A/N: titles reads as "Himawari" in japanese, the word for "sunflower"

"Ah, how could this happen?!" Kibum whined at the ceiling, slamming his dresser drawer shut with frustration. When he heard its contents rattle from the force he flinched, slowly dragging the compartment open to rearrange things the way they were. "I specifically said black, why’d they give me pink…?" he mumbled under his breath.

Minho strolled up to him with his hands in his pockets. He made to pick up the roll of sterilized absorbent cotton but had his wrist slapped away. “I still don’t understand what you need nail paint for…” he pouted, waving his hand in mock hurt. “I mean… only pretty women with pretty hands paint their nails, don’t they?”

Kibum grit his teeth, narrowed his eyes. “And where does that say so on the bottle?” he wanted to know, picking up his latest purchase and pushing it against Minho’s nose so the boy went cross-eyed for a few panicky seconds. “Show me!” he demanded. The other backed away with his palms raised in defense.

"A-arasseo, arasseo… it’s meant for everyone with pretty hands…" he scratched his neck, embarrassed. "I’m sorry, OK?"

Kibum looked away, trying to rein in the growing flush in his cheeks. “Y-you…” he started. “You think I have pretty hands, do you? …” He scowled, abruptly motioning to punch Minho’s arm. The other winced before the fist made contact. But when a set of fingers gently closed around his jaw he relaxed and opened his eyes.

"U-unn…" he shyly nodded to the floor.

"Th-then…" Kibum suggested. "Paint them for me, will you?" he smiled tentatively, receiving a grin and an enthusiastic nod in reply. "You have to do it properly, OK?" he threatened, clicking his fingers with challenge. "You have to be really tidy. I don’t want it to end up all over my hand, all sticky and gross."

"Neeeh~" Minho turned him around by his shoulders and walked him to the drawer. "Choose your color, sir," he jokingly bowed, motioning politely towards the set of tiny bottles. "But I would recommend, on this beautiful day, please go with sky blue. It will compliment you very well~"

Kibum giggled before playing along. “Ah, how troublesome,” he put on airs. “Fine. If blue is all your simple mind can propose then we don’t have much choice… oh, it seems I’ve come to a really cheap parlor after all…” He shook his head dismally, palm flitting to mimic a fan.

Minho laughed. “You look like a posh manim!” he patted the dresser with amusement.

Kibum let loose a playful growl and lifted the other a little by his waist, making him squeal. He jumped onto the bouncy mattress, wrestling the other in a flurry of limbs and sniggers. “Maybe I should paint all over your face!” he tickled a squirming waist and a howling voice. “Maybe I should write loser on your forehead! With bright red!”

"Y-yah!" Minho freaked, twisting so their noses brushed together, breaths huffing to and fro. "Don’t—don’t you dare!"

"What if I do~?" Kibum goaded with a smirk, grooming the other’s hair off a damp forehead. "You wouldn’t be able to wash it off till you get home, you know?" he chuckled, the sound slowly growing louder till it became full-blown guffaws. "You’d have to walk back with a big ‘D.O.R.K’ on your face hahaha!"

"Yah yah yah! Why is it ‘dork’ now? Didn’t you say ‘loser’ before?" Minho corrected as if it were something to be corrected, turning to hover over Kibum and producing more paralyzing laughter. "I-I mean…!" he realized his mistake and then whined, sitting back to straddle the other, hitting his chest in a tantrum. "You jerk!"

Kibum roared with jocundity and Minho slowly leaned in, hiding in the curve of his neck. “You always do this to me…” he muttered childishly, long digits coiling around loose threads on a loose shirt. His back was patted for comfort, his pride was nursed by an affectionate coo.

"You always make me feel bad…"

And in that moment Kibum wanted to tell the other of how they’d met in the last era— in the back of a truck being shipped away as a soldier and a nurse. Or the time before that, when a royal princess had stepped off her palanquin to smile at her sweaty and tired bearer. Or the one before any of these times, when two little boys ran through a field of sunflowers, chasing butterflies that evaded their tiny fists.

Kibum wanted to tell Minho. Of how they always end up together, how they always find each other. How they were made for each other, lifetime after lifetime. He wanted to reveal the thousands of memories in his head. He wanted to unfurl his wings and let Minho run his fingers over their span. He wanted to see those pretty eyes widen at the occasional smears of gold in jet black plumage like they had a thousand times before today.

He wanted to tell, he wanted to open his mouth and speak.

But that was against the rules.

"Shall I paint your nails, instead, manim?" he sighed away his dissatisfaction and smiled, turning his head to see Minho nod coyly.