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kaneki ken/nagachika hideyoshi // ~600
> Coda. Love left unsaid by Kaneki and Hide, tucked in the space of their refrigerator.







Neither of them had much of an appetite for anything these days, but they got a big refrigerator anyway. Kaneki developed the strange habit of filling out the space with contents even if Hide was the only one between them who could eat. Hide decided not to question it, too preoccupied with the work he had with Marude and amused by the thought of Kaneki using his time for mundane little acts to question it.

In the beginning, most of the things went to waste. As time went on, there were replacements and substitutes, trying out what worked and didn’t. The old things shifted into new ones—low fat milk for cream, more ketchup bottles than mayonnaise, leafy greens fading out in lieu of slabs of beef and lean pork. Now, when things went missing, it was no longer because they ended up in the trash can, but somewhere else instead. Marude recently commented that Hide was less bone now, more whole.

They never talked about it. To Hide, there wasn’t much to say, and the peculiarity of their relationship was always evident in their actions more than words. Over time and experience, both together and apart, they learned how to communicate without saying anything, understanding one another in an unspoken language no one else could hear but them.

Hide mulled over it on a quiet morning, opening the fridge to look for breakfast while Kaneki perused through the newspaper by the table, his coffee sitting in front of him. Inside the fridge, Hide found a box of cereal. It wasn't supposed to be there, something he was ready to tease Kaneki about—likely a result of his absentmindedness or even forgetfulness, because it wasn't like he needed these things for a while—until it hit Hide that he recognized the box.

The cereal was one of those sugary cornflakes, the kind he used to eat a lot as a kid and brought to school in tupperware so he could eat it with Kaneki over snack break. Back then, they would run out of the classrooms to find a space for the two of them, alone together, saying no words and simply sharing smiles. Hide hadn't seen this cereal in a long time, didn't know it was still being sold and if it tasted just as good as it did all those years ago. But the memory was sweet and he could taste it on his tongue.

"Kaneki," Hide said.

"Hm?"

"You're not supposed to put cereal in the fridge. It wastes space."

"Oh." Kaneki paused. His ears turned red when he realized his slip up. "Oh."

Hide didn't call him out to berate him. Instead, he thought about what they always left unsaid and realized that there were things he wanted to say, but there were so many that it would take more time than a simple morning could allot, and he was out of practice, far too used to using gestures and acts to translate the things his tongue failed to do.

Still, he let himself stumble and confessed, "That wasn't what I wanted to say."

Kaneki only blinked at him. "What did you want to say?"

But maybe Hide's worries were unfounded. There was no need to worry about time when now they had more than enough of it to fill out the empty spaces. And they would get replaced and renewed, the same way perishables and condiments in refrigerators did, but they would be used and they would mean something. "Thank you."

They shared smiles. They were full of warmth. 

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