Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sunset makes the world sink into crimson, like the flames burning away at the end of Vector’s cigarette. The weather calls for a jacket, at least, but Vector stands outside without one, bearing the November chill because it makes him focus on anything but what’s been buzzing in his head for too long.

Calculations that involve how to get Rio to stay at the agency get buried under the exhaustion from work. Two six-hour photo shoots back-to-back, nevermind the crisis control Ryoga had him run with Anna over her newly dyed pink hair during his lunch break, then with Akari over what she’d claimed was a contract breach.

Not that any of this had been a surprise to Vector; Anna’s constantly changing up her look and they already figured a way around it two years ago, and Ryoga throwing Akari into a lingerie shoot just because Rio was a no-show is a contract breach because those aren’t in her terms. Anna being Rio’s replacement was a no-go when they wanted a “natural beauty” (which, what does that even mean? They’ll be retouching it to hell and back anyway, so what’s a little photoshopping her hair back to brunette in the grand scheme of things?).

But, if Rio really is leaving…

Ryoga’s scrambling and Vector’s exhausted. He takes another drag off his cigarette, leaning against the balcony rail and feeling the smoke warm his insides for a moment before the breeze takes it away.

“You’re gonna get a cold,” Mizael says as he joins him on the balcony, nose wrinkling when he sees the cig.

Vector frowns, glancing back at him. “Who cares.”

“I do.”

“Whatever.”

The book nerd next door is back, wrapped in a green scarf, blue fingers turning page after page. He’s so absorbed in the serif font that covers page after page that he probably hasn’t even noticed how cold it’s gotten since an hour ago, Vector muses.

His plastic glasses are set beside him, grey bangs falling in his eyes as he adjusts his position, turns to the next page, tightens his fingers over the hardcover.

At least it’s not James Joyce this time, though Vector figures the only people who would ever read that for fun are English Lit majors, and the guy just screams “academia.” Either way, he’s definitely too focused on his book to eavesdrop on his neighbours.

“Are you okay?” Mizael asks, leaning back against the brick walls of the apartment building. He holds a mug of tea between his palms, the scent of chamomile underlining the smoke. His head tilts, as if to examine him, and Vector hates the feeling that crawls over his skin at that look.

“Fine,” he says shortly. Then, in the silence, he adds, “Work is busy. That’s all.”

“Work, huh.”

“Mhm.”

“Is this about—”

Vector’s cell phone goes off and he almost drops what’s left of his cigarette. “Fuck,” he mutters as he pulls the device out of his back pocket. Kamishiro Rio's name splays itself across the screen along with a selfie she’d taken for him over a year ago, of her in sheer lingerie hemmed with feathers, her hair mussed but her makeup immaculate. 

“You should probably answer that,” Mizael says, sipping at his tea. Vector grimaces.

“Probably,” he echoes as he slides his thumb over the screen. “Hey.”

The way Mizael turns back inside, with a casual flip of his long blonde hair and the soft thud of the sliding door closing shut, feels pointed and intentional as Rio’s voice drifts from the receiver, giving Vector an address he needs her to repeat.

~

Almost an hour later, Vector’s punching the call button for the elevator at the ritziest hotel downtown. The lobby is decked in marble with plush rugs and a glittering chandelier that hangs down from the third floor. It’s flashy and expensive, and the bellboy had given Vector an odd look when he passed by him through the automatic revolving door. Probably because he looks nothing like the usual clientele.

Vector glances down at his cell to reread the room number for the billionth time, like he hadn’t memorized it on the cab ride over. He spends his time in the elevator clicking his cell on and off, on and off, hating taxis because he can’t smoke in them, can’t spend an extra five minutes trying to stop his hands from shaking so much because Rio’s impatient and a minute late means wasting more time getting to the point so he can go back home.

The carpet sinks under his feet as he steps out into the hall, following the signs until he reaches his destination. He knocks on the door, room 1103, before leaning against the wall and waiting. It takes a while. It always does.

“How big is your fancy hotel room?” Vector asks wryly when she opens the door, amused as he wonders if she spent the whole minute he waited by the door tiptoeing across it, slower than a snail, or if she just lounged on the bed waiting for the right fashionably late moment to tick by.

“Big enough,” Rio says through perfectly lined, unfeathered, black lips. Her hair cascades around her shoulders, fresh from a blowout that has her ends curling out. “Miss me?”

“Not that much.”

She tilts her head, looking unimpressed, and he shrugs back.

“So, did you call after a shoot?” Vector asks, gesturing at her face, “Or did you put all that on just for me?”

Rio’s in nothing but a black silk slip and a pound of makeup, probably done by her personal artist. Even without her stiletto heels, discarded by the door, he has to look up at her. Annoying.

She scoffs at him. “As if I'd do anything for you. I’m a model, I'm not the desperate one here.”

Finally, she steps aside and he passes her, glancing around and trying to get a gauge on how much she paid for the night. It isn’t a dingy motel off the highway like the first time, years ago. This is a five-star hotel in the theatre district, fully outfitted with a flat-screen TV and mini bar. The view of the city from the window is probably breathtaking, but Vector can only roll his eyes at it all. Rio always tries too hard not to care.

“So what am I here for this time?” he asks, turning to her. “I’m not a whore so no charge for interrupting my date just because you decided to show your face.”

“Couldn’t have been a very good one if you decided to come.”

Vector doesn’t tell her it’s actually because her brother’s desperate to keep her at the agency, the cash cow of the entire operation with the highest track record for requests, every magazine and fashion brand knocking on their door just for her. Instead he just grins. “Sure, let’s go with that.”

“So, what do you think?”

He makes a show of looking around, giving himself a short tour to the other side of the bed, fiddling with the pen on the desk and checking the bedside table for the usual Bible, before sitting on the decorative armchair by the window and playing with the dimmer on the lamp. “The room’s pretty nice, did you splurge for the good Wi-Fi?” he asks before snatching up the menu from the table and skimming the options. “Oh hey, they’ve even got a decent room service menu. Lobster risotto? Nice.”

 Her expression drops. “Stop fucking around—”

“Is that not why you called me here?”

“Vector,” Rio says, a warning in her tone that he doesn’t heed as he continues perusing the menu.

“What about the cranberry pomegranate cheesecake? I hear pomegranates are in season right now too--”

“Vector, look at me.”

He hides his smirk behind the menu, finally raising his eyes back to her. She’s never been good with not being the centre of attention. “Ah. I see. You meant you, not the room.”

“Of course I did,” she mutters, folding her arms under her chest as if to give what little she has a boost.

“You should have been more specific,” Vector chides, setting the menu back down. “You’re beautiful, as always. I don’t think you need me to tell you that.”

Rio does, though. As soon as the words leave his mouth, she preens, curling a strand of hair around her finger as she makes her way over to him. “This is what I could look like all the time,” she tells him, setting her hands over the arms of the chair, leaning over him. “Under the Arclight Agency, that is. They said they’d make me a partner.”

The Arclights? Well that makes sense. That moron of a middle child always liked her, so it makes sense that they’d pounce on the chance to obtain someone who draws in as much business as her.

But she’s already a partner with Ryoga, half of everything the agency does belongs to her, it’s money that could turn into something generational and accumulate, which is more than Vector can say for himself considering he’s the one keeping everything together since Ryoga’s too up his own ass to deal with anything.

“So Kotori isn’t good enough for you anymore?” Vector asks, because Rio doesn’t make idle choices out of nowhere. She’s thought about this.

Rio frowns, her full, almost heart-shaped lips pressing into a thin line of black. “She wanted to stay, though I can’t fathom why.”

Vector has a few theories, one involving the obvious (to everyone but Rio) crush Kotori’s had on Ryoga since she joined the agency as a makeup artist four years ago. Not that he’d divulge any of that to her. He does have something else he can leverage, though.

“Maybe it’s because one of her friends had a… run-in. With the Arclights.”

That gets him a raised eyebrow, perfectly arched and filled in. “Really.”

“It was when she was still in school. IV—”

“He goes by Thomas now.”

“Interesting. Real name this time?”

“Mhm.”

“Well, you’ve always liked honesty. Transparency. Too bad he hasn’t always been so forthcoming.”

“I know he did some shady shit with our landlord in our first studio space, swiped it up before the offer could even go through, if that’s what you’re referring to,” Rio says, sounding bored of this already. “It’s called business competition, no hard feelings in love and war, right?”

Vector isn’t sure that’s how the saying goes. Her knees slide into the seat, long legs framing his thighs as she sits in his lap and gently tucks strands of his hair behind his ears before cupping his cheeks.

“You know, I think… maybe you’re just jealous of him?”

“He broke Takashi’s arm.”

That gets her attention, her brow furrowing. “What.”

“Yeah, that nerd at our reception desk. Your new friend Thomas broke his arm. That’s why Kotori won’t go with you,” Vector explains, trailing his fingers down Rio’s cheek, down her perfectly blended lines of highlighter, blush, and bronzer. “No matter how beautiful they can make you, is it worth jumping ship to someone with past assault charges, who used money to bury the entire thing?”

Rio’s hands come over Vector’s shoulders, smoothing over his leather jacket. “We all have phases we’ve grown past,” she says, like she’s an expert of worldly things, a monk who’s studied at a temple or someone who’s reached nirvana. “Mizael used to be a model.”

The mere mention of him twists something inside Vector, but he doesn’t crack, letting her continue:

“You used to be a drug addict.”

Vector pointedly doesn’t mention the three cigs he smoked before he’d even gotten in the cab, the three sticks of peppermint chewing gum he mashed between his teeth in the lobby before heading up to this room. “And you used to care about your family.”

“I found a new one.”

The anxiety that had Vector in a chokehold only an hour ago catches his breath in another vice grip. Rio really is leaving. For a fucking rich prick who could probably get away with murder if he really wanted to, considering the way that family has swept every could-be-scandal they’ve ever been entangled in under the rug like dust. Vector swallows down bile and smirks up at her, grasping at the only card he has left.

“Then why’d you call me?”

The way Rio smiles, slowly like the sunrise as the corners of her black lips turn up, her makeup accenting the natural lines of her face, her long false lashes batting at him.

“You’re cute,” she says, leaning in to whisper into his ear, and it would be patronizing coming from anyone else except that she rarely hands out compliments. “I just thought… it’d be fun to see you one last time, you know? No regrets before I move onto this new chapter in my life.”

Vector’s hands grip the plush arms of the chair, teeth gritting together. So that’s the play.

Not that he’d expected anything much different, but the black and white certainty clears up a lot of things: Rio has no intention of ever coming back, she’s done with Leviath Studios, and this is her fucked up version of goodbye. It doesn’t matter what he does, she’s leaving and there’s nothing he can do about it.

“So,” Rio continues, a sly smirk on her lips, “maybe your failed date night can end on a happy note?”

But there was no date night. There wasn’t anything but Ryoga’s demand for him to do anything to get Rio to stay, but this whole venture was useless and Mizael’s at home simmering over how Vector never changed her contact photo and worrying over what he’s doing now. Vector’s so wrapped up in these swirling thoughts and realizations that he doesn’t even register Rio moving until her lips press against his.

Soft and plush and full of filler, face full of botox, making her skin smooth without a single crinkle around her eyes or the laugh lines that hint at the sense of humour she used to have.

This is garbage.

Vector grabs her face and shoves her back, looking her straight in the eye. “Your brother told me to do anything,” he spits out. “Practically gave me his blessing, so long as it got you to stay.”

“Oh. So no guilt this time, then,” Rio says with another smile. “What a nice present—”

“ No. ”

She tilts her head. “No?”

Maybe once upon a time he’d be okay with being used and thrown out, like the stubs of all his cigarettes that get put out under the soles of his sneakers and grinded into ash on the sidewalk. It had been the pattern for a while, after all, and Vector’s far too used to it.

He tries to calm down, taking in a breath and only getting the scent of her perfume, dusty florals mixed with the sea salt from her hairspray. “What would make you stay?”

Half of him hopes there’s something in her that wants to, but the cynical part of himself knows the chances of that are infinitesimal.

The silence between them goes on for what feels like forever, and in the dim lights Vector notices the soft outline of her contacts, the wine-coloured ones that don’t quite cover her natural blue in the centre. Because she wants to be her own person so badly that she keeps dying her hair and wears coloured contacts just to distance herself from her own twin. And now she’s abandoning him entirely.

“There’s nothing,” Rio admits finally, but Vector already knows, already put the pieces together in the space between their words. “I don’t want to stay.”

Vector says nothing, letting go of her face, hands dropping back to the arms of the chair. So that’s that.

“Don’t hate me.”

He sighs. “Why would I hate you?”

Rio’s eyes flicker back to his before settling on the room service menu. “Lobster risotto sounds good. Wanna share one?”

Chapter Text

In the twenty minutes it takes room service to knock on the hotel room door, Rio climbs off him and sits down in the second armchair on the other side of the table. Her knees curl up to her chest as she gazes into nothing, and Vector feels his heartbeat relax, if only slightly.

It’s silent, and the clock on the wall isn’t the kind that ticks either. But Vector’s eyes keep straying to it, counting down from ten with the seconds, then twenty, then a hundred. Rio doesn’t speak.

It’s dark out, shades of twilight fading to pitch black save for the streetlights that give everything an orange glow floors below them. Vector can barely make out Rio’s expression the way the dim light of the lamp between them cuts shadows across her face, overriding her contouring.

A conversation that happened much too long ago resurfaces. One where Rio talked about living in the shadow of her brother, how people only wanted to be friends with her to get to him, how she spent so much time in hospitals that she never got to live for herself. Except she has, now. She’s the main reason why their studio is doing so well. She’s the one everyone wants, not Ryoga. Didn’t she finally get what she wanted?

“We’re not enough for you, are we?”

Vector barely makes out the way Rio clenches her jaw. “That’s not it,” she says. “You don’t get it, you’re an only child.”

He rolls his eyes, jamming his chin against his palm. “Oh no, you got to have an ideal rich nuclear family who actually cares about you while my dad kicked me out, boo hoo. Get a new sob story, Rio.”

They descend into silence again, minutes passing by them until there’s a knock at the door. “ Room service! ”

Rio unfolds herself from the armchair, long legs striding across the plush carpet. She opens the door wide, enough to allow the cart to be rolled into the room, then grabs her purse from the closet and tips the busboy with a crisp green twenty.

“Thank you,” she murmurs as the door shuts behind him.

When she turns back around, everything about her seems different. Her shoulders slouch. Suddenly her long legs look awkward, wrists too thin, everything too fake because it’s hard being yourself when your job is to look pretty in front of a camera for someone else.

On the cart, there’s two sets of cutlery, one plate of risotto, one slice of cheesecake, and a pitcher of water with two glasses.

“I figured you weren’t in the mood to drink,” she says quietly.

“Good call.”

Rio rolls the cart over and sets the plates and glasses on the table between them. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“The truth,” Vector says, tired of all her posturing. “Maybe start with that.”

Because in all honesty, the entire agency, Ryoga and Vector included, had been blindsided by all of this. No one could’ve predicted that Rio wanted to leave, join another agency entirely, completely rip herself out of their lives just to tell the entire world she’s independent.

But Rio stays silent, curling back up on the armchair and fiddling with her fork.

Vector pushes. “So you’re dating the person your brother somehow hates more than me?”

“We’re not dating.”

He finds that hard to believe. “Then what are you doing with the Arclights?”

“Something different.”

“Different?”

“Remember when Mizael quit? He said he was tired of the pressure, put in his two weeks, and stopped modeling after all his contracts expired. Just like that.” She sighs. “It was so easy for him to move on.”

Vector knows otherwise, knows the late nights Mizael spent arguing with Ryoga that he didn’t want to do this anymore, but he lets her continue.

“I think I’ve grown all I can with Leviath. It’s time to leave, and grow even more elsewhere.”

“Is that what they told you?”

“You must be really jealous of him—”

“I’m not.”

That gets Rio to look up at him, tilting her head. “What?” she asks, like she can’t fathom Vector as anything else. Funny, how self-absorbed she’s been in her goodbye sex fantasies to forget.

Vector licks his lips. “Mizael and I live together now. After he left Leviath, we got an apartment. That’s why Ryoga was pissed at me for weeks, because he thought Mizael chose me over the agency,” he says. “So no, I’m not jealous of the dumbass Arclight who’s got you wrapped around his finger acting like this is a career move when it’s just another sabotage ploy.”

Rio blinks at him. “You're gay?” she asks, nonplussed.

“Bi,” Vector corrects, exhausted. “And so are you, so don't be a bitch about it, and don’t change the subject either.”

“I’m not! You’ve just never dated a—”

“Doesn’t mean it’s not true.” Though, Vector supposes, she’ll let that feed her ego anyway, some make-believe story that he’ll never be able to find any girl as attractive as her so he quit the gender entirely. Rio’s tall and pretty enough to hold her appearance like a status symbol, he supposes, but what else can it really be when she’s a model?

Her nose scrunches up, though. “Mizael?” she asks, as if she’s still trying to believe it.

“Mhm.”

“When did that happen?”

“A couple years ago.”

“You guys don’t seem compatible.”

“A lot has changed since you stopped paying attention to me,” Vector says, cutting an irritated glance toward her. “What was his name again?”

Rio says nothing in response, kneeling on the chair and leaning over the table to scoop out some of the risotto onto one of the smaller plates. She takes barely a quarter of what’s there and Vector’s mouth twists into a frown.

“You can have more,” he says carefully.

“No, strict diet—”

“What diet? Our studio has no mandate for that.”

Rio glances up at him from under her lash extensions, grabbing a fork and the miniscule amount she dished out onto her plate. “The Arclights,” she says after a long moment, eyes darting away as the name leaves her lips.

They’re going in circles and it all leads back to just how much of a terrible idea this is. But Rio won’t listen to him. She definitely won’t listen to Ryoga. So Vector grabs the entire rest of the plate. “Fine,” he says, trying not to boil over.

Dinner is a quiet affair. Quiet and short, save for that Vector eats slowly just in case Rio asks for more. Decides it’s too tasty, and this is her one chance to have seconds before she checks out of the hotel in the morning. After all, she only booked the room for the night, and it’s not like she doesn’t have an apartment a couple stations away. Unless she’s moving out of her place as well as the studio. In with a prissy asshole who’s got her on a contract diet.

Vector swallows down another bite before he can hurl.

~

Before Vector leaves, all but resigned to their collective fate, he takes a look at himself in the bathroom, scrubbing off the bits of black lipstick that cling to his lips with water and the heel of his palm. It’s happening and no matter what, she’s decided, she’s leaving, and he and Ryoga are left to figure out how to deal with the fallout. Vector splashes some water over his face for good measure, the bangs that fall over his forehead dripping as he stares into the mirror, at his own exhausted eyes.

Rio’s at the bathroom door when he opens it back up. “You’re mad at me.”

She says it like a fact, like it’s tried, tested, and true in every sense. She’s not even wrong.

“Doesn’t matter. You’re leaving.”

“It’ll be good for me,” Rio insists.

“I don’t see how.”

Before she can say anything else, justifications that’ll just bounce off him as flimsy as paper planes, Vector surges forward to wrap her in a hug. He presses a hand between her shoulder blades, her soft hair weaving through his fingers as he listens to her soft gasp, feeling the way she tenses before relaxing.

“Vector?” she whispers.

He hesitates. But it’s now or never, before she’s gone. “I didn’t want to lose the only family I ever had. So make this worth it.”

Chapter Text

When Vector gets home, his hands are shaking more than ever (even though he spent a good half hour milling around the downtown core emptying his cigarette pack and pretending it isn’t as cold as it is). Mizael watches him from the couch as he turns the coffee machine on, slams in a new pod, and paces the kitchen waiting for it to heat up.

“What happened?” Mizael asks softly, picking his mug of tea up from the coffee table and slowly getting up from the couch to join him. “And… don’t say nothing.”

“Nothing physical.”

Mizael stares at him, leaning against the counter, his eyes following him as he goes back and forth. “Okay,” he says, taking a sip of his tea. “And?”

Vector stops in the middle of the kitchen, crossing his arms tightly over himself. “Nothing.”

“I don’t know what that means—”

“Nothing happened, I couldn’t change anything.”

Silence falls over them, Mizael waiting patiently for the explanation that never follows because Vector’s still processing it himself. He doesn’t know anything, they don’t talk about work, the studio, Ryoga and Rio, they—

Mizael sighs. “I don’t have enough context to help you through this, Vector.”

“Rio’s quitting.”

The coffee machine powers down, finishing off the mug with a final drop, and Vector glances back at it, past Mizael, trying to remember if he put in decaf or not. But he hadn’t checked, and all he wants to do is sleep this off like it’s just a nightmare.

“What are you drinking?” Vector asks distractedly.

“... Chamomile?”

He tries to concentrate, to recognize the same scent from earlier that night except the freshly brewed coffee drowns it out. Realizes that this isn’t the same mug, that he’d probably put that one in the dishwasher but needed the company and poured another one to calm down, or more than one, while Vector was off in the city doing who-knows-what with Rio.

Vector turns to him, blinking back the tears that he’d refused to shed at all and staring at Mizael. It’s as if the answer to all the chaos whirring inside him has been at arm’s length this whole time and he’s only just noticed. It’s not a catch-all cure for loss or mourning or whatever he’s feeling that cuts so deeply, but the track record for stitching him back together is decent enough.

“I love you,” he says, flinching at the way his own voice cracks.

“I know.”

“No, I mean—” Vector cuts himself off, gesturing vaguely with trembling hands. “I love you .”

Mizael puts down the mug he’s cradling, the sound of ceramic softly hitting the counter echoing in the quiet, and slips his hands into Vector’s. They’re warm, Mizael’s habit of moisturizing them constantly throughout winter paying off in the most gentle touch he’s felt since he left for work this morning, which feels like eons ago.

Today has been centuries long.

“I know you do,” Mizael says again, thumbs running over Vector’s knuckles. “I love you too.”

Something sets back into place in Vector’s chest, the singular part of his life that hasn’t left yet, hasn’t abandoned him like everyone else.

He’s real, and right in front of him, and Vector’s eyes draw up from their clasped hands to Mizael’s face, his smooth skin, his bright eyes, his serene expression. “How are you so calm?” he asks, voice finally starting to even out, the lump in his throat that’s been there since he left the apartment beginning to melt. “You look like you smoked a damn blunt.”

“Well, I don’t work at Leviath anymore, for one.”

Vector laughs softly, fading into a snicker as his hands fall away from Mizael’s and come around to hold him tight, pressing his face into his chest. “You know I can’t do that.”

“Yeah…” Mizael says softly, pressing a kiss atop his head. “I know. I missed you,” he adds.

“I’m sorry.”

“Accepted.”

Vector can’t help the snort that escapes him. It’s always so easy, straightforward and crystal clear, with Mizael. He always knows where he stands, as opposed to always having the rug pulled from underneath him with Rio. Flailing, confused, falling into a void that only Mizael knows how to pull him out of.

~

When the tears run dry and Mizael’s fixed them both new mugs full of tea that will “help with the anxiety,” Vector finds himself being dragged over to the kitchen table.

“Wait here, okay?”

Vector nods in response, still feeling numb save for the ceramic of the mug burning his fingers. He wonders if his eyes are red, if his face is swollen, if the smell of smoke still clings to his clothes because the cold breeze buffeted it all right back at him. At any rate, Mizael’s nose hasn’t scrunched up yet and maybe that’s a good sign because he’s also not forcing him into the shower either.

“It’s been a while since we’ve done your nails,” Mizael says, returning from their shared room with a familiar box in his hands. The scent bomb of polish and acetone hits them both as he pulls off the lid and slides the box across the table to Vector. “What colour today?”

Half the colours are black adjacent, and he knows because he’s the one that bought most of them when he was trying so hard to get sober. When shit sucked and he just needed something to get him through it and Ryoga had barged into his office at the agency, setting a glittery black polish on his desk that needed three coats to be as opaque as the night sky, and at least three hours to do both hands because they shook so much on application.

It had been more of a misplaced item that he was given to put back than a gift, but Vector had taken it as one anyway, fumbling as he twisted the bottle open and held the end of the brush in his fist.

Vector’s eyes drop to skim over the options in the box before plucking out a metallic purple. “This one.”

He slides it across the table to Mizael, who considers it for a moment before tilting his head. “You’ve been biting,” he says simply before withdrawing a crystal nail file from the box. Vector doesn’t need to be asked, flopping over the table and stretching his arms out so Mizael can reach his bitten-down nails.

He takes a deep breath and exhales with a sigh as he hears the familiar scratch of the file and feels the crystal press against his nails. This tiny bit of normalcy only exists in their apartment, where things are contained and in his control. Where Mizael is the only person who somehow knows exactly what to do and say. He’d never been narcissistic enough to be a model, too thoughtful, too observant, or maybe Vector had just been too used to Rio’s antics by the time Mizael joined up. And then, too into Mizael when he’d left.

Or maybe he’s just jaded with some of their celebrity clients, nepotism babies and the ones with so much work done they may as well be plastic, reminding him what their good side is and what to edit out that they’re so ashamed of.

It’s not long before the filing is done, the edges shaved down into clean lines, and Mizael wipes all his fingers down gently with a tissue, blowing the remnants away.

“You won’t bite them if I paint them, right?”

Vector shakes his head. “I promise.”

The tips of his fingers feel cool as Mizael swipes on a ridge-filling base coat, muttering at him to stop treating his nails like punching bags when he’s on a particularly rough dent. But Vector can’t help all the heavy and very metal equipment he lugs around and sets up and takes down every day.

The halogen light above their dining table tints everything a warm hue, and it’s always annoyed Vector when he’s so used to blinding white studio lights and RGB floods. It makes his skin look sickly and Mizael’s hair look golden like wheatfields instead of platinum like the box dye he keeps stock of in the cupboard. It makes the milky translucent base coat shine nude, like it’s not even there, and Vector wiggles his fingers, drumming the pads of them against the wooden table as Mizael twists the bottle shut.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Mizael asks, eyes flickering up toward Vector’s.

The answer is no. It’s always no, because they don’t talk about work, but something about the question, the tone, the gaze, makes Vector think the door is unlocking. He’s not sure he wants to open it just yet, let the flood out.

“No,” Vector says, hesitating. “I mean, yes, but—”

“We don’t have to. Just tell me you’re okay.”

But if he did, it’d be a lie. And he’s been working on not doing that anymore, even though it feels like he’s lied so many times tonight anyway. Perhaps today is salvageable. “I’m not okay.”

Mizael tilts his head to the side, his golden hair shifting with him. “Then what are you?”

“... Human.”

The sheer unimpressed deadpan stare Vector receives at that almost makes him smile. “Vector.”

“Better, now that I’m with you.”

That gets him an eye roll. “Even better once you get some sleep, I’d hope.”

Mizael glances toward the stove for the time and reaches out for the next bottle. The metallic purple gets shaken up, the separated pigment coming together to form the same deep hue that matches Vector’s eyes, except with more glitter, more life. He feels dead most days, but this should make up for it.

“Hands,” Mizael instructs, and Vector stretches his arms out across the table again, letting him apply thin coats of glittery colour on, three swipes for each nail, meticulous and careful.

“Do you like this colour?”

“Yeah.”

Vector puffs his cheeks out. “Doesn’t sound like it.”

“I do.”

“Like, in a wedding? Would you marry it? Is that how much you like it?”

“I wouldn’t marry a nail polish, no.”

“Why not?”

Mizael’s eyes flicker up to his again, an irritated look on his face. “Because it’s not you.”

Vector doesn’t have an answer for that, blinking dumbly at his boyfriend who ignores him in return. With the colour applied, Mizael caps the bottle and checks the time again. “Five minutes. Drink your tea before it gets cold.”

The sound of his chair screeching across the laminate flooring fills Vector’s ears with white noise as Mizael gets up for who knows what. But Mizael can be trusted. He doesn’t do stupid things. Not like Vector. It doesn’t stop him from asking though.

“Whatcha doing?”

“Finding a hair tie.”

Vector checks his wrists, but for once he hasn’t got one on him either. Weird. Usually there’s at least three in different colours for blonde, brunette, and black, along with bobby pins jammed through each in case something gets messed up mid-shoot, but today’s been shitty and weird from the get-go. Just another thing to add to the list, really.

And he’s not sure Mizael would want to pull one off his wrist anyhow, what with the drying polish and all.

“I feel so hot,” Mizael says, and Vector can make out his words over the sharp sound of him pulling out the bathroom drawers. When he finally comes back, his hair is tied up in a high ponytail, baby hairs sticking flat to his nape with sweat. “Can we turn the heat down tonight?”

“But it’s cold.”

“And you’ll be beside me.”

“... True. You’re very warm.”

“Ready for the next coat?”

How easily Mizael switches topics, like there’s nothing in the spaces between their words. “Guess so. Would you really marry me?”

“Did you buy a ring?”

“No…?”

“Then no.”

Vector snorts. What did he even expect? He crawls his fingers back over the table and Mizael starts on coat number two, making the glittery purple even more opaque than before with just as careful strokes with the brush. “Would you marry me if I gave you a ring?”

“Depends on the ring.”

“Picky…”

At that, Mizael smiles. “Not a Ring Pop. Gotta be a bit more expensive than that.”

“Oh.” Vector pauses, lips twisting at the memory of a kid Mizael used to babysit on weeknights back when he first left Leviath. A little boy who had nightmares, and always shared his candy. “Well I wasn’t letting you get engaged to a minor! I had to eat the evidence, you could’ve been jailed—”

“What about tattoos? Or matching rings…” Mizael ponders, before shaking his head. “Nah, not matching rings. We’re not twins. I like the idea of tattoos though.”

“But those are permanent.”

“More permanent than rings, impossible to lose. I know you’d lose yours.”

“Hey!”

“Done.” Mizael twists shut the bottle of nail polish. “What kind of topcoat?”

“... I don’t know, what do you think?”

They have a few in the box, glossy, matte, holo… even a crackle one. But Mizael pulls out the glossy one. “Simple,” he says, “since everything else is so complicated.”

It really is. “Okay.”

Vector doesn’t bother sitting up, doesn’t bother sliding his hands back across the table to inspect the assuredly perfect manicure he’s being given. Just rests his cheek on the table and sighs as he watches Mizael tuck a loose strand of hair behind his ear, the way his fingers drift over golden drop earrings that sway slightly when he moves. Vector hadn’t noticed them before, preoccupied elsewhere, but now with his hair pulled back they’re right there, in full view.

“You wear them,” Vector says.

“Hm?”

“The earrings. I thought maybe you didn’t like them.”

Mizael tilts his head to the side, the earrings swaying down with him. “Of course I do.”

“Because they’re Tiffany?”

“Because they’re from you.”

The curse of the redhead appears as Vector’s skin flushes red to the tips of his ears. His thoughts return to Rio, the gifts they’d exchanged never so permanent, never so expensive. Maybe that’s why she likes the Arclight so much. But he shakes his head of those thoughts, focusing on Mizael. “I thought they suited you more than those obnoxious plates you used to wear.”

“I would call them trays, personally,” Mizael corrects. “They weren’t round.”

“Whatever, these make your neck look longer, and they compliment your skin tone more, and—”

“Do I need a better reason to like them?”

Vector scrunches up his nose. “No, I’m just saying there’s a bunch of reasons. Not just… me.”

“But you picked them, out of so many other choices, just for me. You thought of all those things, to make sure they’d be perfect.”

That’s just Vector’s job. Making people look good. Having a hand in the vision, the makeup, the clothes, making the model look their best in the choices the studio is given from each designer, to sell products. That’s nothing, that’s just normal.

It’s what he used to do for Rio, except he’d never buy any pieces off a shoot just for her.

Maybe it’s something in his face, his eyes, the poker face that used to be impenetrable either crumbling or just something Mizael has found the cracks in, but the look his boyfriend gives him shows nothing but concern. “What’s wrong now?”

“Nothing.”

“Talk to me. Even if it’s about work.”

“No—”

“Something is bothering you. I don’t know how to help if you don’t tell me what I can do.”

Instead of staring him down with those intent eyes of his, Mizael picks up the bottle of glossy topcoat and untwists the cap, wiping the excess of one side against the glass before delicately picking up Vector’s hand for the final coat.

“Even if it’s about Rio,” Mizael adds softly, before the brush sets over his index finger. “Please, talk to me.”

Vector doesn’t know what to say. Why all these emotions are tied up so tightly, how unraveling them feels like letting all of the shoddy structures and scaffolding that make up his very being fall apart, like a Jenga tower that could topple over with one pull of the wrong thread. And there are so many wrong threads.

“There’s nothing to say.”

“Will you miss her? It’s okay to. She was part of your family.”

“You aren’t the same.”

“I know.”

“You’re not a replacement.”

Mizael’s expression doesn’t change, the concentrated furrow in his brow ever-present as he lightly floats the brush over Vector’s nails so as to not disrupt the colour beneath. “I know.”

“We never dated.”

“You’ve said.”

“Do you think she’ll be okay?”

That gets Mizael to glance up at him, across their tiny dining table. “What do you mean? Is there a reason she wouldn’t be?”

It still doesn’t feel real, like sand slipping through his fingers only to drift away in the wind. “She’s leaving… for the Arclight Studio. With Thomas Arclight taking lead on her transfer.”

Mizael’s brow furrows in a different way now, confused. “I thought the Kamishiro family had a feud with the Arclights.”

“Yeah, that’s still a thing.” Maybe that’s why it hurts so much. Because out of all the options, she chose the enemy. Or, as much as a person can be an enemy when they’re in the same business. “I don’t know, Miza. I’m…”

The pause is long enough for Mizael to finish his other hand, setting it back down on the wooden table and capping the nail polish before packing everything back into the box. It’s when the lid slips over it, the scent of acetone still in the air but not nearly as acute as before, that Vector sighs.

“I don’t know what to do.”

Mizael sits back in his chair, folding his arms and watching him intently. “I don’t think you need to do anything.”

“Yeah, but—”

“No. I’m serious. I’m not just being petty or spiteful,” Mizael interrupts. “I just think that people are going to make tons of decisions in their lives and you can’t control all of them. You definitely can’t control Rio, or whatever Ryoga is going to say in the morning at work. What you can control is yourself.”

Vector snorts softly. “Hear that from your therapist?”

“Maybe, but it’s true.”

The light makes his nails shine golden, and it goes well with the purple. Colour theory bullshit, complementary or whatever… Second-nature things that Vector picked up in school when he’d actually attended. When he’d actually been sober, Rio dragged him onto Heartland City Transit just to sleep through classes. Though, Vector supposes, that was better than the times he’d been too high to do more than stare unfocused at the slides, listening to a lecturer who sounded like summer crickets in a lava lamp.

“It feels like I can’t do anything without them,” Vector admits. “Like, I’m useless without them.”

“You’re not—”

“I am.”

Mizael scoffs, sipping his tea. “You’re a moron.”

“A moron who loves you.”

“But I thought you said you can’t do anything without Rio. So, how can you love me? If you’re so useless?”

Vector chews the inside of his cheek, brows furrowing. “That’s not what I said.”

“You still have Ryoga.”

“They were kind of a package deal. Only works with both of them.”

“Then why are you here with me?” Mizael asks. “There must be a pretty good reason, if I contribute nothing to your life.”

There’s a line with Mizael, the kind drawn in the sand, the mark fading as the breeze shifts everything and the waves draw everything back into the sea. It’s hard to tell where it is, lately. Vector misses the version of him who showed so much emotion, who got mad at him when he deserved it. Now, it’s…

“Are you mad at me?”

“A little.”

“I’m sorry, I lo—”

“If you say ‘I love you’ again, you’re sleeping on the couch,” Mizael says, sharp but quiet. “I don’t want the only time you ever say it to be when you feel bad.”

But Vector’s never been the type to say it at all, most days. Today’s just an outlier, a confusing mess of emotions and exhaustion. “I need you to know,” he says instead.

“Because something happened, and you refuse to tell me what,” Mizael mutters, his gaze unwavering. “Wanna talk before my imagination makes up all sorts of worst case scenarios, or do you like watching me suffer?”

The topcoat on his nails is too shiny for Vector to tell if they’re dry or not, so he draws them up to his lips and blows on them just to give himself more time. Avoidance has never worked with Mizael, he’s too good at reading him for his own good. So he takes a deep breath, bracing himself. “Rio kissed me. She wanted more, but I shoved her off.”

“What do you mean more?”

“Is this an interrogation?”

“You’re dodging.”

Vector sighs, exasperated. “Of course I am, I told you the truth earlier. Nothing happened. I made sure of it. But she wanted…” Vector shakes his head, determinedly setting his hands flat on the table before he ruins Mizael’s hard work. “She wanted to sleep with me, one last time, before she leaves. She didn’t know we’re dating.”

Mizael’s chair screeches back as he stands. “Your tea’s cold,” he says shortly before leaning across the table to grab it and heading into the kitchen.

The sound of the microwave is the only thing Vector can hear, the beep of the buttons when Mizael presses down and the whir of the machine as it reheats his mug. He stares down at his hands, fingers splayed over the table, and scowls.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he says, repeating Rio’s words from earlier and feeling like nothing but a hypocrite. “I came back to you.”

There’s nothing but silence from the kitchen, and Vector can barely see Mizael’s expression the way he’s staring down the microwave as it spins. Maybe he’s trying to make it implode with his mind, the way his shoulders are hunched in a tense line, his arms crossed over him like a shield.

The minute on the timer goes so slowly that Vector can swear he can feel the blood coursing through his veins, hear his heartbeat loudly in his ears, echoing from his constricted throat. It’s so loud that he barely hears Mizael sit back down, sliding the mug across the table to him.

“Why didn’t she know?” Mizael finally asks.

“I thought you wanted me to keep you separate from work?”

“Ryoga knew. Kotori knew. Why didn’t Rio?”

It’s a valid question. Beyond reasonable to ask, but Vector feels cornered anyway. Because Ryoga had to sign the forms and do Mizael’s exit interview, all while being pissed about their relationship. Kotori had seen them flirting in makeup, when Vector insisted on doing his makeup for a portfolio shoot and she’d directed him on the best way to line Mizael’s plush lips because they kept bouncing every time he tried to draw on them with a liner.

And they’ve always been the closest to Rio.

“Rio doesn’t know about Kotori’s crush either,” Vector says bitterly. “She’s too self-absorbed to notice anyone around her. So-called BFF included.”

A fraction of the tension in Mizael’s shoulders fades away. “That tracks, actually,” he says, not sounding fully convinced.

“She thought I was straight.”

“You’re bi.”

“I know.”

Mizael nods slowly. “You didn’t keep us a secret?”

A tidal wave of understanding hits Vector and drags him under. Because what if he had? What purpose would it have served, to keep Mizael a secret, to not let Rio know, to have an out in case he wanted to do something stupid — and no, he’s not that person anymore, but he has been. Trust issues, Vector can understand. He’s not exactly the most stable person on a normal day.

So he looks his boyfriend in the eye, noticing the slight tremble in his hands and the tightness in his jaw that makes him seem more angular than soft, and tells him the truth. “I didn’t.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

With that, Mizael collects himself, his expression smoothing out into the calm facade Vector has become so familiar with. “Your nails should be dry now.”

And even though Vector hates it when he does this, when Mizael crushes down anything he might be feeling, ignores the space between their words, and pretends there’s nothing unsaid, he can’t help but feel relieved that it’s over.

Chapter Text

Normally, Vector and Mizael hang out in the bathroom together brushing their teeth and getting ready for bed. Vector watches him layer on his skincare — toner, essence, serum, moisturizer — as he attempts to detangle his own hair and grumbles the whole time because Mizael has silky smooth hair that could never be compared to a nest (unlike his own).

But today, Vector stands awkwardly in the middle of their bedroom, shifting his weight from one foot to the other before pacing the width of the end of their queen-sized bed and stopping again. He can hear the splash of water in the sink as Mizael goes through his double-cleansing routine, oil then foam, and see the way he carefully pats his face dry, taking extra care not to tug or scrub at his skin.

But Mizael says nothing, about how this isn’t normal, about how Vector should brush his teeth to offset how much he smokes, about anything at all.

At the very least, he’s changed into pajamas, plaid pants and a t-shirt both from the very classy Wal-Mart down the street while Mizael seems to have some kind of silk Savage X Fenty set on, pants and a robe that he’s left open as if Vector already can’t stop staring at him when he’s fully clothed.

Can he stare right now? Should he just go sleep on the couch? Why does Mizael need to have such chiseled abs? When does he even have time to go to the gym?

Vector feels frozen, feet stuck in place trying to strategize his way out of the doghouse. But they’re okay, right? It’s never been this hard to tell before. Where’s the straightforward Mizael he knows? The one who has his back through panic attacks and nightmares?

As if Rio hasn’t fucked up enough things in his life—

“Are you coming to bed or what?” Mizael asks, and Vector had hardly noticed the water stop running.

He turns back around toward the ensuite, where Mizael is slipping off the robe and hanging it on the hooks they’d put over the door. God… If Rio fucked this up for him, he’s so freaking hot…

“Bed?”

“Yeah, stupid. Stop zoning out,” Mizael says, with a roll of his eyes. “You look like you’re gonna start drooling.”

Vector blinks, then snaps his mouth shut. “Was not!” he says, his body finally responsive enough to stride past Mizael into the bathroom. “I’ll be there in a sec, jeez.”

He shuts the door loudly behind him, listening to it as it echoes on the cool ceramic tiles that send a chill up Vector’s spine through his bare feet. He shifts the bathmat over to the sink with his foot and starts his own much-less involved routine of brushing his teeth, borrowing Mizael’s high-end foam cleanser and slapping a drugstore moisturizer on his face, before roughly detangling his hair with a brush that has seen better days.

As Vector stares at himself in the mirror, the dark bags under his eyes, the mess of hair on his head that sticks up in weird directions, and his bony arms that hang at his sides, he wonders what part of him makes Mizael stay. Would he have stayed? If Mizael had done all that?

It’s not a fair comparison. Mizael is beautiful and kind. Vector’s an ex-drug addict half-pint who needs a lot more sleep than he gets, and makes up for it by replacing his personality with coffee, cigarettes, and sarcasm.

But when he finishes up, turns the lights off, and climbs into bed, Mizael pulls him close just like always, tucking Vector’s head under his chin. “Goodnight, Vector.”

Okay, so maybe Rio doesn’t need to be jailed for her crimes.

~

It’s in the mornings when Vector loves Mizael the most. Makeup off, hair splayed over his pillow, hands in loose fists in the quilt. He breathes, slowly, quietly.

Dawn cracks over the skyline and streams through the blinds, highlighting his eyes, his nose, his lips.

He’s beautiful. Asleep, awake, done-up, or not. Vector sits up against the headboard, careful not to make it creak, and twirls a strand of Mizael’s blonde hair around his fingers.

There’s an empty feeling in Vector's chest that spreads through his veins and makes it hard to breathe again, and when he tries he nearly chokes. His eyes trace over the lines of sunshine over Mizael as he concentrates on naming the colours between the lights and shadows. Platinum hair and healthy skin that gets whitewashed in the sun, lips with their natural pink tint, thick eyelashes like stalks of wheat…

Mizael stirs and Vector slips his hand into his, trying to ground himself in the warmth that always rolls off of him in waves.

“Vector?” Mizael asks, voice cracking with sleep as he slowly blinks awake. “What time is it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you okay?”

Vector’s breath hitches again and he shudders. “Fine.”

Mizael lifts himself up, hair falling over his bare shoulders like liquid gold. “You don’t have to lie just to let me sleep.” He pushes his hair back, lets go of Vector’s hand to tie it all up in a low bun with the hair band he kept around his wrist, and he still looks beautiful. “Look at me, Vector.”

He does when Mizael slips his hand back into his. There’s blue under his eyes without his concealer, and his skin is slightly darker than the BB cream he uses. He smells like that lavender lotion in the cabinet that he bought for Vector because it’s supposed to be calming, but it never worked, only ever distracted him until it wore off.

“Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I don’t know anymore.” Vector can feel his hands shaking again and Mizael holds them even tighter. “I have to tell Ryoga what happened.”

“That Rio—?”

“That she’s gone.”

Mizael regards him for a moment, brow furrowing as he blinks away the morning light. “Call in sick today.”

“I can’t—”

“Why not?”

“Hi boss, I’m too busy having a panic attack to be able to click a button on a camera properly so I need the day off,” Vector deadpans.

“I’ll call him for you,” Mizael offers. “Give me your phone.”

It’s almost infantilizing, except that Vector knows he can’t do it himself. He swipes his phone from the bedside table, dropping it into Mizael’s palm before crashing back down into his pillow. “You’re not my mom,” he grumbles.

“No,” Mizael agrees, thumb running over Vector’s pattern lock. “I’m not.”

Vector can just barely hear the phone ring, hear when Ryoga picks up, hear the growl in his voice as he complains about being called at six in the morning. Mizael takes it all so gracefully.

“Vector’s not coming into the studio today,” he says to Ryoga, right before putting the phone on speaker so Vector can hear more clearly.

“ What? What do you mean he’s not— ”

“He’s burnt out, and don’t you have some sort of mental health policy for that? You should probably follow it.”

“ This better not be some lame excuse, ” Ryoga mutters. “ Fine. Tell him I’ll see him on Monday. ”

Mizael hangs up and smiles at Vector, who stares back. “See?” he says. “Easy. And yes, before you ask, it is a studio policy. As a floor supervisor and head photographer, you should know that.”

“Well now I do,” Vector says, pulling the duvet over his nose and mouth. “It’s cold, come back.”

“As you wish.”

~

They end up spending the rest of the morning in bed, watching sunlight fill up the rest of the room. Mizael lets Vector braid strands of his hair so he has something to busy his hands with, and they top off all the twisted hair with a crown of lilac flowers they find hidden in Mizael’s collection of shoot souvenirs in a box under the bed.

“I can’t believe you still have the stilettos,” Vector says, holding up a pair of sky-high, navy blue heels from the box. “I can’t believe you wore them.”

Mizael shrugs. "They bribed me into it, remember? Since the designer was insistent on having me do the shoot and not anyone else.”

“Is he the one who mistook you for a girl?”

“He liked that I was feminine enough to wear them without looking weirdly muscular around my ankles and calves,” Mizael explains with a roll of his eyes. “It was actually supposed to be Rio. I think she was pissed at me that day.”

“Probably. These must have been so expensive,” Vector says, running his thumb along the logo’s imprint on the insole. “Did you have to buy them after?”

“Nope, the designer was so stunned by how I looked in them that he said it’d be a crime to not let me keep them.”

“Show me. I never got to see.”

Vector shuffles to the edge of the bed as Mizael stands up and slips them on. His ankles look slimmer than ever, calves more defined, and legs as long as always. It’s really a shame he stopped modeling, but Vector doesn’t blame him for leaving. The pressure can be a lot.

“The designer was right, it really would’ve been a crime,” Vector agrees. “But take them off, my neck hurts having to look up at you.”

Mizael places his hands on either side of Vector’s thighs and leans down. "Is this better?"

"Much better," Vector says, bringing a hand up to caress his cheek. Up close like this, he can see the wisps of hair that he’d missed when braiding it all, framing his face and accentuating his blue, blue eyes.

“I love you, Vector.”

“... I love you too.”

Vector hesitates to lean in, still mentally stuck in that moment with Rio at the hotel, but Mizael has no such issues with closing the space between them if only for a moment. There’s no lipstick this time, no feeling trapped, no heart pounding in anxiety. Just Mizael’s soft lips against his own, with the familiar taste of his caramel lip balm. When they part, he blinks back and takes a deep breath.

“Are you okay?” Mizael asks.

Not at all, but he doesn’t want to explain why. “I’m being forced to stay home because of a minor anxiety attack, what do you think?”

“I think you’re scared of Ryoga.”

“That asshole? Why?”

Mizael straightens up, bringing his feet up to slip the heels off. “Because you’re afraid of disappointing him?” he guesses. “I mean, it’s his sister who’s ditching him, after all. And the messenger usually gets the brunt of it, unless he already knows.”

“He knows she was thinking about it.”

“Then you’re the messenger.”

Vector rolls his eyes. “Lucky me.”

But Mizael had hit it right on the head. It’s exactly the part of all of this that he dreads the most. It had already been bad enough when Mizael left, with Ryoga being absolutely convinced that it had been Vector’s fault, that Mizael chose Vector over the agency. What’ll it be this time? It’s not his fault Rio’s off dreaming in technicolour with Thomas Arclight.

Or whatever she’s doing.

But he’s distracted from that thought by a warm hand on his cheek. “Have you ever worn heels, Vector?”

His eyes snap up to Mizael’s. “Huh?”

“Heels. Have you ever tried walking in them?”

Vector snorts. “No. I’d probably break a leg, and not in a good way.”

“You should try these.” With that, Mizael kneels down on the rug, slipping the heels over Vector’s bare feet without much trouble. After all, he’s so short that his toes don’t reach the ground. “We’re the same size, so they’ll fit you.”

“Hey! Doesn’t mean they should!”

“There,” Mizael says, the sound of the zipper closing feeling almost final. He gets back up, holding a hand out. “C’mon. I got you.”

Vector’s eyes narrow. “Fine.”

He sets his hand in Mizael’s and shuffles awkwardly off the bed, letting his toes hit the floor first before setting his heels down on the precarious stiletto spikes. When the rug doesn’t feel nearly as unstable to be on anymore, he looks up at— wait, what ?

“I’m as tall as you!”

“Yeah, that would be the magic of heels,” Mizael responds dryly, but his smile gives him away. “Do a twirl for me.”

“Do you want me to break my neck?”

“Just put your weight on your toes.”

“Ugh… Are you training me to be a show dog or something?”

The mischievous look Mizael shoots at him tells him everything he needs to know. “Maybe.”

Vector huffs as he takes baby steps on his tippy toes, spinning in place and not letting go of Mizael’s hand.

“Wow, you’re a natural.”

The flush that spreads unevenly across Vector’s cheeks makes him internally cringe at himself. His fault for having a praise kink, probably. “Asshole.”

But he can’t complain when Mizael’s soft lips press against his own.

Chapter Text

It’s only hours later, once they’ve fallen back asleep and Vector has woken up for the second time (this time sans the panic) that he realizes the heels were a distraction. The braids, the flower crown, even last night’s tea…

As he blinks awake again, gaze landing on Mizael’s peaceful expression and the way his blonde lashes sweep over his cheekbones, he can’t help but feel dumb for not noticing. He never does, when Mizael pulls him out of those depths and somehow his hands stop trembling. Rio usually just chucks him a chocolate bar and plays lo-fi music over the studio speakers instead of the grating high-energy pop music they usually have on. Ryoga, on the other hand, has a fully loaded panic room with the comfiest couch, an essential oil diffuser, and soundproof walls that let him just breathe in and out for a while.

Though Vector’s never seen Ryoga panic, he’s sure he needs the room just as much as Vector some days. Too much goes on at Leviath to not need a moment every now and then, whether to scream at the walls or to just crash down and pretend the scent of lavender is more soothing than it actually is.

But Mizael…

He needs to stop comparing.

But even so, it’s strange to think someone treats him so softly instead of just shoving him in a room or assuming he’s hungry. There’s only so many times that joke about Snickers chocolate bars is funny, and it’s maybe… the first time. In the ads, with ridiculous situations. Not coming from Rio’s painted lips.

“Vector?”

“Mhm?”

“Wanna get breakfast?”

“Can’t I eat you?” he jokes.

Mizael snorts softly, his eyes fluttering open. “I don’t think that makes a very healthy breakfast,” he says before yawning, shoving his face into the pillow in place of actually covering his mouth. “C’mon. We can order in. Get… omelettes or somethin’...”

“Sunset Grill?”

“Mmm, yeah.” Mizael rolls onto his back, his fingers weaving against Vector’s. “Pancakes—”

“Pancakes are cheaper at McDick’s.”

“So? You can ask for chocolate chips at Sunset.”

“True.”

“Or blueberries. Mmm, blueberries…”

“Why do you think they’re called blueberries? They’re literally purple.”

“Fuck, I’m too tired to think about that right now. You’re right though. I guess purple-berries didn’t roll off the tongue. Plus, the alliteration is nice.”

“Nerd.” Vector laughs softly. “Okay. You’ve convinced me. But I’m pretty sure you’re on a first-name basis with the owner, so you call. I don’t think they like me.”

“Pft. ‘Cause you’re an asshole.”

“Your asshole.”

“Biologically impossible.”

“You know what I meant!”

Mizael ignores him in favour of shooting his arm out to grasp his phone on the bedside table. “What do you want?”

“Surprise me.”

“Then go away. You’re not allowed to listen.”

“Fiiiine.” Vector rolls out of bed, taking the entire quilt with him and delighting in the noise Mizael makes when the cool bedroom air hits his bare skin. “Remember, it’s a mental health day,” he says. “I need this, for my mental health. It’s helping.”

“Fucking prick,” Mizael mutters as he curls up on the mattress, though Vector can hear that tell-tale edge of fondness. “I call dibs on the fluffy blanket.”

“Sure, sure.”

Vector shuffles out of the room, the quilt wrapped around him like a cape that drags on the floor before he flops on the couch and lets it settle over him. Warm… Not as warm as the bed, but the cushions just need some good ol’ body heat to fix that. He wiggles around, attempting to get comfy as he strains to hear Mizael in their bedroom.

But Mizael’s never had a voice that carries unless he wants it to. Not like Rio, whose dulcet tones can be heard halfway across the studio space if the music isn’t on. Or Ryoga’s “I’m the boss here” voice that’s his own approximation of something that booms authoritatively. Not that Vector ever listens to him anyway.

It’s not long before Vector feels warm, almost falling asleep once again when Mizael finally joins him, crashing down on the couch by his feet. “What should we do while we wait?” he asks.

Whatever Vector says is muffled by the quilt over half his face.

Mizael stares at him. “What?”

He peeks out of the quilt just enough to say: “Snuggle.”

“You baby.”

“Am baby.”

“Let me under, it’s cold—”

“That’s on you for not wearing a shirt.”

“Like you’d ever complain about the view.” But Mizael carefully curls around him over the quilt anyway, burying his face into the crook of Vector’s neck. “You smell different today.”

“Bad different?”

“I dunno. What kind of perfume was Rio wearing last night?”

Vector wrinkles his nose. “I thought all the smoke covered that up.”

“Apparently not. You should ask her, so we can avoid buying it. It’s gross. Acetone smells better, and that kills brain cells.”

Vector breathes out a laugh. “Right? Bleh,” he agrees, before going quiet for a moment. “Maybe that’s why you’re still with me.”

“You’re really stupid.”

“You are too.”

Mizael shifts behind him, arm coming around Vector to pull him closer. “We’re still together because we’re still together. I told you I don’t care about your past as long as it doesn’t get in the way. Is Rio getting in the way?”

Honestly, no. Last night was the first real contact Vector has had with her in months aside from passing each other in the studio or lounging around silently in different corners of the breakroom. They haven’t been a thing for over a year, her photo in his phone taken only a month before they stopped seeing each other entirely.

“Okay, so you’re not stupid,” Vector mumbles. “She’s not getting in the way. She’s leaving, forever.”

“And your dealer?”

“Dead in a ditch somewhere, I hope.”

“And the drugs in your bag?”

“Antidepressants and cigs.”

“You know smoking makes antidepressants less effective, right?”

Vector rolls his eyes. “Yeah, you’ve only said a billion times. I’m trying, okay. Tell life to stop being stressful.”

“I wish I could,” Mizael admits softly.

Don’t they all. Vector feels Mizael’s lips press at the skin just behind his ear, his morning breath tickling his jaw. “You’re really okay?” he asks, even if he’s terrified of the answer.

“You still doubt me after all the things I do for you?”

That’s fair. His nails shine like amethyst geodes in the morning sun, and Vector grips the quilt a bit tighter, watching the tips of his fingers go white with the pressure. “Are you sure?”

Mizael doesn’t deem to answer that, instead saying, “I put breakfast on your business card, by the way. It’s on Ryoga.”

“What—? He’s gonna kill me!”

“He’ll have to go through me first.”

When Vector rushes to sit up, Mizael just holds him down tighter. “Miza—”

“You can pay him back later if you really want to, but this is kind of a business-related emergency day off so, you can totally argue that it’s a necessary business expense.”

“Now you’re just pushing the rules.”

“Like you’ve never done it before.”

Mizael has a point there. Vector flops, trying to relax again. “And people believe you make me a better person,” he grumbles.

Though he’d only gotten access to a business card during his internship, right after he’d been sober for one year, off everything but cigarettes. No alcohol, which was difficult because he liked the way it fuzzed his brain over and made everything soft at the edges like bokeh. At least then, he couldn’t see the knife coming.

But he’d been sober, and the Kamishiro family had given Ryoga and Rio business cards for their inevitable takeover of the company. They’d given Vector one too. Something about being part of their family now. Like a coming-of-age present filled with trust he still wasn’t sure he deserved.

“He’s gonna think I’m stoned.”

“We don’t even have weed in the apartment.”

“Or drunk.”

“We don’t have alcohol either.”

“ Still. ” Vector rolls over to face Mizael. “He’s gonna think something .”

“He’s gonna think whatever he needs to think to get over Rio leaving,” Mizael says, pressing their foreheads together. “He’ll be mad either way, we might as well get a free breakfast for your troubles.”

That seems logical. Personally beneficial. Miza’s right, this is a work emergency. “Okay.”

After all, it’s only been a year since Ryoga spent weeks giving him the stink-eye for literally anything and everything just because Mizael left. If he really has to go through that again because of Rio, breakfast is the least he can get out of it.

“What’d you get me?”

“Surprise.”

“Is it French toast?”

“You’ll see.”

Vector huffs. “Fiiine.”

And it’s morning, it’s still fairly early, and Vector doesn’t realize they’ve both dozed off, all snuggled up together, until there’s a pounding at the apartment door.

“Holy fuck,” he mumbles, voice cracking with sleep. “Does he think we’re deaf?”

Mizael snickers. “Go answer it.”

“But—”

“You’re actually dressed, go answer it.”

Vector rolls his eyes and rolls out of Mizael’s arms. “Only because I wanna know what you got me.”

“More like you’re pissed that I’m a thirst trap—”

“Shut up!”

The exchange takes all of five seconds, the delivery guy handing him two large paper bags filled with the smell of food that Vector can’t quite figure out. Is there an omelette? It doesn’t smell like eggs. Hashbrowns? Pancakes? Who knows, it just smells tasty enough to make his stomach growl. The door swings back shut and he drags his feet over to their small dining table behind the couch that they’d sat on the night before, setting the two takeout bags on top.

“Breakfast is served,” he announces, deadpan.

It’s now that he notices the paper bags don’t have the signature Sunset Grill logo on them, nor the red stickers that usually seal the lip of the bags together. Vector squints.

“What did you order?” he asks as Mizael sits up on the couch and ties up his hair. “It doesn’t smell like Sunset.”

“You’ll see,” Mizael says, turning to give him a smirk. “You’ll like it, I think. Something new.”

Vector frowns. “I don’t need more new things. Change is hard enough.”

With that, he tears the bags open. One contains what looks like the smoothie bowls Alit and Anna are always munching on during early mornings at the studio. The other…

“A poke bowl? I didn’t know that was considered breakfast food.”

“You were craving one earlier this week.” Mizael gets up finally, coming around the couch to sit at the table. “Thought it might be fun.”

Maybe it is. After all, when Vector glances over to the oven, the LEDs that blink back at him tell him it’s nearly noon. They really passed out, huh. He shrugs. “Sure. Why not,” he says, figuring that a poke bowl might just be the highlight of his last 24 hours of existence.

He breaks apart his takeout chopsticks, watching as they snap perfectly straight down the line for once, and decides to take it as a good sign. His life isn’t over. It’s just… going through some turbulence. This trainwreck hasn’t crashed yet. There are still small blessings. Like—

Oh. Mmm… It tastes delicious. “What’s this one called?”

“Confident.”

Vector stares at him. “What?”

“Everything on the menu is named after feelings,” Mizael explains. “So, yours is the confident poke bowl. Mine’s called the Fabulous smoothie bowl.”

“Huh.”

“So eat up. You’ll need it.”

“For what?”

“Would you rather tell Ryoga on your day off, or face whatever bullshit he throws at you while working?”

“ What .” The last thing Vector wants to do is talk to Ryoga. Tell him his sister’s leaving, jumping ship to the kind of studio that makes her eat less than she even lets herself. “No way. We’re not going to the studio—”

“Why not? You said you couldn’t push a button on your camera, but it seems like you can hold a conversation just fine,” Mizael points out. “And, don’t you want to get it over with?”

“Not today .”

“Too bad. Eat up, you’ll need the confidence.”

Vector scowls. “Fine.”

At least the poke bowl tastes good, even though the sinking feeling in his stomach makes it feel a bit like ash on his tongue. Whatever. Mizael’s right, as always, whether Vector wants to admit it or not.

Chapter Text

It’s sunny, and Vector’s only mad about it because the weather should at least match his mood on a day when he’s no doubt going to be verbally beaten to a pulp if not outright punched in the face. Ryoga has an insulated, soundproofed panic room for a reason, and that reason is his unpredictable temper. Some days he knows exactly what’s going on and how to control it, captain of the ship called Leviath, ready to take anything on. Other days, he’s a mess of leftover teenage angst and panic who needs to either curl into a ball or slam his fist into something. Usually his desk, like a gavel.

Honestly, what more could they both have in common, practically running Leviath together, shockingly not into the ground. And now Rio’s careful balancing act between their mood swings is gone, the fulcrum that kept them balanced and fed with her stash of snacks she kept for when everyone got “hangry.”

Maybe at the very least, she’ll leave the stash behind.

“Are you done yet?” Vector calls from the front door as he goes through the long process of tying up his shoes even though he doesn’t need to.

“Almost!”

He rolls his eyes. Almost never means almost. They’ve got about another fifteen minutes to go, if Vector’s estimations on how long it takes Mizael to get ready for the day are anywhere near accurate. And they are.

“The studio closes at three today, you know.”

“So you’re telling me you couldn’t even handle doing a half shift today?”

Vector grits his teeth. This bitch is just lucky he loves him. “C’mon, jeez.”

Mizael peers out of their bedroom door, a high ponytail swinging behind him. “Think this looks good?” he asks, smoothing his hand over the baby hairs at the nape of his neck that won’t stay put. “And, should I wear lipstick?”

“... You’re not a model anymore.”

“Yeah, but I want Ryoga to know I could still be one if I wanted to.”

Vector stares at him, thoroughly unimpressed. “You wanna be Rio’s replacement when he gets the news?”

“Hell no.”

“Then don’t wear lipstick, let’s just go.”

Mizael laughs under his breath. “You’re no fun today,” he says, coming out finally and slipping on designer sneakers. “At least tell me I look good, my love?”

“You look great. We’ll rip off your ensemble later,” Vector mutters, standing up and grabbing his coat. “Just… try not to piss Ryoga off?”

“No promises.”

~

Mizael pays for an Uber. Vector’s not sure why, when the studio is only a couple blocks away and it’s not even that cold out, but he can’t complain when a car with heated back seats rolls up and confirms it’s their ride.

Vector practically collapses into the seat, trying to relax with a toasty butt as Mizael rounds the car and enters on the other side. “You already got the address?” he asks the driver, just in case.

“Yeah. Corner of Tiragon and ‘Bomi, right?”

“Mhm.”

Mizael slips into the car and fastens his seatbelt, and it’s now when Vector’s mind isn’t preoccupied with rehearsing what he’s gonna say, that he realizes Mizael really did put effort into going out today. Under his black designer trench coat, he’s wearing a bona fide black pinstriped suit with a loose white blouse tucked in only at the front. He looks way more professional than Vector ever tries to be, and something about the fabric choices make his skin glow.

Instead, Vector sits here in the leather jacket he’s had since high school, in clothes that are probably ratty or faded or both. Vector bites his lip and slips his phone out of his pocket.

>> u rly do look beautiful today

Honestly, Mizael could wear a trashbag and he’d be hot, but something about his carefully curated closet, the classic pieces mixing with the trendy seasonal pieces, the minimal accessories, and the fact that he bought the matching necklace to the earrings Vector had gifted him…

His phone vibrates in his palms and he looks down to see the response:

>> you look like trash. might make ryoga believe how much this affects you too

>> wow thx

>> just saying. it works in your favour.

Vector rolls his eyes. Whatever. This is what he gets for trying to be a decent human being who doesn’t think all his answers are at the bottom of a bottle or the end of a joint. The “at least he’s sober” joke stopped being funny after his third year of actually being sober.

Except cigarettes. God. He should’ve had one while they waited in the cold just to calm his shit.

He’s trying to focus again on the heated seats and the frost melting on the windows when Mizael’s hand slips into his, fingers weaving together in Vector’s lap just enough to break his current train of thought. There are only a couple more minutes left before they’ll arrive. What luck, living only two stations away from the studio, Vector thinks wryly.

The train would’ve taken longer. Maybe there would’ve been a delay too. That would’ve been nice. Too bad Mizael knows all the ways he’d try to wriggle out of this all too well. No wonder he called an Uber.

Vector tightens his grasp over Mizael’s hand, right before the car pulls up outside of Leviath Studio, as if to catch one more bit of strength before they exit the Uber, thanking the driver.

When they’re both on the street again, surrounded by the usual slow Sunday hubbub of the city, right outside the doors to the studio, Mizael sighs.

“It’s been a while. Kinda brings back memories,” he says, looking up at the bright sign above them, “though I can’t tell if any of them are good or not.”

“I’d hope good. We met here.”

“Okay, they’re not all bad,” Mizael agrees, his hand reaching out for Vector’s again. “C’mon.”

“You’re not my mom—”

“And I never will be.”

Vector scowls but acquiesces, sticking his hand out just enough for Mizael’s to slip back into it.

“What are you going to tell him?” Mizael asks as he opens up the door for them. “Are you gonna sugarcoat it or…?”

“I’ll start with the basics. See how it goes from there.”

Sunday’s are always slow, usually dedicated toward administrative work, or a couple exclusive shoots that aren’t meant for the public eye until release. It’s not surprising for Vector to walk through a studio that feels like a ghost town, racks of clothes lined up in rows in the wardrobe section, full of products that were selected from new launches and categorized by company and shoot. Vector vaguely remembers a perfume shoot on the calendar in the next week, where Akari will be wearing one of the soft poofy dresses that take up an entire rack by themselves. They haven’t figured out which one, but they’ll have enough time to try each and see.

Black curtains fall from the high ceilings, sectioning off different sections for different shoots, the break area, the kitchen, the offices…

“Vector!”

He blinks out of his reverie, hand shooting out of Mizael’s on reflex like it used to when no one knew. When he turns, Alit is waving at him with Anna sitting on the island in the kitchen.

“I thought you weren’t coming in today?” Anna says as they head over to them.

“I’m not here for work, if that’s what you mean,” Vector grumbles. “This asshole dragged me in,” he adds, nodding toward Mizael. 

“Long time no see,” Alit says. “What’s our hotshot ex doing nowadays?”

“Living with this trainwreck,” Mizael says, pulling Vector close. “And getting by. How are the harlequin covers?”

“Apparently we’re realistically in love,” Anna answers. “We’re doing another one today. We look hot as fuck, but the pose is kinda uncomfortable. They want me to arch further back in his arms. My poor spine…”

Vector chuckles. The running gag at the studio is that neither Anna nor Alit are straight, but their covers always sell the idea of heteromantic love and fantasy so well that it hardly matters.

“Just clip your dress on the side they’re not shooting, it’s a bit loose so it’s not showing the curve properly,” he says, moving out of Mizael’s arms and gesturing at her waist. “Like this, see?” His hands pull at the fabric of her red satin dress, right where the zipper is supposed to close tight over her torso but doesn’t. “You can clip it all the way down with a few of them so you don’t have all this bunching, and then—” Vector pokes her spine so she arches a bit. “There. See? That’s better. Who’s your photographer today?”

“Durbe.”

“Pft.”

Anna shares a laugh with him, and he can hear Alit snort loudly too. Durbe’s not exactly the best photographer at the studio, but he’s decent in a pinch. Like today, Vector supposes.

“Don’t be like that!” she giggles, slapping his shoulder.

But they’re in good company. Everyone here but Ryoga agrees.

“I had a shoot with him once,” Mizael says. “He was terrible at giving me direction so I kinda did whatever, and then we needed to reshoot the whole thing because the company had some instructions that we definitely didn’t follow. He’d forgotten.”

Alit nods. “That definitely sounds like him.”

“No kidding,” Vector says under his breath, just before turning back to Anna. “Who did your makeup today?”

“Me! Did I do good?”

“You did great.” He tucks her brunette wig behind her ear to see it more clearly, the way the champagne-toned highlighter goes all the way around her orbital bone, with a sun-kissed pink blush dusted over her nose and blended just under the highlight. “You’re getting really good.”

“I used that highlighting technique Kotori showed me,” Anna says excitedly. “You know, for the dewy glow? Apparently it’s a pirate novel, and I, the rich bougie girl, get a tan and warm the captain’s heart.”

“Oh, so that’s why Alit looks like a moron—”

“Hey!” Anna and Mizael snicker as Alit brandishes the fake sword that’s part of his costume, no doubt meant to be photoshopped later into something realistically sharp and dangerous. “I could make you walk the plank!”

Vector laughs outright.

And that’s his downfall, because they’re loud enough in this ghost town of a studio for Ryoga to wrench open the door to his office. “Vector? You said you weren’t coming in today.”

The way Vector’s shoulders shoot up to his ears is sign enough for Anna and Alit to both pretend to go back to whatever they were doing during their break. “Hey there, Capitan,” he says, slowly turning on his heels and shooting off a casual salute. “How’s the ship holding?”

“I don’t know,” Ryoga says, leaning on the doorframe and crossing his arms. He doesn’t look happy, but then again he rarely does, his brows and lips in a permanent downturned state of scowling. Nevermind that he definitely saw Mizael and is probably even more unhappy now. “Wanna tell me?”

Not really. Vector glances over in the general direction of the panic room before snapping back to Ryoga when he clears his throat.

“So?”

“No ‘how’ve you been’ or ‘I hope you’re feeling better?’”

“You can tell me inside.” Ryoga turns to head back in, leaving the door wide open for Vector to follow.

“Good luck,” Alit and Anna both whisper at Vector as he takes the first step, feeling Mizael’s hand graze over the small of his back in a gentle push.

Chapter Text

Ryoga holds the door open for them, his back against it as he watches them half-lidded with heavy bags under his eyes. There’s not much in his office, bare save for his desk, the bookcases stuffed past the edges with books and papers and files, and an acoustic guitar in the corner that Vector’s seen him take to the panic room on more than one occasion.

Honestly the fact that the panic room is perfectly clean and organized makes him believe it really is an escape from the absolute hellscape of disorganized paperwork and an almost constantly ringing phone. But it’s the weekend, so at least the latter part isn’t happening.

When Vector and Mizael are settled in, Vector in the comfy chair and Mizael leaning gingerly on the desk, Ryoga follows them inside, locking the door.

“So,” Ryoga starts, no doubt expecting them to elaborate on their sudden appearance, among other things.

“So,” Vector repeats dully. “You called Durbe in as my replacement?”

“If you’re gonna bitch about it, then you shouldn’t have called in sick.”

“Akari would be better—”

“Akari’s not a photographer.”

“Her brother is and you still haven’t hired him,” Vector shoots back.

Ryoga scowls. “We’re not hiring him.”

“Because you don’t wanna date your employees?”

“Didn’t stop you.”

“Never claimed to follow your bogus HR rules.”

Mizael sighs loudly and the two of them huff, turning away from each other. The silence is loud in Vector’s ears, like tinnitus in the middle of a deafening crescendo, and he chalks it up to being pissed off. Ryoga clicks his tongue and sits down in his high-backed, worn-out leather chair, crossing his arms as per usual.

“Do you have to be here?” he says after a long moment, his eyes shifting toward Mizael. “Like Vector’s own little bodyguard?”

“He’s not—”

Vector cuts himself off as Mizael pushes himself off the desk. “I’m not his mother,” Mizael says. “Or his bodyguard. If anything, I’m his expensive escort.” He smirks. “But I know when I’m not wanted or needed. See you outside?”

With that, he ruffles Vector’s hair affectionately and leaves, no doubt to join Anna and Alit again and get the lowdown on the studio gossip. The door slams shut dramatically and the two left inside roll their eyes. Mizael’s always had a bit of a flair for that kind of thing.

“Let’s get to the point, then,” Ryoga says, slouching back as far as he can, like even though they’re having this conversation, he wants nothing to do with it. “What happened?”

Vector and he bites the inside of his cheek. “She wants to leave,” he starts slowly, quietly. “She’s got a contract with the Arclights waiting for her.”

Ryoga nods, gritting his teeth. “I know that much. What else?”

“Nothing would change her mind.”

“I know that too.”

“She said it’s for the best.”

“For all of us, right?”

Silence drapes over them again, heavy, and Vector scowls, his irritation rising. “Okay, if you know so much, why don’t you tell me what you know and I’ll just fill in the blanks?” he asks, clenching his fists over the arms of the chair.

Ryoga lets out a put-upon sigh and frowns before pulling open the top drawer of his desk, the only part of his office that isn’t a cluttered mess, and pulling out a neatly stacked file. “Apparently Rio put in all the paperwork weeks ago to have all of her assets at Leviath transferred. This came in yesterday night. While you were with her.” He sets it down and pushes it across the desk. “Everything I know is right here.”

A… transfer of assets? Vector takes the file, opening to the first page and squinting at the title, printed in 12pt Times New Roman which has to be the most boring font in existence—

“No fucking way,” he breathes out.

His fingers clutch the file so tightly that the stack of paper warps, but it’s right there. His name. On the first page. Vector can’t stop staring at it, barely able to take in the rest of whatever it says.

“In her personal note, at the very end,” Ryoga continues, “she says that this way, we can all get what we want, and what we deserve. After working so hard together all these years.”

“No—”

“She gave her entire half of Leviath to you, Vector.”

Ryoga doesn’t sound happy about it, but maybe that’s just the kind of tone that comes with half-lidded eyes and dark bags under them. He’s never exactly been the type to sound enthusiastic, but he’s not a total hater either.

In the span of a deep breath, Vector gingerly sets the file back on the table, barely grasping it with his fingertips at the very edges. With that out of his hands, he absently begins fidgeting, pulling back each finger till it cracks just to have a sound to focus on that isn’t the drone of the air conditioner.

“I don’t get it,” Vector says finally.

Ryoga barely smiles, but that’s more than Vector’s gotten from him in weeks. “You’re basically a Kamishiro, you know.”

“I don’t have the name.”

“Doesn’t matter. Our parents practically raised you alongside us. We went to school together, took care of each other, revamped Leviath together…”

“Do you have a point?”

“Rio and I thought about it a while ago. She wanted you to have something, since you…” Ryoga pauses, face scrunching as if his next words are painful, “work harder than either of us. It only makes sense that you should inherit something from it. I guess this is how she went about doing it.”

Vector gnaws on his lip, piecing together the information because as much as it’s straightforward, it’s just too easy. There has to be something. Ryoga’s supposed to tear him limb from limb and say something about how they can’t be separated, that they’re a team, that he can’t do this without both of them and—

He blinks, realizing that maybe that’s only his own problem. “This is crazy.”

“Not really,” Ryoga says with a shrug. “Rio’s always wanted her own thing to be proud of. That’s been her schtick for ages.”

“You’re not angry?”

“I knew she’d leave eventually, one day, she just blindsided us by doing it sooner than later.”

“What about the Arclights?” Vector pushes, trying to find the crack that makes everything tumble down.

“They hardly matter. I had the entire night to think about it. She made up her mind. Even you wouldn’t have been able to make her stay, especially if she’s doing this for your benefit as well as hers.”

“There’s other ways!”

“This was Rio’s.”

Her way or the highway. Of course. They got together on her terms, broke up on her terms, stayed friends and colleagues under her terms, and Vector always went along with it even when it meant making out in the janitor’s closet to keep things secret or letting her hand feed him half her bento because she was worried about his health. She was trying to leave on her terms too, he thinks.

Vector lifts his gaze from the hands in his lap to Ryoga’s piercing stare. “We’re partners?”

“We’re partners.”

He tries to grin in that way of his that always pisses Ryoga off, but he’s not sure how effective it is when his eyes are blurry and burning with tears. “Can my first order of business be to hire Akari’s brother?”

“Fuck off.”

“I’m doing it. You can’t stop me.”

“Ugh.”