s ten years old and carefully cutting fresh strawberries into heart shapes — he never did like candied fruit — while his mother chats off about the neighbors and brings the frosting covered spatula to his lips. And he couldn’t be more at peace than today.

Poi mi butti giù, poi mi butti giù, come fossi una bambola…

Chapter Text

Four days into their honeymoon, the Sicilian skies decided they’ve had enough of tourists and beach-goers, and resolved to unleash a small scale deluge on the coasts of Taormina.

Thank God, Roberto had said when they saw the weather forecast, I’m sick of children throwing beach balls in my face while I’m trying to read.

So now it’s 10AM and outside the rain is pouring. Hiraga insisted on keeping the hotel curtains open so he could check if their umbrella got struck by lightning, but he quickly lost interest. He’s laying face down on the bed, trying to not wince as Roberto applies aloe vera to his shoulder blades. Except for the rain beating against the window panes, the room is completely silent.

They had a fight last night. Their first one, as a married couple. Hiraga had been oh so diligent for their entire honeymoon, applying sunscreen first thing in the morning (on his nose, too!) until the day before, when he had been too distracted by an apparent problem with their plane tickets to remember, and Roberto didn’t think to remind him.

After a long and exhausting day of yelling at Alitalia in 36° C weather, Roberto finally noticed the blisters on his shoulders and snapped at him, involuntarily. Hiraga argued back, and they went to bed without speaking to each other. Hiraga spent the rest of the night tossing and turning in bed, whimpering and covering the sheets in sticky aftersun, while Roberto’s heart ached.

Roberto is gently massaging the cream onto his skin and trying to avoid the blisters on his back. He gave him a big good morning kiss and bought the most expensive brand of aloe vera he could find, but does Hiraga know that he’s sorry? He wishes he could tell him but the words are stuck in his throat. What if Hiraga hasn’t forgiven him? What if bringing it up will only make him more mad? He should just be quiet and not say anything. I’m not a child, Hiraga had said, you don’t have to tell me what to do all the time. We’re fucking married. I can take care of myself. The horrible words Roberto replied with buzzed in his head for the entire night. But what if Hiraga wants a formal apology? What if he’s just waiting for it and getting more upset with every minute—

«Ouch».

«Sorry. Am I being too rough?»

«It’s fine».

It’s not fine and Roberto knows it. It’s never going to be fine. He’s going to ruin this marriage like he ruins everything he touches. He’s going to get tired of him. Of his outbursts, of his clinginess, of his self-consciousness. Hiraga deserves better than him, and he’ll realize soon that this was a mistake. He’ll leave him for somebody who doesn’t need constant reassurance, who makes him happy, fulfilled.

Hiraga turns around when he feels the second tear hit his back.

«Honey?»

He covers his face with his lotion-sticky hands. He doesn’t deserve Hiraga.

His arms are immediately around him, forehead to forehead, sunburn hot against his own skin. «What’s wrong? Why are you crying? Roberto, please».

«I’m sorry», he finally says, taking in a deep breath to calm himself down. He’s not sobbing — he doesn’t want Hiraga to see him like that — but his voice is filled with tremors. «I shouldn’t have yelled at you last night. I’m sorry».

He smiles at him and kisses his brow: «It’s okay. You were stressed»

«It’s not. I wasn’t angry at you. I was— I shouldn’t have taken it out on you, you didn’t do anything wrong. But I did and I’m so, so sorry».

«Honey, things like that happen all the time in a relationship. It wasn’t a big deal».

Roberto just shakes his head. Honey is Hiraga’s favorite new pet name — he has gone from my love, to babe to Berto, which Roberto put immediately an end to  — but the sweet word is no longer a soothing balm for his heart, and neither are the motions of Hiraga’s hand on his back. He lowers his head and tries to pull himself together. Hiraga doesn’t deserve such a pathetic scene on his honeymoon.

In the dim light of that stormy morning, Hiraga seems almost transparent. With his head down, Roberto can only see bits and pieces of him, beneath his overgrown fringe: his chapped pink lips, the sweet curve of his chin, the little mole that hides in the place where his left nostril meets his cheek. His small hand is squeezing his thigh, reassuringly. Roberto moves like in a dream: he picks it up and inspects the delicate band on his ring finger, as if seeing it for the first time: simple, discreet, no stones, just an inscription on the inside (1 PETER 4:8). He places his hand over his own hand, palm to palm, marveling at the size difference, brushing his bony wrist with his thumb.

He pulls away with an unseen shudder when he realizes that if he wanted to break his wrist, he could.

In a second, as if reading his mind, Hiraga grabs his head and forces him to stare into his sunburn-rimmed eyes. Their noses are touching, and Roberto can’t help but stare at the dark blue ring that circles Hiraga’s pupil: «Roberto, look at me» — I am, I am, I’m always looking at you — «You are not your father. You’re not going to turn into your father. You’re a good person, alright? You’re not a monster. You’re not like him. You are fantastic husband and I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you. But you need to understand that you will not turn into your father».

Defeated, he let’s himself sob into Hiraga’s embrace, head cradled into the crook of his neck. Hiraga’s fingers don’t stop massaging his scalp for the rest of the day.

—

Five days into their honeymoon, the sun decides to show himself again, albeit more timidly than the day before.

They still have two more days before they move their vacation to Japan, upon Jin’s request — they are, after all, honeymooning on his dime — but they’re both sick and tired of the beach, so they decide to stroll through the city, with no real destination. To their surprise, they manage to buy last minute tickets for Aida at the Teatro Antico.

They haven’t spoken about yesterday yet, not explicitly at least, but there is something different in the way Hiraga holds Roberto’s hand, in the way he looks at him, something softer, something kinder. And Roberto desperately wants him to know that he knows, that he notices and appreciates every kind little thing Hiraga does for him.

«Stop picking at your skin».

«Sorry», Hiraga says, without looking up from his now two-toned shoulder and expertly pulling off the dead strips.

Roberto moves to plant a kiss on the pink skin peeking from beneath his brown tan, but he is stopped by a flickering of lights. Aida begins.

Chapter Text

With one glance he can tell Roberto is Naomi’s son.

They find her anxiously cleaning the living room, picking up one item and placing it a few inches to the left, patting the pillows and brushing away invisible dust with her fingers.

Hiraga picks up the faint scent of beef stew - the good kind, the kind that needs to be cooked for five hours - coming from another room. The smell is familiar, probably something that Roberto himself has cooked before. The chance to try the blueprint, so to say, of Roberto’s cooking fills him with inexplicable giddiness. 

Roberto knocks his keys against the door frame and says something Hiraga doesn’t recognize, something rough but melodious, like a poem. His mother turns around quickly, surprised he was already here despite them being twenty minutes late (it took Roberto an uncharacteristic amount of time to pick out a red wine). His mother runs to embrace him. 

«Comu stai, mamma?», he whispers in the crown of her hair, and the tenderness takes Hiraga by surprise.

They don’t resemble each other that much, not physically at least. As much as it pains Hiraga to say it, he has seen Bruno’s body with his own eyes, and Roberto is his splitting image - although he can see, in the wrinkles around his mouth and the elegant swoop of his brow, echoes of his mother.

Naomi pulls away, and turns towards Hiraga. Her gaze is kind, but still he feels scrutinized, and in a moment of panic Hiraga has to remind himself that she already knows about their relationship. 

She laughs at his bow and pulls him into a tight hug, one hand ruffling his hair with familiarity. She pulls back to look a him - «You’re so small», Naomi says, and Hiraga is glad she is speaking standard Italian so that he, too, can understand. 

(Roberto had spent a good amount of time during the drive from Rome to Syracuse - ten exhausting hours - explaining to him the differences and the origins between the various Italian dialects. He listened diligently, but when his explanation devolved into a heated impression of each dialect, he stopped hearing his words and only paid attention to the musicality of Roberto’s voice.)

She’s just a little taller than Hiraga, and a lot more robust. He stares in awe, from his seat at the table, at the way her sinewy arms maneuver a burning-hot pot of ragù. He offers help, but each time she answers with offended politeness, and Roberto has to rub comforting circles on his back to keep him from getting up from his seat. 

It’s hot in Sicily, and Roberto’s hand is heavy, but he doesn’t mind.

Chapter Text

«I don’t think that’s strictly edible», Roberto says, eyeing the mess of ingredients on the kitchen table: elbow macaroni, two dozen eggs, one pound of cheddar cheese, a weird and creamy kind of milk, bacon strips, dough…and rice? What is he going to do with the rice? 

«I’m sure it’ll be great», Hiraga says, but he doesn’t look at him. He’s pouring oil into a bowl of eggs with deadly precision. Satisfied, he puts the bottle down and starts mixing vigorously. «You know, when you get to it, mayonnaise is just science».

Chapter Text

«That doesn’t seem right».

«Shut up. I know what I’m doing», Josef says, but it’s hard to believe him when he’s struggling with keeping the two strawberry yogurt cups from spilling over. He tries to adjust the plastic spoons, but despite his best intentions, the cups simply don’t fit in the dormitory’s shitty mini-freezer. 

Finally, by shuffling the freezer’s contents around and praying, he manages to find a stable enough position. With a woop of triumph, he slams the freezer shut.

Roberto is staring at the Coca-Cola red appliance with his arms crossed, slyly trying to hide the sweat marks on his beige cotton t-shirt: «Now what?». 

«Now we wait…four hours, give or take». Josef jumps back on the refectory table next to Roberto and takes a swig from his water bottle, grimacing: it’s warm.

The heat in Rome is relentless. When the sun is beating down on their heads, the temperatures veer shamelessly towards the 40s. With most of the students splayed out in Rimini or bundled up in the Dolomites, the college board has stubbornly refused to replace the broken AC, so Don Matteo, God bless his heart, had offered to bring the few remaining kids his old mini cooler as consolation.

This is Josef’s first time staying at school during the summer, and the realization of just how hot and stuffy the corridors can get is hitting him hard. «Have you seriously never done this before?», Josef asks again. Frozen yogurt popsicles were as necessary in his household as air.   

Roberto’s foot is dangling from the dining hall’s table, «Nope. Not at all».

«Wow. You must have had such a shitty childhood».

He doesn’t answer, eyes still on the freezer, as if he could will it into cooling the room through sheer mind power. Sweat has piled on his top lip, where Josef can see the faint shadow of an auburn mustache. He wonders if kissing it would cool him down. 

«Roberto?».

«Yeah?» - still staring at the freezer.

«You’re gay».

Roberto punches his arm and jumps down from the table. «I’m not staying here all day, dickhead».

With a low chuckle, Josef follows him out of the dining hall. 

Chapter Text

«What I want to know is», his therapist decanted the words, speaking slowly as if to a child, «is he real?»

«I’m sorry?»
 
Dr. Boccaletti leaned back in his chair. «Well, you know» he said, and his bald spot shone briefly in the studio’s dim light. 

Roberto stared back at him. Well, you know was his therapist’s favorite expression, meaning anything from please elaborate to you and I know that’s not true to I just realized something about you.  

Out of all the therapists and psychologists he had been to in the past twenty years, Boccalletti was one of the most infuriating. A balding priest with a psychology degree, sitting in a tall cliché-red armchair and speaking in codes and allusions to their client. It seemed at times that he firmly believed Roberto was a pathological liar, prying useless details out of him and trying to catch him in a lie, only to lean back in his chair when proven wrong and give him a smug I see. 

Still, there was not much he could do about it: Boccaletti was a Vatican appointed therapist, which meant that he was also a Vatican paid therapist, and Roberto preferred it that way. 

What had he even been talking about? Some embarrassing detail from yesterday’s mass? Another one of his therapist’s strategies: spring unrelated questions on him like a third grade teacher during class. 

«I’m sorry, who is real?»

«Your friend, Eeraga», mispronouncing his name like so many of his Italian colleagues.

It took him a few seconds to process his words, mispronunciation aside. A few too many for Dr. Boccaletti. 

With a sharp turn of his wrist he put down his notebook and pen, smiling at Roberto triumphantly. «I see», he leaned back—

«No, I’m sorry, I don’t understand the question», Roberto feigned polite confusion. Did this man truly believe that he, a grown, twenty-seven years old man, had an imaginary friend? Was he going to hit him with a schizophrenia diagnosis next? He had to have a talk with Saul about changing his therapist before he ended up actually losing his sanity. «You mean Hiraga? Why shouldn’t he be real?», he said, stressing the H in his name like he was at one of his Hebrew classes. 

«Well, you know. He seems to have a lot of… positive qualities. Qualities you seem to strive towards—»

«There’s nothing wrong with admiring a friend».

« — he is always complimenting you — »

«He sees the good in everybody».

« — he is almost always with you — »

«We are mission partners».

Boccaletti scoffed, nasal and grating. He picked up his notebook again and gave Roberto a pitiful look. «Of course. Would you like to tell me more about him?»

Chapter Text

Roberto likes to think of himself as technology savvy enough for his age — he may not understand the ins and outs of meme culture or Twitter etiquette, but he knows how to make a conference call, God damn it.

Still, the program Hiraga chose for this is incomprehensible. He has used enough archaic and purposefully confusing crypto-translation softwares during his time at the Vatican to know how to work his way around unclear command sections and evasive drop down menus, but that hasn’t stopped the program from randomly closing on him or simply not responding to his customization choices.

Finally, he gets the damned thing to behave, and Hiraga’s voice hits him before his face. It’s weird hearing it like this, almost 600km away from him and yet coming in crystal clear through his laptop speakers. «Can you hear me?»

The video catches up with his voice a few seconds later; it’s grainy and delayed, but it’s Hiraga, his Hiraga, sitting on the floor of his hotel room and struggling with a pair of neon green headphones way too big for his head. Roberto studies the background, unable to help himself: unmade sheets a few feet away, Hiraga’s unmistakable lab equipment scattered on the vanity, a container of supermarket spaghetti sitting dangerously close to his laptop’s keyboard. 

Roberto is so happy to see him.

Hiraga says something again, and before Roberto can reply he has already typed it in the chat section: can u hear me?? 

«Yes, I can. It’s good to see you».

Hiraga only gives him a confused look. turn on ur mic dummy  

With a few clicks too many, Roberto manages to turn his microphone on, and,  cautiously leaning forward, says «Hello?» into his laptop’s keyboard.

The smile Hiraga breaks into is the warmest thing Roberto has seen in the past two weeks. God, how long has it been? For a moment neither of them knows what to say, silenced by the novelty of the situation. For the past three years, in those rare instances they had to work separately, they’ve always spoken on the phone or through text messages, supported at most by touristy pictures and snarky email screenshots. But now, after Hiraga’s insistence on trying out videochatting, Roberto is faced with just how unnatural it feels to speak to him like this: it feels wrong to not have to bend his neck to look at him in the eyes, to not be able to place a hand on his shoulder or fall into pace with him. 

While this pixelated video might not be as good as the real thing, Roberto has to concede that it’s better than not seeing Hiraga at all.

Hiraga interrupts the awkwardness by picking up his plastic fork and waving it in the air. «So are we having dinner or what?»

He moves his own plate of pasta into view — a simple cacio e pepe into which he put an excessive amount of effort. «What are you eating?», he says, as he grabs his wine glass. They mimic a toast together. 

«Pasta», Hiraga puts the glass down with a smile. «From the supermarket».

«That doesn’t look too appetizing», he says, picking up his own fork and taking a bite. The pecorino is there, the spaghetti are cooked just right, the Rosso di Montalcino is delicious — but it just doesn’t taste as good as he expected it to. There’s something missing from his plate, and he realizes, as Hiraga nearly chokes on his own mouthful of microwaved rigatoni, that it might just be someone to eat it with. «Are you— easy there, are you okay?»

Hiraga pats the floor around him, coughing his heart out, until he finds the water bottle he had dropped on the ground. He picks it up and takes a big, teary-eyed gulp. «Sorry», cough, «I almost died there, hah». He lifts his arm and aims the empty bottle somewhere out of frame, but another cough mars its trajectory, and the bottle audibly hits the wall. 

«Thank God. For a second I thought I had to come over there», Roberto says, ignoring how fast his heart is beating. «You know you’re supposed to chew each bite 34 times».  

«Shut up», he shoots him a smile as he picks up his fork again, this time visibly more wary of its contents. The discrepancy between Hiraga’s red forkful of pasta and his own creamy white spaghetti is irking him more than it should.

«So, have you found anything interesting? Don’t— don’t answer, swallow first».

Hiraga takes his advice and audibly gulps down the pasta — he opens his mouth and shows him his tongue. «Thanks, mom. And actually, yes. Some of the labs are still open and I’ve been able to conduct my research as usual. And I think that Cimonini is lying. As you know, the Sarcophaga Carnaria reaches the second larval stage — or instar, if you may — in approximately 15 to 20 hours».

«Ah. Of course».

«But the larvae on Donatella’s body were already in an advanced third instar, at least 40 to 48 hours must have passed between her death and the autopsy. Which means that her date of death must be antedated by a day minimum, aka on Tuesday. Which means that Cimonini couldn’t have killed her, as he was still in Switzerland that day. Which means he falsely confessed — God knows for what reason, but he falsely confessed. I don’t get it why the coroners didn’t realize it the first time», Hiraga punctuates this by stabbing his rigatoni, «I mean, those larvae were so big, they were huge, Roberto. You should have seen them, they were— actually, I still have a picture of them somewhere, give me a second».

«I’d rather not see a picture of larvae while I’m eating, Hiraga», Roberto says, but his cacio e pepe is already starting to look queasy in his plate. The dejected look on Hiraga’s face makes Roberto consider, for a moment, if he should tell him to send it anyway. Fortunately, reason prevails over his emotions. «But, I mean, that’s very interesting stuff. And what do you plan to do with it? Can you show it to the attorneys and get the conviction overturned?»

«I hope so. They were thinking of trying for an appeal, but I don’t know if it’s still doable now. We’ll have to wait and see». 

«Ah», Roberto says, but the virtual air is heavy with the question he wants to ask but can’t. When can you come back?

Chapter Text

The older he grew, the less exciting Paris became. Roberto hurried through the wet streets, dodging tourists and magazine-carrying students, relentless even in the pouring rain and in the middle of a pandemic. His hotel wasn’t too far away from the Parc de Belleville, but the less rain he got on his fine leather moccasins, the happier he was.

Well, there was another reason he was hurrying. His phone was heavy in his coat pocket, and still ringing incessantly. It was definitely Hiraga. 

Stepping into the lobby, Roberto took off his dripping mask — much to clerk’s disapproval — and entered the elevator. After a cursory glance at his hair in the elevator’s mirror (as much as it pained him to admit, the wet and wild look did not fit his hairstyle) he pressed his floor’s button and waited for the telltale whirring of the elevator. 

Hiraga was extremely precise in every thing he did, and that included calling him at 8:00pm sharp every night, as they had agreed upon. Such anticipation worried him. 

He fished his now silent phone out of his pocket and called Hiraga back, right as the elevator doors opened.

«Hey» — there was a rummaging sound coming from Hiraga’s end — «is everything okay over there?» 

«Can butter go bad?»

«Oh», Roberto paused, seriously contemplating the question. «Of course it can, although it would take some time. You didn’t leave it in the French butter keeper, right? You put it in the fridge when I told you to—» 

«Even if it has weird green spots on it? And— uh, yeah I did».

A far-too-drunk-for-5pm couple passed by him as he stepped out of the elevator. Roberto glared at them; this was not the clientele he expected to frequent such a dignified hotel. «Just throw it out. I was planning to buy some traditional butter anyway». He balanced his phone on his shoulder while he dug though his messenger bag for his room card. «Is this why you called me? Is everything okay?» 

«Oh, yeah», Hiraga said. The rummaging had stopped, and Roberto clearly heard the door of his fridge slamming shut. He refrained from telling him to be more careful. «I was just making a snack and— ah, fuck» (a knife drops to the ground) « —Sorry, dropped something. Anyway, how did your conference thing go?»  

His hotel room opened with a beep. Plopping down his bag onto the floor, Roberto slowly shrugged out of his wet coat. He was happy to be back in his room, and even happier to be complaining about his day to Hiraga. «Fine. I mean, I got into a fight about the Voynich manuscript with a snobby college graduate, but other than that it went fine». 

On Hiraga’s end, the microwave started to whir loudly. «Tell me about it». 

«I mean, I just don’t think that it makes sense that EVA-x, which appears only 40 times in the Voynich manuscript, represents the letter V, which is quite literally the most common letter in the entire Latin alphabet and its derivations», he fell on his bed, his hair soaking the pillowcase. «Also, a proto-romance language? Excuse me? What does that even mean?»

«Right. That makes no sense», Hiraga said. 

Roberto continued explaining the many faults of the young man’s thesis, while Hiraga punctuated his sermon with various mhm, and that’s ridiculous, who let him graduate?, and the sounds of the fridge opening and closing again. On the ground, near the entrance, lay Roberto’s forgotten shoes, soaking the carpet. «What are you even eating there?», he said, after passionately explaining that "ta" is not, in fact, a diphthong. 

«Oh, I’m making some nachos» (he audibly licks a spoon) «or rather I’m trying to. You don’t have any queso dip, do you?» 

«…No, I don’t think I do». 

«Oh, it’s fine. I’ll just melt some parmesan». 

He let his eyes close as he listened to the sounds of Hiraga moving around in his kitchen. There was something comforting, almost soothing, in the familiarity with which Hiraga opened and closed his drawers. He tried to imagine his movements, tried to guess where Hiraga was looking and what he was pulling out. The fridge, the spice cabinet, the fridge again. How many ingredients did this recipe have? It seemed almost too complex for Hiraga. Now he was walking towards the pantry, outside the kitchen, and retrieving something— ah, he dropped it. Silence. «Hiraga?»

«Um».

«…Yes?»

«Do black beans stain?»

«If you’re talking about my tan jute carpet, then yes, yes they do». Roberto finally sat up on his bed and pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. «It’s fine, just…send me a picture of the damage. I’ll tell you how to clean it».

Chapter Text

The living room is quiet when Roberto gets back. The curtains are drawn, the heating is on and there’s an empty yogurt cup on the coffee table near Hiraga.

Ah, so that’s why his texts (does he really need 500g paracetamol? they don’t have farganesse, is plasil ok?) went unanswered. Fatigue has gotten the better of Hiraga, and he is now curled up against the sofa’s cushions, in a position that can’t be good for his neck. 

Putting the pharmacy bag down, careful to not make too much noise— well, never mind now, Hiraga is already stirring awake. «Did you get—» 

«I did», he shushes him, picking up the blanket bundled up at feet of the couch and draping it over him again. «If you’re not careful, you’ll catch a cold too».

«Hm». His eyes are struggling to keep themselves open. 

Roberto sits next to him on the sofa as Hiraga readjusts his position. He’s still wearing his black work jeans, and his belt has dug deep red welts into his skin. Roberto smooths out the creases in the blanket, letting his hand stop at Hiraga’s thigh, holding him reassuringly. «Is he finally sleeping?». 

Hiraga shoves his face further into the cushions. «Yeah». 

For a moment neither of them says anything, and the only sound in the dim living room is Hiraga’s sigh. «I better go check on him», he says, eyes still closed. Another second passes.

«Do you want me to…», Roberto trails off. He squeezes Hiraga’s thigh, with no response. «I’ll take that as a yes».

When Roberto had suggested, in late November, that the two of them could spend the Christmas season at his house while Hiraga’s apartment was being renovated, he had immediately bit his tongue in regret. Having a small, needy child around during the most stressful period of the year for a priest wasn’t exactly appealing, but Hiraga’s smile had already widened at the idea, and Roberto didn’t have it in him to take it back. 

Fortunately for him, Ryouta turned out to be much more independent than he had expected, and at times better at holding a conversation than his brother. The kid stays in the guest room, doesn’t play any loud music, and washes his own dishes (which is more than he can say about Hiraga). They’ve had some clashes regarding the order of the books in Roberto’s library, but as long as Ryouta doesn’t bend the spine or dog ear the pages, Roberto doesn’t mind. 

He gets up from the sofa, picking up Hiraga’s yogurt cup and a few empty water bottles that he knows he’ll find under the couch. He hates to admit it, but he has gotten used to the clues of Hiraga being in his house, even if they usually involve cleaning up after him. 

After throwing them in the trash — and making sure Hiraga didn’t throw the paper containers in the plastic bag again — he makes his way to the guest room, pharmacy bag in hand, where Ryouta is still sleeping. 

Or rather pretending to be. He sees the telltale sign of a Nintendo DS hiding under his pillow. 

«It’s alright, I know you’re awake», Roberto says. Ryouta keeps up the charade for a few seconds longer before tentatively opening his eyes. «How do you feel?»

«Um, better». 

He turns on the lights, illuminating the guest room’s shabby decor, which he has barely visited since it had become Ryouta’s unofficial bedroom. Good thing he didn’t get rid of the bed and turn it into a study. He walks towards the desk and starts emptying the bag’s contents. He really should get rid of the desk, though. Weathered oak doesn’t compliment stone pine. «Still nauseous? Were you able to eat anything?»

«Not really», he says, playing with the grandma-yellow covers. Roberto immediately notices the way Ryouta’s gaze avoids his. He also notices being a 6’4 man standing in a child’s room. «Kou made me breakfast». 

Roberto laughs, hoping to ease the tension. «That’ll do it. No wonder you weren’t able to hold anything down. I’ll make you some chicken broth for lunch». 

He grabs the half eaten breakfast concoction Hiraga had prepared (some kind of… omelette?) and walks towards the door. «If you need anything, just shout», he says, but Ryouta is already grabbing his Nintendo. 

Chapter Text

It doesn’t surprise Ryouta at all that the living room lights are still on when Mirko drops him off in front of his patio — 01:07 is definitely pushing his 12:30 curfew.

Mirko waves back at him as he speeds off in his 2004 Camry, and Ryouta stares at the tracks he left on their driveway for a few more seconds, keys jingling in his hand, laughter’s ache still on his cheeks. He turns back to his front door, bracing himself for the lecture that awaits him on the other side. A few deep breaths. My phone died, I didn’t notice what time it was, I stayed inside Mirko’s house the whole time, I only had a soda. 

The door opens on him before he can even insert the key into the keyhole. «Why didn’t you call?»

Hiraga is in his blue pajamas, phone clutched tightly in his left hand as if holding onto a railing during a storm. Behind him, an apologetic Roberto is peering curiously from the couch.

His hair is messy and there are dark bags under his eyes, but Ryouta can’t blame himself entirely for that. As for the deep wrinkle that had formed, with age, between Hiraga’s brows — he’ll concede he’s partially responsible for it.

«My phone died», he says as he moves around his brother to enter the house. In the living room’s yellow lamplight, he can tell Hiraga’s lower lashes are stuck to his skin. 

«And you couldn’t ask someone else for theirs?»

«I didn’t notice what time it was». 

Hiraga is about to scold him again but Roberto, who has become over the years Ryouta’s silent defender, stops him: «He’s here now, Hiraga. Let the kid go to bed». Ryouta thanks him with a smile and shrugs out of his coat. 

«He’s here, yes, after worrying me sick for an entire hour» but Ryouta is already running down the stairs towards his room. The basement door slams shut with a resounding, teenage-drama echo. 

Hiraga sighs and drops down onto the couch. The last three years have made him ten years older. «Come on», Roberto kisses his shoulder. «There are worse things a kid could be doing at his age than coming home late. God knows I’ve done worse—»

«He’s so fragile, Roberto». Hiraga shudders with the weight of unsaid words, eyes wide and lashes trembling from stress tears. The hospital visits, the miracle recovery, the incredulous doctors — yet the danger was always there, lurking in Hiraga’s worst nightmares. It consumed his every thought, but Ryouta, like all teenage boys, thought himself invincible. 

Roberto kisses his tense shoulder again. They never do that when Ryouta is home, Hiraga doesn’t like it, but he doesn’t know how else to console him. «He’s lost so much time. Let him make up for it». He squeezes his hand. «I’ll pick him up from now on, alright? I’ll wait outside his friend’s house if you want me to». 

Hiraga looks up. «Promise?»

«Promise». He kisses Hiraga’s worry struck brows. 

Chapter Text

Roberto has been watching him for the past few minutes. It’s not him. 

It cannot be him, he reasons. His hair is too short, his nose is too big and his eyes are…all wrong. This is not what he looks like, this is not what he is supposed to look like. 

But then again, how many years has it been? Twelve? Ten? Hasn’t Roberto himself changed since high school? Hasn’t he grown taller, his shoulders broader? Hasn’t his hair settled into its natural curl, and haven’t his eyes sunk into his book-weary sockets?

No, it can’t be him. It can’t be Joseph because Joseph has been dead for twelve years. He’s not supposed to be strolling around Rome like he’s never left, he’s not supposed to be carrying a little boy in one hand and his wife’s purse in the other, he’s not supposed to be happy when Roberto is not.

«Roberto? Is everything okay?»

He’s been staring. 

«Yes. I’m fine», he finally answers Hiraga, eyes still fixed on the happy couple giddily purchasing souvenirs and an outdated Calendario Romano: Hot Priests 2022 calendar. The sun is shining high on Via di Santa Chiara, beating down on Roberto’s head and making him see echoes of Joseph in the little boy. God, people should really stop falling for those fake calendars. 

«Well…» Hiraga’s ice cream is melting in his hand. He has that apprehensive look of his, the one he has when he can tell something is wrong with Roberto but he doesn’t know how to approach it, or if he should at all. That Roberto appreciates about Hiraga. «We should hurry. Saul is gonna wonder where we are…finish your gelato, Roberto. Don’t you like it?» 

But before Roberto can answer, the man turns around again and faces Roberto, and it’s him. It’s undeniably him.

He looks him in the eyes from beneath his baseball cap and for a moment Roberto is walking the hallways of his boarding school again, mute and closeted, hoping to catch Joseph looking back at him among the ocean of students.

The man opens his mouth silently, pointing at Roberto and then back at him.

Are you…? 

Roberto shrugs his shoulders and smiles. Yes I am. 

«Oh my God», Joseph says, closing the distance between them with a few short steps. His wife and son trail behind him, confused, mirroring Hiraga’s reaction. 

Up close, Roberto can read the writing on his cap (and he notes, with an adolescent sense of pride, that he is now taller than him): it’s the name of a local soccer team. He’s wearing khaki pants and a sweaty striped shirt, and Roberto has to force himself to detach him from the image he has of him, the one that was supposed to last forever: a young man in a dark school uniform, reading books in the library with his fringe over his eyes. Now he looks like a man he might have crossed on the street. Now he looks like a married man. He looks like a dad.

«Roberto?», Joseph says, as if repeating himself, as if he had been trying out the name in his mind until now. «Oh my God! I…oh, I’m sorry. Can I even say that…? I mean, you’re…» and he laughs, gesturing towards his clerical collar. 

Roberto nods. He can feel the tears coming as the same time as his words, so he shuts up and prays that Joseph will lead the conversation. 

Chapter Text

«Actually», Hiraga says, not looking at Roberto, «some tribes of the Sahara desert drink hot tea in the summer. It helps them regulate their body temperature, by purposefully increasing it. This causes the body to react by cooling itself down through perspiration, decreasing the gap between internal and external thermal conditions. It’s the same mechanism that activates when we consume capsaicin, which is why spicy foods are very popular in hotter climates».

Roberto’s hand hovers on the freezer’s handle. «So no popsicles?»

Hiraga pouts. «Of course I want popsicles».

It’s hot, and with the temperature veering shamelessly into the 40s, there’s not much the AC in Roberto’s apartment can do to keep them cool while they finish their reports. They’ve already opened every window, drank every water bottle and exhausted every other cooling method they have: popsicles are their last resort. 

«Do you even have any? Should we go out and get some?», Hiraga asks. It’s nearing the time of day where his all nighters catch up to him, and he looks sleepily for any excuse to stop working. Unlike Roberto, Hiraga isn’t used to the heat: he’s a nocturnal animal through and through, and prefers the chill of the early hours of the night, to the afternoon sun beating straight onto Roberto’s windows. 

«No, but I have these yogurt cups. I’ll just use some spoons for handles and stick them in the fridge. They’ll be ready in four hours, give or take».

«Four hours!», Hiraga exclaims. He pouts behind his laptop, tapping the keyboard with his sticky fingers. Sweat has piled on his top lip. Roberto wonders if kissing it would help him cool down. 

Roberto gasps.

Hiraga looks up. «What is it?»

«Nothing», he says, eyes to the fridge. «Just had deja vu».