#hope they’re having a good time at least | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

jisokai · 2 days ago

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You always thought the circus was where you yearned to be. At least, until it finally let you in—and introduced you to Hanta Sero.

[circus AU where seamstress!reader and acrobat!sero realize that their lives have been running parallel for a long time, and it’s up to you to weave them together]

part 4: made of the same dust.

sero hanta x reader ch 4/6 | 13k words | masterlist | ao3 cw: the smut. it's mild and i kept it gn (no body descriptions for reader) notes: senorita by camila cabello and shawn mendes, nobody by hozier, ceilings by lizzie mcalpine

the time you finally reach back.

✰.

"The fact that we can sit right here and say goodbye / Means we've already won

A necessity for apologies between you and me / Baby, there is none"

- Walking in the Wind, One Direction

The world slows while you stand and stare ahead, eyes boring into Hanta’s across the crowd. Your heart pounds in your chest, skin ablaze as your mind races. It’s fuzzy, too much passing through and slamming together as you try to understand the past few nights, entire days, years that have gone by. Your chest squeezes at the thought of Hanta watching you curiously, uncertainly as you wandered through his gifts, not yet understanding the magnitude of what he was trying to say.

And here he stands—still as a stone, unsure after baring his heart and his memory before you. A memory you forgot.

You run forwards.

“Hanta!” you shout as you weave through the crowd. His eyes widen, head jolting from shock before he breaks free and runs to meet you without hesitation.

You reach for him, hands grasping tightly at the front of his shirt. Your own panting sounds through your ears, pairing with a sting across your nose and eyes as your body threatens to sob.

“Hanta, was it really you this whole time?”

He’s nervous, eyes glazed with a mixture of fear and hope. His hands lift but they don’t make contact with your arms. When he speaks his voice is breathy. “Yeah, it was me. I mean, Momo helped—but they were my ideas. I wanted… I wanted to show you how I feel towards you.” There’s a pause as he surveys your face. “… Do you like them?”

Momo? Your head rushes at the thought that she was an orchestrator—Momo, who you haven’t had the chance to say a proper thank you to, to share with her all that this means to you. Momo was helping Hanta build tents and stories and magic? That alone could make you cry.

But you’re stunned further when you register Hanta’s question. Like them? That tent was full of your home, your memories, moments you didn’t even know were lost until now. And at the same time they were his confessions, love letters that have been looking for you, for years. Since Quito.

“Hanta… they’re everything I’ve been missing.”

… He’s everything you’ve been missing.

His hand is searing against your waist, fire burning through fabric to ignite the skin beneath your gown—a shock against the winter air. The touch is gentle, still cautious despite your affirmation, but you see relief wash over him, face softening into a hopeful stare. He swallows.

His arm curves to hold you firmly, forcing your body into his, the heat of him that seeps through his costume. You accept it greedily, pressing your face into his shoulder. Your cheeks burn, you can’t tell from your own blood rushing through you, or the radiance of his heat. As he guides you through the crowd—your feet stumbling along his—you try to calm yourself, only now feeling your erratic heart beats, the lump in your throat and stomach you can’t explain. But despite all this, you feel safe in his arms.

You don’t know where he’s taking you, and you don’t care. Words tumble from your lips before you can choose them carefully, just wanting to tell him anything. Everything.

“You were there? In Quito when I was in the parade?” Your voice is quiet, likely too soft to hear. But he releases a choked yeah that makes your body tighten.

You laugh breathily. “I remembered hating it. I was so scared to perform. But abuela thought it would be good for me. I… I didn’t remember having so much fun. Only falling at the end and hurting myself. I was never a performer, even if I love to dance. I—”

The air is quieter around you when Hanta comes to a stop, letting you break away partially to look at his face.

“Gracias, Hanta. Para mostrarme.”

Thank you, Hanta. For showing me.

His face is unreadable, a mysterious shroud of darkness. You take in what your peripheral offers, tall looming shadows of palm trees. The silhouette of a banana leaf breezes behind him. They’re out of place in the temperate weather of Milan. You’re sandwiched between the festival and the street, in the strip of tropical plants outside the duomo. Isn’t there a fence to separate the vegetation from pedestrians? How did he bring you here?

You want to know everything about him—all this impossible magic, what he’s thinking, what he knows about you. Your heart reaches for him, yearns while watching with bated breath.

It quickens impossibly when his hand moves to your face. His touch is soft and ignites a buzz beneath your skin. His thumb presses your cheek, stroking under your eye. His tongue swipes through his lips, biting down on the lower one with a frown in thought. You watch him. Still waiting.

His face stretches into a grin, this one in disbelief, almost contorted with pain. “I never thought I’d… I just—” the words don’t amount to anything, only the beginnings of thoughts coming from his lips. You laugh gently in agreement.

“Eres tú,” he finally manages. It’s you. His Spanish is firm and deliberate. “Seeing you that day is the reason I’m here now. You were… you were beautiful. And you saw me.”

You don’t know what he’s saying, too far gone to read into his words. They hardly enter your brain. But you capture their essence, your body reacting on instinct to the sounds. Each word is a strike to your heart, a squeeze to your lungs, a burn across your face. You inspired him somehow—you with your clumsy enthusiasm that only lasted a moment. He saw it and wanted it too.

“Were you looking for me?” you ask. It’s not what you mean to say.

He shakes his head slowly. “I… I don’t know. I was just chasing that feeling you gave me, from the moment I felt it. And it led me here.”

He’s too beautiful, you think. Him and his earnest words and his devoted heart. You stare openly, at his face partly illuminated in the dim glow of the moon. His eyes are honest and wide, watching every detail of you carefully. But they’re also dark—mysterious, deep depths that hold impossibly more. Like his hair, soft against his forehead and cheeks, a blanket of uncertainty that you want to wrap yourself in.

But he’s also ridiculous, standing there in his jester’s costume, the amalgamation of Japanese and French and Persian attire. His hat is also dark, artificially so, a fuzzy felt that rains over his head. You can’t hold back your smile at the sight, this multitude of a man.

“You’re so beautiful,” is all you can say.

And suddenly he’s closer, pulling you in, pressing against you like you’ll meld together. His face is close, so close, searing forehead against yours as he stares into you with those large, hopeful eyes.

You don’t reject his advances, letting him take you and guide your head towards him with the hand against your cheek—to steal your lips for his own.

If touching Hanta is the heat of fire, the burning pain of flames against your skin, then kissing him is the heat of molten rock and stone, hot lava that pools in your body. You grab him greedily, clutching the hem of his robe with the intensity of claws. It eggs him on, hand firm as it slides to the back of your neck, releasing a wave of tingles down your spine. His other arm stretches further around you, to pull you impossibly closer. You’re dizzy, dissolving from his intimacy like steam from a boil. It hurts, but you crave more.

He tastes sweet, the tang of an orange along the freshness of mint. At the first sample, a swipe against his lip with your tongue, you immediately crave more. He lets you in, gives you full reign to him. You take it easily, take and take and take as you run your hands up his neck and confine him. A groan releases from his throat, a rough sound that starts from the depths of his chest, vibrating against your own. You think you might die from the intensity, how his song raises your temperature even further.

When you finally have space to breathe, pulling apart only to press a rapid succession of kisses against him, you breathe his name like air. First it’s the exhale of a shaky, “Hanta,” and then it’s a cry, the choked mantra of, “Hanta, Hanta, Hanta—”He whines in response, a high pitched and raw honesty. You can’t take it, can’t bear the thought of being apart from him. When you think about how long you’ve lived in his absence, one you weren’t even aware of until tonight, it tears at your chest, the sting of an open wound.

His hotel isn’t far from the duomo, but the journey there is endless. He pulls you forward by the hand, and the sight of him, his wide back and his arm outstretched towards you, fuels a giddiness in your chest.

The room is small, only large enough for one, and the hall is tight when he pulls you in, immediately pressing you into the wall of the cramped corridor. You inhale sharply at the impact, then nearly choke as he leans into you, the curve of his front slotting snugly into yours. He’s all over you once again, this time in the private darkness of his space. The air is heavy against you, a sticky dampness of need. You welcome him easily, lips parting to taste him again—orange and mint and heat.

His kisses are deep but hurried. He moves quickly, an eager pace you encourage. You urge him to continue, equally firm as you run your tongue over his teeth, catching his with your own.

Your heart jumps when he pulls back enough to run his lips under your eye, migrating to your temple and against your ear, lighting your body aflame. You gasp as the feeling, how it claws into your chest and sides when he moves to kiss your jaw, your neck. Then you’re whining, high pitched and breathy. He chuckles against you—a raspy, throaty sound that blooms an ache in your stomach.

“Lo siento,” he whispers against your throat after biting it softly. I’m sorry. “Ideally I’d take my time with you.”

You groan at the admission, hands sliding up his neck to bury in his hair. The grunt he releases is an animal sound. Suddenly he’s clutching at your thighs, grinding his hips into yours to make you feel the hard, searing heat of him.

He tears you from the wall. You wrap your arms over his shoulders, holding him tightly as he stumbles further into the room. Your hand reaches for his stupid jester hat, tugging one of the felted points, jingling as it slides off his head and onto the floor. You giggle at the silliness of it all, your two costumes pressed together.

Then you’re falling backwards, flopping against the surface of his bed. Hanta leans with you, pinning you against the plushness of the duvet. He hums into your lips, an intrigued sound at your laughter, before he ruts his hips into you again, pulling a gasp from your lips. The heat between your legs is blooming, consuming. You bury your face in his hair, dark dark threads swept beneath your chin and cheek as his lips suck at your neck. His fingers dance against your sides, sliding under your back to find the string that holds your dress together.

With one tug it loosens over your shoulders, bunching softly when one of his hands comes to your collarbone, fingertip hooking into the seam before tracing gently down your chest. You fold easily, shaking the cinches from your wrists to let the sleeves slide down with the bust. You’re left bare, chest and stomach and heart, for him to see in their entirety.

He pushes up from the bed to look at you, eyes tracing the dip of your collarbone, the firmness of your sternum, the softness of your belly. A hand smooths into the curve of your waist, touching gently with delicate fingers. You reach for the lapel of his top, the robe-like fabric tied at the side. He lets you pull the string, and then shrugs the garment off, easily brushing it to the side.

You know he’s fit; he’s an acrobat for a living. But you eye him greedily, taking in his sculpted figure, all lean muscle and angles and edges. Your fingers reach for the side of his pec, tracing down hot skin to the hard flesh of his obliques, the ripple of his abdomen. Another searing, hot wave rushes through you as you drink him in—the pour of boiling black liquid. Molten rock.

He leans back down to kiss the skin of your chest, the flesh coating your heart. His chest is impossibly hot against your stomach, his torso burning as it settles between your legs. Your hips stutter on their own, bucking into his belly in attempt to relieve that ache. He groans again, a deep sound that thrums through your own body. You notice the flush of your face, a burning heat from within—not just the external warmth you’ve been stealing from him.

His thumb presses against your hip, fingers wrapping around to dig into the plush of your ass. He’s encouraging you, pulling you into him to roll again and again, to use him for your relief. You follow his lead, let your hips rock into him even after his hand stops guiding you. There’s a twitch against your sternum, his lips stretching into a grin that he smothers into your skin. You don’t have the gall to care, too wrapped up in his touch and your pleasure that builds embarrassingly quickly.

He lifts his head, drags it against the plush of your chest and to your nipple. You inhale sharply when his tongue flicks across the bud before he kisses it, a peck before harsh sucking. Pins run down your spine and directly to your heat, burning your body in every place and at every moment. Your hand threads through that deep, dark hair—soft, long locks against his scalp. His free hand pinches your other nipple, giving you no reprieve as he presses his stomach harder against you and flexes. You tremble from the overload of sensation, its ruthless compounding.

Your body tightens, shakes with the tension of a coiled spring. In the next moment it releases, you cresting the peak of your high as relief washes over you, hot white light flooding your vision and body. You don’t hear yourself whine and groan through your ecstasy, focus only on holding Hanta close to you.

You can hear your panting when you finally come to. Your eyes peel open after some effort, sticky from the force you used to scrunch them closed, to see Hanta above you. He’s smiling gently, a sweet and careful tug at his cheek. You blink rapidly in attempt to sharpen your vision, but he remains fuzzy in the dim light. You can only smile back, watching him lean down to kiss you again—this time slower, unhurried.

You jolt in your skin as his free hand reaches for your waist, sliding up and down. Your heart buzzes when it trails lower, touching the top of your thigh, over the edge towards the inside, before gliding to your center. You can feel your heart pound in your ears, thrumming in anticipation. The tips of his fingers ghost over your heat, igniting fire through your legs at the simultaneous lightness and overstimulation.

And then he stops.

The shift is jarring. He pulls away from your lips, hand jerking back. In a flash it’s like his touch was never there, only the ghost of a feeling in your memory. But he’s still hovering above you, now with a look of uncertainty. You frown—at the loss, but mostly from concern.

“Hanta?” you press.

He blinks, eyes darting from you and to the side, inspiring nervous fluttering in your stomach. He bites his lip in thought, nearly chewing at himself. You think you can see the gears turning in his mind.

“¿Estás bien?” Are you okay?

His head shakes, like he’s coming back to himself. He looks at you again, wide earnest eyes that hold every secret you’ve ever needed. You feel relief in your stomach, that moment of unease slipping away. You trust him.

His voice is throaty when he answers, and he stumbles a couple of times before he manages to say, “I—I really don’t want to rush this. To rush you… us. I’m sorry.” A glossiness pools in his eyes. He looks mournful. The sight hurts your heart.

“Estás bien,” you say this time. You reach one of your hands to his face, carefully brushing his cheek. You want your words to get through to him. “Hanta, it’s okay.”

He exhales shakily, leaning to press his head against your shoulder. Your hand migrates to the back of his head, petting his hair gently. He blinks rapidly against you, the butterfly wings of his eyelashes kissing your skin. They’re followed by the light touch of tears, a slight drizzle of rain while he collects himself.

You cradle him carefully, coaxing him to relax on top of you. His weight pins you down, like the security of a blanket. He’s still warm, hot coals against you—coals that breathe, expand and shrink over and over and over again. Your free hand travels down his back, softly tracing his spine, the ridges of mountains, groaning earth beneath taut skin.

In this quiet reprieve, the space between action, your mind wanders to his words. I don’t want to rush this. But it’s up to you, isn’t it? Whether there can be a this at all—whether you can have any time together in the future. Whether you can find the courage to leave and chase that feeling that brought Hanta to you. But the ashes of abuela sit under your coffee table, waiting to be brought home; your sister sits in her room halfway across the world, waiting for you to call her back. Your heart is heavy, sinking down your body as you bear its burden and the weight of the man above you.

“Lo siento,” he whispers the apology against your heart.

You smile sadly to yourself, swallowing a lump as you reply, “Yo también.”

Me too.

You don’t wake first, but you still wake early, eyes twitching when the morning sun brushes your face. You feel the plushness of the blanket, body snug under its warmth. The sheet is stiffer than yours, and the scent of the room has a tang yours lacks. Your eyes shoot open.

Sero is not what you expect to see upon waking, the first figure to cross your vision. But he lays beside you, propped on his stomach with his arms thrown over a pillow, outstretched to cradle a book. His shirt is still discarded from the night before, tan and toned skin stark against the white of the bed. He doesn’t notice that you’ve woken, eyes tracing along the paper, a fond smile tugging at his lips. Even buried in your peripheral, the book is recognizable.

You get a few minutes of this peaceful quiet, watching the light from the window illuminate him from behind. He's glowing, radiant.

When his finger drags against the top of the paper, his eyes dart towards you, widening in surprise when he sees that you’re awake. You wonder if he looked your way at every turn of the page, waiting.

You smile. He grins in response and tucks a tag in the spine, letting the book close as he shifts towards you.

“Buenos días,” he greets softly. The rasp makes your heart pound.

Your voice is almost a whisper when you return the phrase.

“Sleep well?”

You respond with an mhmm, adjusting as you roll entirely to your side to face him. The blanket falls slightly down your chest, but you leave it. Hanta’s eyes don’t leave yours.

Your hand slides towards him, finger brushing against his forearm. His opposite hand lands atop yours, thumb gliding gently over your knuckles. You wonder what this is, what you’re doing here with soft gazes and twitches of smiles. The pace of your heart picks up, an awkwardness seeping through your skin. Then you frown with realization.

“Was it okay for you to leave last night?” you ask.

Sero blinks at the question. “Huh? Oh, yeah. I wasn’t actually working.”

Your face morphs to one of confusion. “But you dressed up and hung around the festival anyways?”

His mouth twitches, the press of a line as he tries to hold a straight face. “Yeah?”

You don’t press, supposing it made sense if he was planning to join you in the tent. The reminder brings another wave of thumping against your chest. Your cheeks flare at the memory, and suddenly you feel embarrassed too. Grateful and in awe, but embarrassed.

“Thank you,” you say. It doesn’t feel like enough, to simply thank him. “For last night, and the previous nights. What you showed me was incredible, and I have no idea how you and Momo managed it.” You have the urge to ask all those questions in you, how he pulled those memories, why your time with abuela is nothing but a bright green marble, how that tiny tent could expand the space inside to be so endless.

You don’t ask.

“Of course,” he answers, shuffling closer. He reaches for you, gentle fingertips against your cheek. “I… Like I said, I wanted to show you everything, how I feel towards you. I don’t… know entirely what happened, or what you saw in the earlier ones—it’s left to the illusion. But I hope they were all good to you, ultimately.”

You have to take his words in slowly, processing them individually and as a whole. They’re cryptic, vague. But you think you understand.

“And I’m sorry again,” he adds. “For last night. I meant what I said, but I don’t regret anything.”

When he told you he didn’t want to rush, he means. You remember his words, couldn’t forget them if you tried with your entire body and soul. They’re burned into your mind, scorched etchings on wood. This is an opening, you recognize, to be honest. An opening to share your confusions, to ask what he means and if he’s expecting you to leave for him. An opening to share your concerns, every bite of hesitation that claws at you, chains your feet to the streets of Milan. They’re on the tip of your tongue, heavy between your teeth.

“It’s okay,” you say instead. Your hand comes to cradle his, cup it gently. “I appreciated it.”

You still have a few days, your brain bargains. Tomorrow, you promise yourself. Let’s enjoy today, and be honest tomorrow.

But it’s hard to hold back when you look into those sweet, earnest eyes. You shift your gaze, needing reprieve, and landing on the book. Si Estiramos Estrellas Como Seda. Your mind flits to the tent last night, that incredible scene of the meadow under the night, a clear sky reflected in the black glass of the pond—poked with a thousand holes, the freckles of light seeping through for you to grasp and stretch and weave.

“What chapter were you reading?” you ask.

Sero pulls away from you to turn towards the book. You watch his shoulder dip as his torso twists, stretching the thin gap of his waist. You want to grab the skin, maybe sink your teeth into him. It’s bad for your health to be so close to him this early in the morning.

“Last night’s scene,” he says as he manages to grab the corner of the novel and turn back towards you.

You hum unsurprised. Lithe fingers dip to his bookmark, the spine bending easily to lay flat. It’s a well-loved copy, the glue holding the pages together starting to separate. You see the words littered with underlines and notes, a mix of Japanese and Spanish, blue and black pen, neat and messy handwriting. He’s annotated again and again, throughout the years.

You scootch close to him, wiggling to see the words more clearly. Your chest meets the point of his elbow, your hand returning to its place on his forearm. He leans into the touch for a moment, head dipping to press your shoulder. Then he rightens, and reads a few paragraphs.

You haven’t heard the prose spoken by anyone but yourself for years. You last remember your mother reading it aloud to you in middle school, but it was the last time. At some point you were expected to grow out of it, to read something else. You did, for a while. But your heart always found its way back.

Hanta pauses after describing Santi’s experience crossing through the pond.

“Y’know, there was supposed to be a sequel.”

Your eyes widen in surprise. You stiffen. “What?”

His thumb moves to the edge, pressing down as pages flip by, the rapid flutter of wings. He pauses, then shuffles his other hand to turn back a couple times. His copy has an author Q&A in the back. You didn’t know this existed. He points to one of the paragraphs under a bolded question.

“Ataré Mi Corazón al Tuyo,” he breathes. I’ll Tie My Heart to Yours.

Si estiramos estrellas como seda, ataré mi corazón al tuyo.

If we stretch stars like silk, I’ll tie my heart to yours.

The title of the first book is set up to have a sequel, only the beginning of the sentence. Your eyes scan where Sero’s finger points, reading the author’s explanation for how the two books would fit together. It’s vague, ideating a continuation of Santi and Marco’s friendship, how they navigate as they age—but ultimately how they find a way to be together, forever. You inhale sharply.

“Did you read it?” you ask quickly.

Sero shakes his head. “Was never published.”

You pout to yourself, the knowledge like a bucket of ice water. To learn that their story kept going, that there was more you could have known, only for it to never make it to the shelves, your shelf—how devastating. It carves a hollowness in your chest, a sort of obligation to do the heavy lifting and imagine for yourself how things could have worked. A part of you wants to examine the parallels to your current situation.

“Shit,” you mumble, leaning back to flop against the mattress. The ceiling has crown moulding, little swirls and divots painted white and pressed into the corner. “I’m sure it would’ve been incredible.”

Hanta’s response is delayed. You can feel his eyes on you, contemplative.

“Yeah,” is all he says.

You lounge in bed, soft voices wafting through the small hotel room. Eventually you grab your phone—to check the time—and wince at the stack of missed calls on your lock screen. A few are from Chiara, with concerned messages demanding your whereabouts. But worse are the ten from your sister, eight of which were made early in the night, the remaining two attempted after midnight. There’s also a message from Kendou, asking if you’re free for dinner tonight. You swipe your sister’s assault away, reply to Chiara, and type a quick yes to Kendou, then glance at the time. You should leave, to be home for a client picking up a last minute costume for Carnival. Presumably Sero has his own circus business to attend to.

You turn to him, watching his face twist in embarrassment after being caught looking over your shoulder.

“Sorry,” he nearly whispers. “Wanted to see the time.”

You roll your eyes, uncaring. You tell him as much, adding regretfully that you need to leave soon, to check over and prepare the costume.

To your surprise, he asks, “Can I join you?”

You look at him skeptically. “You don’t have to help with anything? Like taking down the tents, or… whatever for the parade tomorrow?”

He shakes his head, grinning. “Top’s already disassembled, I guarantee. And Denki and Tetsu are the only ones who need to rehearse.” He looks at you deeply, a little too deeply. “Please?”

You weren’t planning to deny him, but the plea shakes whatever footing you thought you had. “Yeah, of course. Just… don’t complain if you get bored.”

He grins.

Your only clothes are the puddles of your dress and blazer on the floor. You pout at the idea of sliding back into them for the ride home, but huff and sit up to reach over the bed. Sero watches confused, then in realization, as you pull your gown by the skirt, slowly bunching it atop the duvet.

“Wait, no—hang on.” He throws the covers aside and slides off the bed, immediately moving towards the closet in the hall. You watch greedily at his nearly bare form, every lean muscle and sculpted curve.

His front disappears into the closet door, still offering the view of his curved back. Small clangs ring as he rummages through the hangers, eventually turning back with fabrics in his hand. One is long and a pale yellow, a shirt with bright patterning around the collar and wrists. The other is a pair of pants, brown and baggy. You think they’re natural fibers, soft and easily wrinkled.

“It’s cold,” he says. The garments look a little too thin to be effective, but you nod.

You thank him, taking the shirt first and slipping it over yourself. The rush of his smell is dizzying, overwhelming. Then you slip on the pants, their touch gentle over your thighs. Both are big on you, swallowing you. Hanta’s eyes linger over your neck, before he darts them away and brings a hand to the back of his own nervously.

You bite down your smile.

“There’s no way they cleared the site already.”

Hanta grins beside you as you walk briskly down the sidewalk together. You’re nearly a block from the duomo, where you insisted you pass before getting on the metro.

“Mhmm,” he hums smugly.

As you crest the final strip of tile, pacing along gothic columns and carvings, your jaw almost drops at the lack of the canvas in the sky. The piazza is completely cleared, just a scattering of people lingering on its surface. A trio of girls pose in front of the duomo as an Italian man crouches to take a photo. You see someone in a suit jog across the square.

The remnants of Hoshi no Sākasu have vanished, completely evaporated into the night prior. There are no circus tents or rows of stalls. Nothing.

You glance at Sero, his chin tilted upwards. You want to pout, thinking his smile is one of smugness, but he looks more like he’s enjoying the cool air against his face. He looks pretty, peaceful. One of his eyes opens, pointed towards you, and then that smirk creeps in, stretching across his cheeks. You pout dramatically and walk towards the metro station without warning. You hear him laugh before the thump of his footsteps catch up.

You let him into your studio while you shower, returning with his clothes neatly folded and some tea. He’s rummaging through your costume racks when you walk in. You pause when you see the ones that caught his attention.

“Oh, I hope you don’t mind,” he says, embarrassed.

You smile awkwardly. “No, no. It’s fine, I wouldn’t have suggested you wait here if I wasn’t okay with it.” You do, however, feel cornered. His hand hovers on an ocean-themed dress you finished a few months ago. The top is a saturated teal, fading into a layered skirt, each piece of fabric white at the ends, layered with lace and some frills at the edges—sea foam. It’s a beautiful gown, with shells and beads and pearls meticulously sewn into the bust.

“This one is surprising,” he says.

You nod, putting the mugs on your work table. “It’s for my sister,” you say, leaving out the detail that she doesn’t know it exists. How do you explain that you’ve been avoiding your family for months, ignoring every call your sister attempts to make, but sitting at home making dresses fitted to her exact measurements?

He hums, not pressing further. You wonder if he saw the missed calls when you swiped them away, if he could tell they were from her. You share the same last name, after all.

Instead he points to your mannequin, the voluminous layers of red satin and a creamy ambrosian mask—with matching scarlet lips and golden swirls around the eyes. The connecting top explodes with spirals of fabric to mimic roses. “Is that the one getting picked up today?”

You hum in affirmation. “I made it for Carnival a couple years back. It sold shortly after I put it on sale, just had to do some tailoring, and fix a couple of the roses.”

Sero’s face lifts, curious. “What are you wearing this year?”

Your lips twitch. “I’m sure you can take a guess.”

“Can I see?”

“You can’t wait til tomorrow?”

He pouts. “I might not see you, since we’re in the parade.”

Your grin stretches further. “No one told you I was invited to join?”

“Oh,” is all he says, mouth hanging ajar. He’s cute, standing awkwardly by your costume rack. You laugh at the surprise on his face.

You point to the mugs while you walk towards your mannequin. “One is for you, if you want it. And feel free to sit. The costume won’t be picked up for a couple hours, but I’m gonna get working.” It’s Tuesday after all.

Sero hums affirmingly. “Yeah, please do what you need. Can I keep looking at these?”

You nod, hoping he doesn’t mention the other dresses for your sister.

He doesn’t.

He does make comments on the others, asking what they’re for and what inspired you. He soaks your answers greedily, noticing details and connections that you don’t explicitly state. He’s observant, and nosy. Eventually he sifts through the entire rack and settles in the chair across from you, watching quietly as you sew; the only sound between you two is the thrum of your needle passing along the fabric.

His eyes feel distant as you fall into your craft. But they’re focused, settling on your fingers as they fold and glide and cut.

In this silence, you have the urge to ask him questions, so many questions. About Ecuador, about Quito. You want to talk about your homes and how you’re connected. You want to trade stories of living near sand and ocean and sun. You want to learn about little Hanta, running through the house to greet his abuelita. You want to hear about extended family members and their messy drama. You want to paint a picture together: of bamboo and rain clouds and scorpions; birds and tropical fruit and volcanoes.

You want to hold long conversations in Español—your native tongues with their small regional differences.

A tension builds within you, only noticeable after it’s grown considerably. You don’t understand, don’t know what’s changed. You try to let your mind wander back into that focused headspace: a thoughtless void where things get done. Instead words sit in your throat, reaching for him. Your hands move quickly, a little roughly, foot pressing firmer against the pedal beneath the table as you work with agitation.

The needle breaks.

You curse, lifting your foot and immediately tearing your hands from the garment. Grumbling at your carelessness, you stand to rummage through your tools for the pliers. Before you grab a replacement needle, you check the time. There’s still half an hour before your client arrives. Maybe you should just take a break.

You look at Sero, sitting quietly and observantly. You feel bad.

“Sorry,” you tell him. “But I warned you it would be boring.”

He smiles. “Not boring at all. I like seeing you work.”

You ignore the heat that rushes through your body. “I think I need a break. Are you hungry?” You aren’t hungry, but you feel like making something.

His eyes light up. “What do you have?”

When you rummage through your fridge, you suddenly feel self conscious of your limited ingredients and random leftovers. So you open the freezer and poke around, pausing when you pull out an old plastic bag you forgot about.

“Empanadas!” Hanta chimes over your shoulder.

You grimace, first because you know these are abuela’s, handmade and saved for later. A flavor you haven’t tasted since her hands lost their strength. Your face tightens further when you realize they must have been sitting for over half a year.

“Hanta… these are old. And I don’t have any salsa.”

He shrugs, a smile twitching against his cheeks. “But they’re frozen.”

You nod slowly, face twisted in uncertainty. He plucks the bag from you and you protest, awkwardly standing from your crouch.

“I’m probably not gonna get to eat good homemade latino food for a while,” he says pouting.

You look at him skeptically. “Good latino food is six month old empanadas? Hanta, I know a spot where we can get some. Fresh ones. Also homemade.”

He shakes his head. “We’ll go there later.”

You blink as he twists the dial on your oven and rummages through the cupboards. He works your kitchen effortlessly, quickly finding a tray to start lining up the empanadas. You pout. Cooking was meant to give yourself something to do, but he took over so easily.

You settle on brewing another round of tea.

Your phone pings before the food is ready. It’s your client only minutes away, so you leave Hanta in the kitchen as you return to the studio. The exchange is brief, and you feel a lightness at losing a costume that doesn’t suit you—instead passing it to someone who will love it properly. You let the chilly air run over you for a few minutes, watching her slip away down the street, before closing the shutter and returning to the kitchen.

Hanta has the food plated when you reenter, but has yet to take a bite.

“You didn’t have to wait for me,” you tell him.

“I wasn’t, they’re still too hot.”

You roll your eyes, pinching one experimentally. The outside is hot, but not burning. You carefully take a bite, the skin crunching under your teeth.

“Mm,” you agree, putting the remaining moon half on the plate. You juggle the piece in your mouth as it rolls and sends a flurry of scalding tingles along your tongue, trying to taste and cool it at the same time. Hanta watches you exhale mirthfully, I told you so lurking as a sparkle in his eyes—pools of stars.

You catch the savory spice of sausage paired with molten cheese that burns, coated in the earthy corn dough. The flavor is dulled with age, but it’s unmistakably abuela’s. The loss of its intensity is akin to the fuzziness of memory, the veil that obscures nostalgia into nothing but vague feelings. Transparent images flash before you: abuela’s hands rolling the skins, mixing the meat, sprinkling the cheese, folding the edges.

The food temporarily brings you home, fading your Milanese kitchen to the one of your childhood. In another moment you are far away, outside looking in at you and Hanta here in Italy, before it shifts to your imagination of a traditional Japanese home. You wonder if this is how every morning could look, if you chose to follow—join—the circus.

Hanta’s face is unreadable, putting you further on edge. You watch his lips part, ready to speak, before he closes his mouth. Your forearms buzz, wanting to grip him and shake him and make him talk.

Your mind wanders to the night before, that confession of a tent, where he pulled you through your favorite book and across the sea to the moment he first laid eyes on you. What did that mean? When he said, I wanted to show you how I feel. Does he trust you to put those feelings into words, to make the correct assumptions. Are they feelings of these same deluded fantasies, imagining your lives intertwined until they burn out? Is that what he wants—what you want?

“Are you getting dinner with Momo and Kendou tonight?”

His question pulls you from your thoughts, so abruptly you need time to process the words. You nod eventually. “I think so.”

He hums. The sound isn’t entirely satisfied. “Do you know when?”

You aren’t sure. Hopefully early.

“Can I see you, after?” he asks.

You blink at him in surprise. He continues when you don’t respond. “I know… I’m probably being pushy, I’m sorry. I just—I’d like to spend more time with you.”

You recall your thoughts this morning. Let’s enjoy today and be honest tomorrow.

“Yeah,” you say. “Of course you can.”

You take another bite of the empanada and look down at the plate, averting Sero’s gaze. His hand intercepts your vision, grabbing one for himself.

“They’re really good!” he exclaims after a bite, and you turn back to him skeptically. He pouts. “Be fair, they’re good for how old they are. And they taste close to home.”

You force him to return to the studio once you finish your fill, setting to get as much done as possible if you’re going to be busy all evening. He happily continues munching across from you, settling to watch you work again. This time he asks about the current project, the details of your choices. Again his eyes follow your hands as they work. He asks about your process, your stance as a designer, how you imagine a costume when you start putting one together.

He’s distracting, in the way that makes your hands tingle and your heart tighten. When you lift your eyes briefly, the sight of him is too much: his casual form across from you, leaning on an elbow against the table, hand gently swirling through excess fabric with slender fingers. You should make him leave.

“Sometimes I just see a person and I have a costume in mind,” you say, answering his question. “But sometimes it’s just a passing detail. Like your Todoroki friend, I thought he’d look nice in blue.”

He hums in surprise. “Really? What—does that happen for everyone you meet?”

“Hmm, I guess.”

There’s a pause, a pensive look on his face. You smile.

“I thought of black fabric when I saw you,” you explain. “Something loose and slippery, like silk. Imagine my surprise when I realized your number.”

He grins. “Really? That’s so cool. What did—the costume—”

He wants to know what you saw. You hum, standing abruptly to your fabrics. There’s a long length of chiffon you know is lurking in there, blue, but it’ll do. You wave him over as you pull out the clump, shaking it to untangle into a wide swath. Sero stalks over quickly, eyes wide with excitement. You have the urge to kiss him.

Instead you throw the sheer fabric over his head, resting like a hood as the ends fall over his shoulders. Then you wrap them a couple times over his arms, letting the extra dangle from his wrists after tying it off. The transparent fabric gives him a regal and misty appearance, like a dancer. You pull a silken blanket of black around his waist, tying it by his hip. When you take a step back and look at him in full, you grin.

He’s flushed, only slightly, but his eyes are wide and watching you closely. For a moment you picture a dog’s pleading face, sitting with anticipation as a hand hovers a treat over its head.

“Something like this, just black,” you say to break the silence.

Sero blinks, then looks down to the mess of fabric wrapped around him. His eyes scan his arms, then the skirt. “No top?” His voice is small.

You laugh and shake your head. “A slutty dancer’s fit suits you, I think.”

When you sit back down to keep working, he doesn’t ask anymore questions.

Hanta leaves you to get ready for dinner on your own. He calls out a soft, “See you later,” before waving awkwardly by the door. He lingers for another second, and then slips out into the dimming sky.

Your heart races as you approach the ristorante, this time for Momo—your gratitude still unspoken. The knowledge of her involvement in Hanta’s tents is another source of tension; how do you adequately thank her? A tremor of nerves passes through you, paired with the chill of the cold.

The pair is waiting for you outside the restaurant when you arrive, three minutes early. Your heart lifts, churns at the sight of Momo in a long wrap coat. She’s beautiful, and for the first time you notice the darkness of her hair, the depth to her eyes. You huff to yourself, clocking a type you didn’t know you had til now—these soft, earnest personalities with rich souls, mysteries of dark nights and stardust.

Her eyes tear from Kendou when you’re only a few paces apart. She brightens and turns towards you immediately, stepping to meet you halfway. Your body eases.

The restaurant is unfamiliar, one you have yet to try. It has the sort of atmosphere that makes you feel out of place. You prefer the coziness of a trattoria, where photos of family members decorate the walls. The ristorante is formal, populated with white tablecloths and button down shirts throughout the dimly lit room, clusters of tealights and dried flowers in the center of each table. When you sit and receive your menu, the host rattles on about the chef’s special and the wine of the day. Your eyes glaze over the entrées and then to your company, reminding yourself this isn’t an interview or business meeting. It’s a meal between friends, like your impromptu empanadas with Hanta. Just a very different meal between friends.

When the host walks away, you let Momo and Kendou discuss the options, planning the appetizers they want to try. You agree easily, uncaring and murmuring a quiet, “Grazie,” as the waiter appears to fill your water glass. When you order, you disregard the suggestions from the sommelier, instead pointing to the lone sangria. He doesn’t react, jotting your order with a blank face. You bite your cheek to suppress your smile.

He leaves. Finally, in the quiet of the company between just the three of you, you turn to Momo.

“I never got to thank you, for being so patient with me and letting me in—as your designer.” You speak freely, earnestly. Kendou’s eyes are the only other ones who watch. It feels right.

Momo smiles, the red crescent of her lip pulling into her cheek. “Of course, and thank you for your diligence and your care. It takes a trustworthy designer to feel safe surrendering to their process.”

Her words are warm, a massage through your neck and shoulders. Tender, careful hands that hover over your skin.

Your eyes drop to your glass. “Hanta told me… about the tents. I wanted to thank you for that as well.”

When you glance back to her face, her eyebrow quirks. Her lips are pressed, suppressing a smile. Kendou is the opposite, beaming excitedly.

Momo hums. “Sero did the heavy lifting, it was just me who executed the ideas. I’m relieved that you enjoyed them—that’s all he wanted. He was worried, after the second night.”

You cock your head curiously, leaning in to hear more. “He was?”

“He was waiting, hoping to catch you when you left. I don’t know what happened, but… he was anxious the day after. It’s unlike him.”

You blink, imagining the sight he must have seen. You had clutched that little green bottle and ran, maybe still crying, rubbing your eyes as you left the festival. Did he see that? You recall him lingering when you waited with Momo before her act, his surprise when he saw the marble—the compressed sphere of abuela, quietly tucked into your pocket until you dropped it.

Your hands buzz, a tingle lingering on the tips of your fingers.

They don’t bring up the job offer, dinner continuing as the peaceful murmurs between friends. Momo and Kendou talk about the upcoming shows, their next stop in Austria. The singer muses enthusiastically about the musicians scheduled for the evening festivals, while the designer talks animatedly about visiting traditional boutiques. You smile while watching them, Momo’s poised etiquette against Kendou’s unbridled excitement.

Your thoughts race before you can get a hold of them, imagining hopping a train to catch a weekend show—spending the daylight hours whizzing next to the mountains. You try to shoo the thoughts away, pull yourself back down to earth before you start envisionsing your reunion with a particular man—getting to watch his act on the long threads of silk again.

You bite into the lemon garnishing your dish. The sour citrus is rough against your tongue, but it does the trick—pulling you back to the dining table. You manage to keep your face from twisting in a pinch. Momo doesn’t notice and Kendou doesn’t say anything.

When the plates are cleared and a dessert menu is laid on the table, you have no remaining appetite. Once again your body floods with nervous anticipation, squeezing your belly. You try to ignore it, focus on being present for the last minutes of dinner with your friends, but all you can think about is meeting Hanta afterwards. Momo orders a torta, offering you a bite when it arrives. You take one, but taste nothing, and hum vaguely.

The three of you stand to leave, you deliberately moving as unhurried as your body will allow. At the door you thank Momo for the meal, and once again for being Momo. Then you thank Kendou, trading hugs with them both and promising to see each other tomorrow. You feel steadied, more relaxed than before.

You let the pair exit first, stepping into the biting blackness of the night.

“Sero?”

Your eyes shoot open, heart racing at Momo’s call of his name. When you make it out the door behind the redhead, you search for him.

He’s standing to the side, away from the door and next to one of the restaurant windows—partially obscured by the hanging planter box. Your chest heaves at the sight of him in a long black coat, face tucked into the high collar. He’s stiff, hands stuffed in his pockets and his feet pressed together. He looks nervous. Cute.

“Hi,” he says, eyes flitting from Momo to you, and then back to Momo.

Kendou grins in the corner of your eye, trying to swallow it as she grabs Momo by the wrist and pulls her to walk from the ristorante.

“See you tomorrow!” she calls, ignoring Momo’s confused protests. You hardly wave, barely managing to lift a finger.

Hanta stands before you, tall and dark and a little flushed. “Sorry,” he says quietly. “I couldn’t wait.”

You chew your bottom lip harshly, attempting to contain your reaction. “Don’t be sorry,” you tell him. Your heart thumps in your ears as you add, “I’m glad you didn’t.”

The admission is awkward and embarrassing, but Hanta’s eyes widen and his lips press together, caught off guard. He coughs before turning his head from you, the pink across his cheeks darkening. He returns shortly, eyes boring into yours.

“Yeah,” is all he manages.

You nod.

The tension that sits between you is palpable, a dense mist of uncertainty. You hold it within you, that hunch to your shoulders as you take him in.

And then you laugh.

It starts as a lone huff of amusement, a cloud of hot air as it escapes you. It builds to a giggle and you realize there’s more to release, and suddenly your shoulders are shaking as you laugh. Sero yelps in surprise, then exhales in disbelief. He’s quickly laughing with you, and when you look up and see his scrunched eyes and wide, crooked grin, it fills you with warmth—and peace.

It’ll be okay.

When your laughs finally die and the two of you are left smiling stupidly at each other, you tell him.

“It’s okay,” you say. “It doesn’t… It doesn’t have to be so scary.”

Sero looks almost guilty, a face that makes you want to grab him. “I’m gonna be scared no matter what.”

“Of me?” You’re baffled.

“Yeah,” he admits easily. Freely. “Things are scary when they’re important.”

Your chest tightens at his words, his honesty. They bring a heat to your face, steaming into the winter air. First it’s from the waves of embarrassment within you, and the giddiness. Then there’s a pang of guilt: from your selfishness to want to wait til tomorrow—for the hard conversation.

The door of the restaurant opens, a couple stalking out and almost bumping into you two. You watch Sero’s face twist in embarrassment, bending at the hip as he apologizes—very Japanese—and think you should go somewhere else.

“I didn’t eat dessert,” you say flatly, pulling his focus back to you.

He blinks, waiting for you to continue.

“You wanna get gelato?”

“This wasn’t the smartest choice.” You wish you had gone for cake, or pastries, now that your hand is freezing as you sit with Hanta near a park fountain.

He hums and shakes his head, “No, you’re a genius.” He happily swallows another spoonful from his own cup of frozen cream, the saturated hue of blood orange.

“Thanks.”

You eat quietly, only accompanied by the rustling of branches above and the scrape of wooden spoons against paper cups. When you finish—before he even makes it halfway through his own—you set the cup beside you and let yourself ramble without thought, hoping it’ll help you be honest.

“I was trying to put off our serious conversation until tomorrow,” you start, staring into the darkness of the plaza before you. Hanta’s spoon pauses, halting at the bottom of his cup, before continuing slower than before. “But I get the sense that it’s making you nervous. So, sorry. For being selfish.”

He doesn’t answer. Your eyes glance his way, watching as he slowly wraps pink lips around the bowl of his spoon, letting it sit as he watches you closely. You exhale.

“You probably already know, but I haven’t made a decision about the job offer. I mean, I really want to—it’s a dream of mine, to work in costume and travel with a circus. But… I just—the timing…”

In your peripheral vision he pulls the spoon from his mouth, lips parting to ask, “The timing?”

You swallow the lump in your throat. You mull over the words, how to string them together. In a way that makes it less obvious that the timing is not the issue. “My abuela passed last year, and… things are messy back home, because of me. If I left for Japan before managing to clean it up…”

God. You close your eyes, focusing on anything but the sting creeping up your nose and eyes. You don’t know where to start explaining where you fucked up. Was it years ago—when you left home for Europe? Or when you came back and convinced everyone that abuela could be saved if she left too?

It’s inevitable that you’ll have to face your family. Part of you wonders if it’s wrong to start making amends now because of a man you’ve found, a frilly romance that caught your eye. But part of you knows this criticism is another means of avoiding stepping forwards, that Hanta being your motivator to tie loose ends is better than never doing it—than hiding here for the rest of your life. And it’s reductive to Hanta, to categorize him as just another man, just a romance. He clearly holds something deep for you, something you don’t quite understand; something you aren’t sure you’re ready for. Another reason to be scared, to stay stagnant.

There’s a timid touch on the back of your hand, a pinky gently pressing your knuckle. You smile softly, turning to look at Hanta.

His expression is conflicted, almost pained. But he looks at you as he answers. “I… I don’t expect it to be an easy decision, or for you to choose me—or even Hoshi no Sākasu. I mean—fuck, I was hopeful? I’m still hopeful. I guess I thought it’d be the obvious answer, that everything would align and… and I’d get to be with you and get to know you and take my time. Shit, if my contract wasn’t for two more years—”

Your eyes widen at what he’s implying, immediately shifting to face him. “Hanta, that’s insane. We’ve known each other for a week.”

He nearly scoffs. His face twists, eyes shining under the distant lamplight in the courtyard. Your heart constricts at the desperation in his voice. “I’ve known… about you since I was a kid. You… you directed the course of my life; I never would have thought about performance before I saw you. Of course—”

His glassy eyes search yours intensely, boring beyond your mind. You feel naked beneath them.

“Of course I’d choose you. I was always choosing you.”

You swallow again, heart heavy in your chest, filled with sand. You can’t breathe. He’s insane. You should hit him and run away.

“And—fuck, I’m not trying to guilt you or wax poetry about how we’re meant to be together—” your heart is running, tripping over itself as he continues. “But it’s important to me that you realize how… how important you are, to me. And I get that you don’t feel the same, but…”

He stops, deflating. That hurts you more in a way.

“I’m sorry,” you interject.

His face pinches. “It’s not your fault—”

“I can still be sorry,” you cut him off. “For the situation, and for you. And for not being honest earlier, and for being scared, and for… for possibly trying to ignore all of this.”

“I should’ve been clearer sooner,” he reasons.

You look at him blankly. “How much clearer could you have been? You… you made magical tents for me, of memories from home and…”

The air is still between you, eyes unwavering as they target one another, restless, unforgiving. All you can think is that Hanta’s so good, so raw and open and honest. He’s here, baring his heart to you all the while considering every thought and feeling of yours, not once directing blame or anger. He just wants to be seen—to be considered, too.

Your eyes water, blinking rapidly as your lashes collect drops of salty tears. Hanta crumples.

“Can I hug you?” he asks.

You sob and nod quickly.

He’s warm; he’s always warm. But this warmth is gentle and easy, nothing but comfort and understanding and maybe even love. You try not to think about that. Instead you hold him close, by the front of his coat, and press your face into his neck. It’s so so warm, and he smells like oranges.

His arms hold you firm and close. You try to breathe evenly against him, but you’re crying, hiccuping into his skin. He hums, running a hand down your back as you shudder in his embrace. He holds you like a fruit easily bruised, cradled protectively. He doesn’t let go the entire time you cry, and he doesn’t let go when you stop. Instead he brings one hand to your head, holding it in place against him. Maybe he needs this more than you.

When your breathing evens and you have faith in your voice, you whisper, “How did you know? That you were always choosing me?”

He exhales, arms shifting to squeeze you. “It’s just a feeling.”

You hum curiously, softly.

His response vibrates through his chest, lulling you. “It’s the same feeling I get from reading Si Estiramos Estrellas Como Seda. I don't know how to explain it, but it’s intense, and it’s… it feels important. So I just always chose the things that made me feel that way.”

Si estiramos estrellas como seda,

If we stretch stars like silk,

You don’t understand, can’t understand. You ended up in Milan out of luck, initiated by a sense of obligation and then carried out when the perfect opportunity landed in your lap. Life was never about choices, really, just following a thread tied around your heart, moving you forwards. Maybe Sero has that too, but it feels different to him. Maybe your threads are intertwined.

Ataré mi corazón al tuyo.

I’ll tie my heart to yours.

This time when you wake, you’re in your own room, under familiar sheets and scents. Your eyes remain unopened as you gently rustle your body, shifting just enough to comfortably fall back asleep. The movement brings attention to a heat pressed against your back. It’s so warm, like the comfort of a blanket multiplied and condensed. You lean into it, press yourself as snugly as you can.

Only when you feel a pressure around your waist, an arm pulling you closer, tighter, do you register that the heat is another body—Hanta gently cradling you.

You recall the night before: him standing awkwardly outside the ristorante, gelato in the park under lamplight, tight hugs, coming home, tender conversation in the sheets, confessions of what you’ve done to your family. He nearly rolled off the bed in shock, but he ultimately understands why you’re struggling to decide. He stayed with you when the sleepiness of night came; he held you under the covers.

He’s still holding you under the covers.

A flurry of tingles scatter across your skin, originating in the depth of your chest before fluttering down your arms. You blink your eyes open, staring ahead at the wall as you take note of all the ways you two are entangled. His head is pressed against the back of your neck, lips touching the base, the first ridge of your spine. One leg parts yours, thigh separating by one of his, a muscular calf slotted along your shin. The arm around your waist is firm, fingers gripping your side. The other runs beneath your neck, bicep filling the space perfectly. His entire front blankets your back, every dip and ridge and softness in his chest and stomach known to your skin.

He shifts, bones settling into the mattress while his grip never loosens, and then he presses a kiss to your neck, that bump of your skeleton. Your breath halts, body stilling with anticipation. If Hanta notices, he doesn’t make any indication, instead nuzzling your hair.

He sighs. It almost comes out like a whine, or whimper.

“Are you awake?” His voice is a raspy whisper.

You nod.

He hums, squeezing you tight for a few moments, face burying into your neck before his hand at your side detaches. The press of his heat leaves your back and his legs begin to unravel from yours. You turn towards him, on your back, eyes trailing him. He reaches for his phone, glancing at the time before turning back to you, pouting.

“I have to meet with the crew early today. Parade stuff.”

You nod in understanding, eyes drinking in as much as they can before he has to leave: rumpled hair, unfocused eyes, the indent of the pillow running along the side of his face—

His pout, deepening.

“You could look more sad, you know.”

It pulls a laugh from you, an early smile of delight. “I am,” you assure him. “But I got to spend yesterday with you. And you look cute right now.”

You catch the twitch of his lips, a moment of suppressing his smile before the grin wins, crooked and wide. He’s warm and light, you notice, a contrast to the dark mystery you initially saw in him.

He sighs again, leaning to press into you. His head slots in the curve of your neck, chest pressing flush against your own, hot. He kisses you beneath your ear, before groaning and pulling away. Your chest yearns. A heat runs down your body.

“Don’t get up,” he commands gently. “Go back to sleep. Is it okay if the door’s unlocked?”

You won’t be able to sleep, you already know. But he looks at you with a soft plea in his eyes and you can’t argue. “That’s fine.”

You watch while he gathers his things, standing by the bedroom door when he’s done, just to come back and kiss your forehead again before he slips away. You murmur, “See you later,” and then turn into the covers of your bed. It’s chilly, without Hanta heating your back. But he left a lingering smell of oranges in your sheets. Warm citrus.

“So. You sleep with your circus boyfriend yet?”

You frown at Chiara’s accusation. She stares into your eyes sharply, focused as she brushes yellow and black across your skin before pulling out a white pen.

“We didn’t sleep together,” you remark. “And he’s not my boyfriend.”

“Uh huh,” she says flatly. You roll your eyes dramatically and slowly, and she grunts, pinching your cheek. “Stop it, the eyeliner isn’t dry.”

“Then you stop.”

“Never.”

The air is still for a moment, Chiara quiet in her concentration. You avert your eyes downward, letting her finish dragging the pen across your eyelids and towards your temple. She pulls back and holds your face at arm's length, eyes hopping between yours thoughtfully.

“But you left with him, didn’t you?”

You groan, “Chia—”

“You think I’m an idiot,” she accuses. You recall your conversation with Davide last week, wondering why you chose such dramatic friends. “I could tell there was something going on backstage. And you know Davide is a snitch for me.”

You want to groan. Of course he told Chiara at his first chance, to brag about finding out first. She must have known before you went to the show together, likely watching you carefully, to figure out who it was.

“It’s the Sero guy, yeah? Longish black hair.”

You huff, giving in. “Yeah.”

She hums to herself, pausing her eyes to look into yours, thoughtfully. She smirks. “So did he win you over? You’ll leave Milan, me, for him?”

You pout. “Give me more credit, Chia.”

She snickers. “I know, I know—just teasing. But are… are you leaning one way or another now?”

You pull your lip between your teeth, eyes scrunching in uncertainty. “I don’t know, it’s made everything more confusing than anything.”

She stares at you blankly. Then she sighs, turning and letting your face go. “Sorry, I hope I didn’t kill your excitement. I’ll stop asking, but when they leave—you’re telling us everything.”

“Of course,” you say immediately.

She grins. “Well, you’re all done now.”

You turn to the mirror, taking in the swathes of pigment around your eyes and the swirling white details. The makeup spreads to your temples and down your cheeks. You slip on the costume, wrapping black slippery fabric over the bottom half of your face and settling the structured headpiece on your head. Your eyes stare intensely at their reflection, stark against the costume; they match the lone flash of yellow beneath your neck and the brightness of the beak you carry separately.

For a second time, you and Chiara leave her place as a pair of birds, her as the red macaw, but this time you as the keel billed toucan. You haven’t worn a costume of these colors in at least fifteen years.

Unlike a week ago, when you were a pair of macaws, you walk carefully—subdued. You wonder what Hanta will think when he sees you.

You amble unhurried to the gathering location, where groups and individuals wait their turn to start parading through the streets. There are swarms of people, large crowds gathered to walk and witness, chattering animatedly. Various groups play instruments, populated throughout the section of the plaza. You grin excitedly at the sea of colors, groups in costume and traditional wear, floats, giant clusters of balloons. Your eyes search and scan, face schooling into a frown as you look for the puppets from Gōyoku.

When you turn and scan a second time, you spot one that was initially hiding behind a float. You recognize the bright yellow—Kaminari. You tug Chiara’s sleeve, pointing when her attention turns to you.

She nods before leaning to shout over the noise, “Go ahead! I’ll tell you where I meet Davide.” To spot them in the crowd, when you pass. You nod in return before weaving your way through the crowd, the puppet as your lighthouse.

It’s a difficult journey, but a practiced one. You clutch your headpiece and beak carefully as you slither between bodies, moving quickly but with precision. The excitement and your hurrying brings that exhilarating rush to your chest, the heavy thump of your pumping heart a reminder that you’re alive. You smile, briefly thinking of abuela, before you brush the thought away—it’s too soon to be sentimental.

When you finally reach Kaminari, standing excitedly under the floating feathered mec, you call out to him. He brightens, yelling, “Yo!” as you manage the last few steps.

You notice it’s just him and Bakugou, no one else hanging around. You pause at the sight of the latter, the first time you’ve seen his festival costume. It’s similar to Sero’s, but infinitely more ridiculous: a much more lively and springing jester hat—striped with orange and black—sandwiching his face against the swooping frills of his collar. The colors sit uncomfortably next to one another, him glaring in the middle of the chaos.

“Your costume is sick!” Kaminari shouts at you, eyes tracing the headpiece and beak. “It’s like—a bird version of what other people are wearing.”

You laugh. “That’s kind of my thing. Where’s everyone else?”

Bakugou grunts while Kaminari pulls a face. “We kind of lost them. It’s hard getting around the crowd with this thing, and Kacchan was supposed to chaperone me, but he isn’t doing a good job.”

That pulls a glare from the ashen blond, immediately retorting in brash Japanese. Kaminari pouts. You don’t understand what they’re saying, but you can tell their banter isn’t getting them anywhere. You jump in at the next pause.

“I didn’t see the other puppeteer that way,” you offer, pointing from where you came. “So maybe we can head the opposite way?”

Kaminari thanks you repeatedly, happily bounding towards the direction you pointed. You try to hurry ahead, glancing over the crowd for the silvery bird. A tug at your sleeve yanks you back, faint jingling sounding behind you followed by a gruff, “Oi.”

It’s Bakugou, scowling when you turn to him. “Stick with stupid, you can’t see shit with that thing on your head.”

You nearly guffaw at the comment. Thing? you want to ask. With all the bells on the ends of his hat, flopping around awkwardly and into other peoples’ space: he wants to call yours a thing? He walks ahead before you can return the comment, leaving you to wait for Kaminari to catch you. The latter smiles amiably as you two trail behind your self-proclaimed leader.

“Should I feel insulted?” you ask.

He laughs. “Maybe. Will you hold my hand? So I don’t get lost again.”

You grab the sleeve of his costume with a laugh.

The three of you slide your way through the crowd, eventually passing a float that was obscuring Tetsutetsu’s metallic puppet. Bakugou turns to you when it’s visible, nodding curtly as if to ask if you see it, before slipping forwards quickly, out of your sight. The crowd is thinner where the Hoshi no Sākasu performers are gathered, and you tug at Kaminari, directing his attention. You can’t weave through the mass while attached to the blond, so you wade through unhurried. Bakugou reappears after a few minutes, sticking close by as you finally reunite all the performers together.

Kirishima is the first you spot, rushing forwards. He calls to Kaminari, words you don’t understand, but a tone you can recognize as exasperation.

“Just had to pick up a delivery, that's all!”

Kirishima’s eyes move to you, sighing with a smile. “Sorry about him. Thanks for helping!”

You shake your head dismissively. He’s about to continue when you hear your name called behind him.

You lean towards the sound, to Hanta and his excited face. A smile takes over you, forgetting your mouth and nose are obscured by the silk around your head. Your hand pinching Kaminari’s sleeve releases, lifting to wave. The other holds your bright yellow and green beak by your chest.

Hanta’s eyes are wide as they trace your costume.

“¿Un tucán?” he asks. A toucan?

You hum, still smiling. “Como la primera vez.”

Like the first time.

His expression softens. Kaminari whines behind you, high-pitched Japanese that makes Hanta roll his eyes. He reaches forward, taking your hand to pull you close. You follow easily, stepping so your shoulder brushes into his chest. His palm tightens around yours.

You bump into Momo as you navigate the crowd, waving at her and Uraraka. Midoriya says a swift hello with Todoroki—the younger one—before hurriedly running off. The two of you migrate to the edge of the crowd, where the noise begins to fade into the background. You check your phone for any updates from Chiara, but there aren’t any new messages.

Only one missed call from your sister.

“Any idea when Hoshi no Sākasu starts heading down?” you ask, shoving your phone out of sight.

Hanta’s fingers loosen around yours, trailing gently over the individual lengths, the tips grazing your palm and ghosting your knuckle. He shakes his head. “We’re following the float with the balloons, so whenever they start moving.

You learn shortly that the circus is on a float of their own, not trailing on foot like you expected. It’s simple, an elevated rectangular platform with a black frills lining the bottom and a banner with the circus’ name translated in Italian. The simplicity will allow the mechanical birds to remind the focus, the characters in costume being the supporting decoration.

You blink in surprise while Hanta steps forwards, heaving himself up the ladder after a few of his coworkers. When he reaches the top, he turns and offers a hand, waiting for you to join him. Your heart constricts at the thought of a stage—always what you worked towards but never where you stood. Thank god your costume covers your face. You lift your beak towards Hanta, letting him hold it safe as you grasp the metal rungs and pull, taking careful steps before standing on the sturdy floor of the float—above the crowd. The sight is one you’ve never seen in person, a sea of headpieces and vibrant fabrics, dots moving about on their own. You like the vantage.

Hanta returns the beak, grin uncontained.

“Excited?” you ask.

“It’s my first time being in the parade,” he says after nodding. “For almost all of us.”

You smile wistfully, nervously. “It’s my first time in a long time.”

Some of the crew members scurry around, instructing you where to stand and how to engage with the crowd. You’re assigned towards the end with Hanta. The two of you stand out of the way with the others as the float slowly approaches the start, following a massive float with bundles of balloons—an array of bright colors against the still-bright sky. Some are neatly arranged to display certain patterns or shapes, others thrown together without order.

Midoriya talks animatedly beside you, explaining the research he did about the Ambrosian Carnival, the rich history of Milano’s Carnival specifically.

“It’s so wonderful that we get to be part of this,” he says with shining eyes. “Especially with its origins in Catholicism, Milan has so many incredible communities and traditions that we can see first hand. Even with this parade, entering the city center will let us pass centuries of historical buildings. I looked at all the sites along the map of the floats, and I think we’ll pass—”

The float jostles from an abrupt halt, jerking your attention away, before it resumes almost immediately. You lurch forwards, but Hanta’s steady hand finds your waist, bracing you just as long as it takes for you to find your footing, before falling from you. Your heart stirs from the contact, then yearns from the loss.

Midoriya’s voice resumes, droning on as Todoroki hums beside him. You stalk towards the railing at the edge of the platform, curious to spot whatever caused the disruption. Instead you see the road only a couple floats ahead, the approaching sea of onlookers waiting for you to pass. You check your phone again, this time seeing a message from Chiara with her location. She’s three blocks down from the starting point, on the left—your side.

There’s a moment of scrambling and shuffling atop the float, people getting into place. You turn to Hanta beside you, beaming with unexpected excitement. You feel like a child again, bubbling with the anticipation to be part of something new. Hanta grins back, skin flushed warm in the sun despite the chill of the winter air.

You turn back to the front, taking in the crowd and the racing of your heart. You feel so tall now, compared to the child you were in Quito, grasping abuela’s hand and draped in the itchy costume she made you wear. Here you are above the audience, dressed in your own toucan, silky against your skin. Two nights ago you were given the gift of reliving that moment in honesty, remembering the joy you felt when you let yourself go, let yourself meld with the spirit of the celebration—a moment Hanta saw and could never forget.

Here you are above the crowd, entering your second parade—this time nearly two decades later, and with your hand in his instead.

#jiso.fics #All these stars - bnha circus AU #sero x reader #hanta sero #sero hanta #bnha #boku no hero academia #mha #my hero academia #fanfiction #sero #bnha sero #mha sero #cellophane #sero x you #hanta x reader #hanta sero x reader

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