Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They call it Blue Lock , but it’s not a prison. Not technically.

It's a reform boarding school for “troubled boys” with behavioral issues and juvenile records—boys who didn’t fall through the cracks so much as dropkick themselves through them. A last-chance pitstop before real charges start sticking, or before the system finally decides you’re not worth saving, funded by someone too rich to care and staffed by people too tired to quit.

Nagi Seishirou doesn’t care. Not about the name, not about the rumors, not about the ugly concrete walls or the cracked tile hallways that smell like sweat and old bleach.

He’s only here because his counselor got tired of him sleeping through every session and wrote his absent parents admitting, “He’s smart, but lazy. Doesn’t listen to authority. Needs discipline.”

Whatever . Let them call it what they want. He got dumped here because his teachers were unnerved by his presence. Simple as that.

He arrived on a rattling school-charter bus that smelled like mold and hot rubber. He was half-asleep. Some other kid sat next to him, jittery and talkative. Isagi something. Bright-eyed. Nervous. The kind of kid who still thinks he's got a shot at being good.

They got dropped off together, and fifteen minutes later, they were standing in the headmaster’s office. The guy sitting behind the desk had a shaved head and a stitched-up eyebrow. He looked like he’d lost a bar fight and never emotionally recovered.

“Keep your heads down,” some random kid leaving the offices had hissed at them. “Don’t draw attention. Don’t mess with the top dogs. If someone swings, you don’t swing back. You fight, it’ll be worse.”

Isagi nodded like he was being handed the ten commandments.

Nagi yawned.

He wasn’t worried. All that don’t make waves crap sounded like bad lines from a Netflix juvenile detention drama. He didn’t plan on fighting. He didn’t plan on making friends, either. He planned on sleeping through most of it.

That was the goal: stay low, keep quiet, nap where the sun hits the rooftop just right. He’d seen worse than some puffed-up teenage tough guys with bruised knuckles and anger issues.

And yet—apparently new kids aren’t ever safe, even if they do fly under the radar. 

Nagi wasn’t even doing anything. Didn’t talk back, didn't posture. He just watched —briefly—as that Isagi kid got folded in the middle of the cafeteria by some guy who looked like a pro wrestler. Barou , they called him. Some kind of bullshit king. Black hair. Crazy eyes. Built like a fridge. Nagi thinks he’s full of shit.

Nagi hadn’t said a damn word. Just stared a little too long. Next thing he knew, he caught a fist to the side of the face. Could’ve dodged. Didn’t. A hassle. 

He’d learned early on that sometimes it was easier to let them get a few punches in and be done with it. People get tired fast when you don’t fight back. They lose interest. It's like trying to rage against a beanbag chair—you just feel stupid and somewhat dissatisfied by the end of it. 

And hey—at least he’s still doing better than Isagi.

A few more scrapes, a couple bruises, but for the most part, Nagi manages to stay under the radar. Got jumped once in a stairwell by some blonde guy— Tango? Taiga? Something forgettable. It didn’t last long. They both got bored halfway through.

It helps that Nagi’s tall, with a naturally athletic build he didn’t earn. It’s just there, like a gift he never bothered unwrapping. The guys who size him up, end up hesitating. That’s fine. Better for everyone. Less movement. Less hassle.

He skips most classes. No one chases him for it. He finds a solar platform on the roof of the science building—flat, hot, quiet. Perfect for naps. He sleeps through fire drills, fights, and at least three lockdowns. Nothing interesting ever happens up there. It’s perfect.

Yesterday, though, some bald weirdo ran through the hallways screaming, “He’s back! He’s back!”

Nagi didn’t even sit up.

He learns later the cause of the commotion: Shidou Ryusei. Alleged psychopath. A guy who once put another student in the infirmary with three broken ribs and still got back in after suspension because his boyfriend was Itoshi Sae—the prodigy, the golden child, the school’s pride.

Apparently, Shidou had returned for the first time since Sae had graduated last year.

He made his grand reentrance by starting a fight with Sae’s younger brother within ten minutes of stepping foot on campus.

Isagi, for reasons Nagi couldn’t begin to understand, tried to intervene. How that ended is pretty self-explanatory.

And today—this very morning, on the way to the dorms—Nagi sees Isagi again, but this time he’s got Shidou Ryusei’s arm casually slung around his shoulders like a boa constrictor.

Shidou towers over him. Long limbs. Blond hair like a lion’s mane. Pink eyes that look like they haven’t closed in three days. His grin is wolfish. Feral. What a hassle.

Isagi looks directly at Nagi as they pass in the hall. There’s a very clear silent plea in his eyes.

Nagi looks away.

Sorry, dude.

He feels bad, sure, but he’s not about to touch that with a ten-foot pole.

—

Nagi’s sprawled on his back across the topmost solar platform of the main building, balancing his phone against his bent knee, fingers lazily tapping at the screen.

He’s on his third death in under ten minutes.

The sun's a little too bright, the angle a little too harsh—it glares against the glass screen no matter how he tilts it. His battery’s already low and so is his motivation. The new game he downloaded the night before is harder than he expected. Or maybe it just takes more patience than he has today.

He exhales.

His limbs feel warm and heavy, weighted down by heat and boredom. The cement beneath him is sun-baked and solid, grounding in a way that doesn’t demand anything from him. He closes his eyes and lets the silence swell.

Until—

Crash . Then a loud metallic clang, like someone just kicked the hell out of a vending machine. The disruption is quickly followed by some impressively creative swearing.

Nagi doesn’t react immediately. It takes a second. He blinks his eyes open slowly, the sunlight searing gold-orange shadows into the backs of his lids.

Another crash, louder this time.

God. Can’t even die in peace.

He groans, dragging himself upright with the kind of exaggerated slowness that would make any gym teacher spontaneously combust.

Peering over the edge of the rooftop, he squints through the sunbeams slicing across the campus courtyard. Below, near the vending machines by the west wing entrance, a figure moves with chaotic energy—tall, lean, and clearly pissed.

A student, obviously, but not one Nagi recognizes.

(Not that that means much. He barely remembers Isagi on good days, and the guy sat next to him for a week straight.)

Still—this one stands out. 

The wind lifts strands of thick, vibrant violet hair off his forehead as he paces in agitated circles, smacking the side of a vending machine like it owes him money and dignity. His skin glows sun-warm, honey-toned. His eyes flash under the light like gemstones—bright, unnervingly sharp. Gorgeous, hauntingly.

He looks like a sketch pulled from a myth—something out of the old fairy tale books Nagi’s mother used to read him before she gave up trying. Too magical to be a prince. Too dangerous to be a fairy.

The boy turns suddenly—and Nagi freezes, caught mid-stare.

Their eyes lock.

A beat. Then: “What the fuck,” the boy calls up.

Nagi blinks.

“…uh.”

Real eloquent, Seishirou.

The boy’s face goes through a full slideshow of emotions in under three seconds—shock, confusion, irritation, more confusion—before landing on something unreadable. An amused sneer curling at the edges.

“I—why the fuck are you up there?”

Nagi shifts his game off to the side, sits up properly now. “I was here first.”

The boy gapes. “I—wait. Okay, hang on. Who are you?”

Nagi frowns. “You first.”

That earns him a beat of stunned silence. The boy stares at him like no one’s ever told him no in his life. Maybe no one has—it’ll be hard to say no to a face like that.

And then, inexplicably, he grins.

That smile feels dangerous. Not in a violent way—more like a wildfire, bright and uncontrollable. Nagi’s stomach tightens a little.

“I haven’t seen you around before.”

“Yeah, well. Same,” Nagi shifts, squaring his shoulders. He hates that he sounds petulant instead of dry and imposing.

The boy steps closer to the building, into the patch of direct sunlight where the glare turns his eyes to pure violet fire. A chemical burn. “I’m Reo. Mikage Reo.”

His voice lingers on his own name, like he expects it to mean something, like obviously, Nagi should recognize it. Maybe he should—he doesn’t know.

“Nagi,” he says after a beat. “Nagi Seishirou.”

Reo repeats it back, thoughtfully: “Nagi,” like he’s testing it. Like he’s savoring the letters.

Then, tilting his head, he asks, “Are you hiding from someone, Nagi?”

Nagi leans on his elbows. “No. I was trying to nap. Got interrupted.”

Reo hums at that, stepping closer to where Nagi’s sitting on the edge, still elevated, but not by much.

The sun shifts. The clouds pull away. The rooftop floods with light, and Nagi has to squint again. He would buy sunglasses, but they’re too pricey and Nagi would rather spend the money on new exclusive seasonal weapons and in-app purchases.

“I only heard about one new student,” Reo says casually. “The plain-looking with the stupid face that Barou called dibs on.”

“Isagi,” Nagi confirms.

Reo waves a hand like the name doesn’t matter. “Right. Him.”

He pauses, lifts one brow.

“Are you trying to self-preserve, or are you just naturally this elusive? How’d you manage to fly under the radar this whole time?”

“It’s only been a few weeks,” Nagi mutters.

But Reo grins again, wide and blinding, just as the sun blasts over the roof. The concrete heats under Nagi’s palms. His phone screen blacks out from overheating.

Great.

He blinks up at Reo through the harsh light. His shoulders tense, unreasonably so. The kind of posture he gets when a boss battle is coming and he’s under-leveled.

Reo laughs.

“I like you!” he says, like it’s a decision he’s made and the matter’s closed.

“Okay?” Nagi says. He’s not sure what response is expected. He feels like he’s been swept into a scene he didn’t audition for.

Reo opens his mouth, about to say something else, but his pocket buzzes. His phone lights up. He glances at the screen, curses under his breath. Something unreadable flashes in his expression— frustration? Annoyance? Reluctance?

He turns, already heading for the stairs.

“I gotta go,” Reo calls over his shoulder. “But I’ll see you later, Nagi!”

Then the rooftop door slams behind him.

Nagi stays still, staring at where the boy— Reo —just disappeared.

He slowly lies back down. The roof feels warmer now.

He doesn’t open his game again.

—

A few days later, Nagi’s up from another nap because his body insists on taking bathroom breaks no matter how little he asks for it.

The second floor’s quiet around this time. Most students are either in class, getting into fights, or pretending to be productive somewhere else. Nagi’s just passing a row of half-dented lockers, stretching his arms overhead in the lazy arc of someone who has no intention of speeding up for anything.

That’s when he sees it.

That familiar flicker of color—unnatural, striking.

Violet.

He slows his pace without thinking.

There, a little farther down the hall, half-obscured by one of the supporting pillars, stands Reo.

It is Reo. Nagi would bet what little allowance he gets on it.

But he’s not alone.

Towering over him, draping himself like a territorial jungle cat, is that guy—the one everyone keeps whispering about in panicked tones. Shindou or shitdough or something. The one who came back and caused a whole hallway shutdown within two hours of arriving.

And here he is now, practically looming over Reo. That sharp grin of his is too wide, like he’s made of bad energy and bad intentions.

Nagi slows to lean against a nearby wall, just out of sight. He doesn’t even mean to spy—it’s just… accidental loitering. Background observer behavior.

Shidou cages Reo in with an arm against the lockers, trying to pin him like a high school romcom villain. Reo, for his part, looks entirely unimpressed.

Annoyed, if anything.

“Oh my fucking god, he’s at university,” Reo snaps, ducking easily out from under Shidou’s arm. “Not dead. Now get off before I—”

The rest of it gets lost under the hum of old ventilation and the thud of Nagi’s slow heartbeat.

Something about the way Reo moves—it’s fluid, practiced, like this isn’t the first time he’s dealt with people like Shidou.

Nagi blinks, the back of his head pressing gently against the wall. There’s something quiet and dangerous about Reo when he’s irritated. His posture is perfect. His annoyance is sharp. And the way he talks—like he’s used to power and not impressed by it.

Nagi finds himself curious.

Which sucks.

He hates being curious.

Curiosity means effort. It means wanting to know things, which often involves asking questions, which often involves talking to people. And Nagi Seishirou does not talk to people. He avoids people.

Unfortunately, the universe doesn’t give a damn.

The next day, Nagi ends up in the nurse’s office with a nosebleed and a bruise blossoming across his cheekbone. Barou got a little too into gym dodgeball again.

He doesn’t really mind. It's just inconvenient. Blood is hard to get out of shirts, and he only has so many.

The nurse, naturally, isn’t there. (When is she ever, really. Nagi honestly questions whether she actually exists or if she’s just a mass hysteria hallucination.)

But someone else is.

Laid out on one of the infirmary beds, half-asleep or half-dead, is a short, trembling figure Nagi vaguely recognizes as one of Isagi’s weird tag-alongs.

“Baldie,” Nagi says flatly, approaching the bed.

The reaction is immediate—and intense.

The guy screams. Loud. So high-pitched it physically pains Nagi’s ears.

“ Please don’t —!! I don’t get my allowance ‘till Friday! I told Shidou I’d give it to him then—!”

He throws his arms over his head in a dramatic shield.

Nagi blinks, unimpressed. “Huh? I don’t want money, though?”

“Oh.” Baldie peeks through his arms. “Uh. Do you mind hitting me tomorrow, then? I just—I think I might have a concussion and I don’t wanna die.”

Nagi frowns. “No. I mean, no, I just wanted to ask you something.”

Baldie stares, stunned. “You wanted something—from me?”

Nagi shrugs. “You’re friends with Isagi, right?”

That sets off an immediate alarm in Baldie’s brain. He goes stiff with horror. “What did he do?”

“Nothing,” Nagi replies slowly, getting tired of the amount of talking this conversation requires. “I just don’t know your name.”

“Oh.” Baldie exhales with immense relief. “Thank God. I’m—”

“—I said I didn’t know it, not that I care.”

“Ah. Sorry.”

Silence.

“So, what do you need from lil’ ol’ me?” Baldie asks, clearly trying to recover his pride.

“Isagi says you know everyone here. And that you’ve been here a while.”

The second he says it, Baldie lights up like a CIA sleeper agent activated by a code phrase.

Nagi actually takes a step back.

“That’s me!” Baldie beams. “Reliable info guy, caretaker of the lost, the weary, the disillusioned! What can I do for you, Transfer?”

Nagi regrets this conversation.

Deeply .

“I’ve told Isagi how this place works, but not you, huh?” Baldie continues, hyped up now, bouncing slightly on the bed.

“I’m good, really.”

“So!” Baldie cuts him off. “The rundown. To survive here, you gotta latch onto a class leader. Get under their radar in a good way—suck up, who cares. Once you’re under their protection, their name can get you outta anything.”

Nagi stares at the sink. Maybe if he smashes his face into it, the conversation will end.

“Class 3A has—”

Nagi yawns. Loudly.

“—and if we’re talking real top dogs, then Shidou’s way up there. Rin’s a year under, but he still butts heads with—”

Where did he leave his headphones again? Roof?

“—Kunigami used to be a hero for newbies, but after the incident, he really changed, and he’s just completely different, refuses to even look at Chigiri anymore—”

Nagi turns on the faucet and lets the water run over his hands. The blood smears in thin red ribbons down the drain.

Social hierarchy crap. So exhausting. He’d rather be punched on the regular than have to remember names and rules like this.

“—if you’re still looking for someone safe, Barou’s not bad. He’s got a soft spot for—”

Nagi glances at the time on his phone. Maybe he’ll skip class and check the roof. The sky’s been clear. His headphones are probably fine.

“—but honestly, after that, you’ve got a bit of a gap, then maybe Karasu? Or Mikage, or—”

Nagi stops. A small, sharp pulse shoots through his brain like static electricity.

He turns, monotone and deliberate. “Who?”

Baldie flinches. “What?”

“Who did you just say?”

“Oh. Mikage?” Baldie blinks, confused. “Mikage Reo. You know—tall, purple hair, looks like he walked out of a magazine photo shoot? Richer than the entire second year combined. Designer everything. Evil bishonen vibes. He’s kinda hard to miss.”

Nagi nods slowly.

Baldie narrows his eyes. “Why? Did you run into trouble with him or something?”

“No,” Nagi says quickly, then slower: “No. Nothing. Just. Curious.”

And he hates being curious.

“Well, you don’t need to worry about him,” Baldie says with a strange kind of cheer. “He doesn’t usually notice people. Mikage doesn’t do favors. He doesn’t really start fights either, unless you really piss him off.”

He leans forward slightly, confidential: “First year he was here, the older students called him beautiful nightmare . I’m serious.”

Nagi crosses his arms. “Ah.”

It’s true though—Nagi can absolutely see it being true. Like a whirlpool, or a violent lightning storm.

“But don’t stress. He’s not gonna notice you. Evil bishonen don’t go after people like us.”

“Right,” Nagi mumbles, turning for the door. “Thanks.”

He doesn’t look back. Doesn’t acknowledge Baldie’s confused call behind him.

Just walks, slow and steady, toward the stairwell.

Back to the roof.

Back to his headphones.

Back to whatever this is that’s building—quiet and strange and glittering like curiosity at the back of his skull.

—

The roof is quiet. Sun-baked concrete hums faintly beneath Nagi's soles as he pads toward his usual spot—flat corner, best reception, optimal shade when the sun's at its worst. He slouches forward, eyes half-lidded and slow.

His head’s still throbbing a little from the Barou punch earlier, but whatever. Fuck Barou. And his stupid fucking spiky hair. He just wants his headphones.

Only, they’re not there.

He stops in front of the patch of cement—his spot.

The spot’s the same—he’s been here enough to know—but they're missing.

The cheap in-ear headphones that cushion the endless drone of this shitty building, this shitty school, this whole stupid noise-heavy reality: gone.

“Huh?” Nagi mumbles to no one.

The sound of movement behind him gets his attention. He turns. And finds him.

Mikage Reo stands ten feet away, right by the rust-stained door leading to the stairwell, lit up in the orange blush of afternoon sun like he belongs on the cover of some messed up fairytale. Too pretty to be real. fox-like, sly.

A set of wires hangs from his fist like a leash. 

“You dropped these,” Reo says, voice light, amused, teasing in a way that makes Nagi's spine stiffer instinctively. “Well, you left them, technically. But I figured if I didn't pick them up, someone else might.”

“I was gonna come back for them,” Nagi replies flatly.

Reo shrugs, like that’s not really relevant to him. “You always take naps up here?”

Nagi doesn’t answer. His eyes are on the headphones. His fingers twitch.

Reo smiles wider. It’s not a nice smile—it’s dazzling, sure, but not nice.

There's something strange about him up close—too bright, too pretty, too clean for a place like this. His violet hair catches the light like thread pulled from a decadent fever dream. Everything about him looks artful, expensive, dangerous.

“Y’know, you’re kind of hard to find,” Reo comments offhandedly, taking a slow step forward. His boots click against the concrete, his jacket flutters lightly in the breeze. He's all sleek confidence and predator patience. “I thought I imagined you, for a second.”

“I don't see why you’d care.”

Reo's laugh is like glass—clear, sharp, and lethal. “Cute.”

The word hits Nagi like static. Not because it means anything. Just because of how Reo says it—low, smug, like it’s a secret only he knows.

“I'm not looking to get involved in whatever power trip you’re on,” Nagi says.

He makes a move to grab the headphones.

Reo pulls back just slightly—like a cat tugging a toy. “Who said I was on a power trip?”

“You’re holding my headphones hostage.”

“Am I?” Reo tilts his head. He twirls the cord around one finger, looping it slowly, deliberately. “I'm just trying to have a conversation. Clearly, you’re capable of coming here and taking them from me, right? And clearly you’re not scared of me either, so what’s the matter?”

“If you really just wanted to talk,” Nagi narrows his eyes. “You could’ve just said hi.”

“I did. The other day.” Reo smiles again. “You weren’t all that talkative.”

“…I was playing a game.”

“Well,” Reo steps forward again, and this time he’s close—closer than he needs to be. Nagi can smell the faintest edge of woodsy cologne, “Now I’m playing a game.”

Nagi doesn’t move. He doesn’t look away, either.

“You’re weird,” he states blandly after a moment.

Reo cackles. It’s delighted like he’s just heard a great joke that only he understands. Maybe he’s doing it on purpose, just to be unsettling. Because it’s not like that laugh is real. Nagi tries to mentally conjure what Reo’s earnest laugh would sound like. All he can ascertain is—not like that . “God, you’re funny. No one’s told me that in a while.”

“I wasn't trying to be funny.”

“I know,” his eyes gleam. “That's the best part.”

He's close enough that Nagi can see the faint shimmer of gloss on his lips. Reo lifts the headphones further out of reach. 

The wire tugs, caught in the breeze like bait.

“I could make you beg for them,” Reo muses offhandedly.

Nagi stares, unimpressed. “I'd rather just punch you.”

“Oh?” Reo tilts his head, intrigued. “Do it, then.”

“…No.”

“Aww.” He steps forward. There’s nowhere to move without brushing shoulders.

Reo leans in, voice dipping low. “You’re so cute when you’re deadpan. Like a sleepy little puppy that they keep for celebrity interviews and enrichment programs.”

Nagi blinks. “What the fuck?”

Reo snorts, nose scrunching in amusement. For a second, Nagi thinks it’s cute. 

“Forget it. Here.” He pushes the headphones into Nagi's chest; Nagi barely catches them before they hit the ground. The wire’s still warm from Reo’s hand.

After looping the cord around his wrist thrice; “You gonna keep stalking me?” Nagi asks, genuinely wondering.

Reo backs away a step, just enough to look dramatic about it. “Stalking? Don’t flatter yourself. I was bored. You’re new. and interesting. And a little stupid, which I find very charming.”

Nagi blinks again. The insult doesn’t even properly sink in with Nagi’s current level of bewilderment.

By the time he finds words again, Reo is already half-turned toward the door, voice floating back over his shoulder, sweet like poison: “See you around, puppy. Try not to lose your toys next time.”

And with a final flick of violet hair and the sharp slam of the rooftop door, he’s gone.

Nagi exhales, slow. He didn’t even realize how fast his heart was pounding. Why? He doesn’t want to think about what that means.

The headphones in his hands feel heavier, somehow.

Nagi doesn’t go back to the roof for two days. Not because he’s avoiding anything.

He just—doesn’t feel like it.

He's been catching naps in the science wing instead, tucked between two lab counters that smell like bleach and dead bugs. It's fine. Quiet. No one bothers him.

(Still, he catches himself glancing at the rooftop stairs more than once.)

—

He finally goes back on the third day.

No particular reason. No plan, no strategy. Just instinct—or maybe habit. Nagi tells himself it’s the sun. That the roof’s warm and quiet and open in a way nowhere else on campus is. He tells himself it’s better than class.

It has nothing to do with violet eyes or fox-smiles or the words “I like you” said like a dare.

Definitely not that.

He stretches out flat across the sun-heated concrete, hoodie hood pulled low over his face, fingers mindlessly scrolling through his phone. The screen’s brightness is too high. The news feed doesn’t load.

He’s not really looking anyway.

Mostly, he’s trying not to think.

Not to think about how Reo smiled when he said it.

Not to think about how it didn’t feel like a joke or a lie, but something else. Something impossible to name.

Weird guy.

Definitely annoying.

Kind of—

“Sleeping again?"

The voice cuts in before the thought finishes forming.

Familiar. Sharp in its amusement.

Nagi exhales like gravity just got stronger. He lifts his hood a few inches to squint upward.

Reo.

Standing over him, hands in his pockets like he owns the sky and everything under it. He’s wearing a navy bomber jacket—not part of the uniform, but apparently the rules never applied to him anyway. His tie’s loose, shirt half-untucked, and there’s a smear of red on his cheekbone like he walked away from a fight without checking the mirror.

Behind him, Karasu and Otoya are just barely visible, loitering near the door.

Reo waves over his shoulder without turning. “Give me five.”

Karasu yells something obscene in response. Otoya just sighs and follows the chaos like he always does.

Then, Reo crouches next to Nagi. Too close to ignore.

Nagi, very aware, doesn’t move.

Reo hums, not accusing—just observing. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“Wasn’t,” Nagi says. 

Reo raises an eyebrow. His voice is light, teasing. “Mm-hm. And here I was thinking maybe you were shy.”

Nagi turns his head lazily, just enough to meet Reo’s eyes. “You’re not that interesting.”

That smirk again. Sharp and amused and not even a little offended.

“Liar.”

It doesn’t feel like a confrontation. It feels like Reo’s playing a game he knows Nagi doesn’t know the rules of but tries anyway because he refuses to admit it. 

He settles into a sit, legs crossed, elbows resting on his knees. Effortlessly comfortable, like he belongs wherever he decides to land.

The sun catches in his hair—purple turned liquid, dark at the roots and fading to that ridiculous silver-violet near the ends. It glows like watercolor.

Nagi glances away, annoyed at himself.

“You don’t look like the type to play dumb,” Reo says casually.

“You talk too much,” Nagi mutters, fingers twitching against the hem of his blazer.

Reo doesn’t miss a beat. “You think too much.”

They fall quiet.

The kind of quiet that isn't uncomfortable, but isn’t easy either. Like something is coiling between them, waiting to move.

“D’you get into a fight?” Nagi asks eventually, eyes flicking back to the red mark on Reo’s cheek down to the stained cloth bandage wrapped twice around his arm.

Reo blinks, caught off guard. Then he grins. “Nah. Damage control. Shidou got into one and refused to get out. His boyfriend would kill me if I let him catch a murder charge.”

Nagi tilts his head. “Shidou hit you?”

Reo stretches his arms overhead, spine cracking audibly. “Not exactly. He bit me.”

Nagi stares. Picks at the cuff of his sleeve. 

“Who’s his boyfriend?”

Reo bursts out laughing. Not mocking, not cruel—just genuinely delighted.

“You’re so clueless, it’s adorable.”

Nagi doesn’t respond to that. He’s already regretting asking.

“Well,” Reo says, rising smoothly to his feet, brushing off invisible dust from his too-expensive jacket, “looks like I was right.”

Nagi blinks. “About what.”

“You’re fun.”

“I’m not.”

Reo steps in again, leaning slightly, close enough that Nagi catches the faint scent clinging to him—something sweet and rich and a little dangerous. Like raspberry tea with too much sugar.

“You will be.”

And then he’s gone.

He strides for the stairs, calls something to Karasu in that same amused lilt, and disappears back into the noise of campus.

Nagi lies back down and crosses his arms behind his head.

He doesn’t move for a while.

—

The dorm floor lounge is quieter than usual.

Quiet in the way only a building full of half-feral delinquents can manage—like the silence that follows a long brawl, or the eye of a storm. Peace that feels borrowed, like the walls themselves are holding their breath.

The busted ceiling fan above ticks and groans like it’s dying slowly. A hoodie, crumpled and sun-bleached at the edges, hangs off one arm of a couch that’s seen better decades. The cushion beneath it is misshapen—sat on, slept on, probably bled on. Nagi doesn’t care.

He’s spread out across two beanbags like a ghost trying to rejoin the earth. Phone balanced on his chest, thumb idly dragging through a half-loaded gacha RPG. It’s a grind day. Limited-time drops. He’s already missed half of them.

He doesn’t care.

Across from him, Isagi sits curled like a question mark—knees to his chest, hoodie sleeves pulled over his fists. His hair’s messy, even for him. His gaze is locked to the carpet like it just said something insulting.

Nagi vaguely remembers seeing someone throw him into a locker earlier. Barou, probably. Or maybe one of Aiku’s meathead followers. He didn’t stay to find out. Wasn’t his problem.

Next to Isagi, Bachira hangs upside down from the couch like he evolved wrong. Head draped over the edge, spine arched, legs kicking at the air like he’s trying to swim through it.

He’s chewing gum with aggressive, wet pops, humming a rhythm that doesn’t match the broken superhero movie playing on the ancient TV. Some “faculty approved” piece of garbage with fake capes and stilted moral lessons. The volume’s too low to understand the dialogue. No one’s trying to.

“Hey, Nagiichi,” Bachira sings, snapping the quiet.

Nagi doesn’t answer.

“Nagiiiiii,” he drags it out like a threat disguised as a lullaby.

“…What.”

It’s not interest. It’s survival instinct. Bachira might be Isagi’s weird guardian now, but Nagi doesn’t trust anything with eyes like that. Big and dark and empty, like a black hole had a sense of humor. Bachira looks at people the way wild things do—like he's already imagined what their insides look like.

“I heard something interesting,” Bachira says, teeth glinting in an upside-down smile. “From a little birdie.”

Nagi glances over, unimpressed. “Congrats.”

“So, what do you think about Reo?”

The temperature in the room seems to drop.

Isagi goes rigid—instantly, instinctively. His head jerks up, eyes wide, panic flashing behind them. “Why are you asking that?”

“Just wondering,” Bachira hums, like they’re gossiping over lunch and not lightly poking a hornet’s nest. “He’s super pretty, right? Like a cursed doll that came to life and started stealing people’s souls .”

Isagi makes a noise halfway between a cough and a whimper.

Unfazed, Bachira continues. “I don’t know if I could beat him in a fight. Haven’t tried yet. Might be fun, though. What do you think?”

Nagi shrugs. “Dunno,” at the same time as Isagi yelps, “Please don’t?”

“Liar,” Bachira crows, delighted. “I saw you looking at him in the mess hall last week.”

“So?”

“You were looking looking.”

Nagi doesn’t answer. He turns his attention to the TV instead. A pixelated explosion flashes across the screen in sickly orange. The sound’s off by half a second.

Bachira taps his fingers against his stomach like a drumming spider. “Have you ever talked to him?”

“No,” Nagi lies. He doesn’t know why it comes out so easily. Or why he wanted to lie in the first place.

Bachira tilts his head, eyes narrowing like he sees something interesting in the denial. “You should. He bites, but I think his monster is just bored.”

That makes Isagi flinch again. Visibly.

“Bored monsters play the roughest,” Bachira adds cheerfully.

There’s a beat of silence.

Then, as if it’s a casual afterthought: “Aw, don’t worry, Yoichi. If he tries anything, I’ll gouge his eyes out for you.”

Isagi stares at him in horror. Bachira beams back like a sunflower that grew in a graveyard.

Nagi thinks they’re both annoying. He sighs and tilts his head back. He closes his eyes.

It’s easier not to look at either of them.

(Easier not to wonder why his fingers had hovered over Reo’s contact last night like they were waiting for someone else to hit send.)

(Easier not to think about how that stupid, sharp grin had looked under sunlight.)

The busted ceiling fan whines. The TV glitches. Bachira starts humming again.

Somewhere far beneath all that, something is stirring. And Nagi doesn’t want to admit he’s listening.

—

PE is a joke .

It’s not even a class, not really. Just an hour-long truce between bored instructors and increasingly feral boys, where everyone pretends throwing sweaty teenagers onto a cracked outdoor court is “education.” They call it structured play. 

Nagi calls it what it is: an invitation to violence contained within a rubber rectangle.

Today, it’s a bastardized version of dodgeball. Or something that vaguely resembles it. The rules are unclear. The balls are half-deflated from a summer of baking in the outdoor equipment shed, warped from heat, with faded smiley faces and peeling foam.

Nagi doesn’t move. Doesn’t even try.

He’s propped up against the chain-link fence like a discarded mannequin, long legs stretched out, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his phone—not to play, just to hold. The sun overhead is stupidly aggressive, all glare and heat, bouncing off the pavement in sharp little stabs of white.

He’s not watching the game. He’s watching the sky.

Until something hits him.

A dodgeball—flimsy but fast—smacks directly into the side of his knee with a sad, plasticky thwop. It bounces off and rolls into the dust like it regrets being involved.

Nagi blinks.

Across the court, some guy groans loudly, arms spread in performative exasperation. Tall. Loud. Upperclassman, probably—Nagi hasn’t bothered learning names. The type that collects bruises like trophies and talks about gym class like it’s war prep.

“Are you serious?” The guy scoffs, already walking toward him. “Are you fucking slow in the head or something? D’you even know what class you’re in? What your name is?”

Nagi doesn’t answer. He blinks again, slow and passive, like a computer buffering. 

“God, what a waste of fucking space.”

And just like that, he turns to leave. He’s not interested. Not worth it. He’s already forgotten the guy’s face.

But apparently, that’s the wrong answer.

A hand shoves him from behind—palm full to the back of his skull—and Nagi lets it happen. Stumbles forward, loose-limbed, and hits the dirt with a soft, dusty thud. There’s gravel in his elbow. Grass stains. He should care.

He doesn’t.

Or—he didn’t .

Then he hears it.

Two sharp whistles, sharp and quick, slice the air like a warning shot. Not from the coach. Not any authority that matters.

From the bleachers.

Nagi lifts his head.

And there he is. Again. 

Reo.

Cross-legged on the highest row like he owns the altitude. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, school jacket tossed beside him. A bottle of neon-colored soda dangles from his fingers, condensation dripping like sweat. There's a new cut on his jaw—fresh, red, careless. Like someone else tried their luck and lost.

Nagi feels something twist in his chest. Annoyance, maybe. Not at Reo. At whoever dared to do that to him.

Reo catches his gaze across the court. Doesn’t wave. Doesn’t shout.

He just lifts the bottle in a lazy, almost mocking salute.

And smiles.

Not big. Not showy. Just enough to send a signal through the heat—somewhere between taunting and “let’s see what you do next.”

Nagi stares back.

Something in him buzzes—low and sharp like a blade dragged across stone.

He stands.

Brushes off the dirt slowly, deliberately, like he’s shedding something old. His knees pop. His fingers flex. His shadow shifts.

He hears Reo laugh. Not loud, just perfectly timed, like he’s watching a comedy in theaters.

Nagi moves.

Not sluggish. Not distracted.

He moves .

The upperclassman barely has time to reset. He opens his mouth to say something—probably dumb, probably loud—but Nagi doesn’t give him the chance.

He steps in and feints left, then ducks under a swing aimed at his temple. There’s heat in the air, movement, noise—but it all slows down when Nagi moves like this. It’s math. Clean. Simple. A pivot here, a twist there. The other guy overcommits. Nagi sweeps his leg behind the idiot’s ankle and pulls.

Down he goes.

There’s a crack of elbow against the pavement. A curse cut short. Then silence.

But Nagi’s already on top of him.

A punch to the jaw—sharp, fast. Another to the ribs, knuckles meeting flesh with dull, satisfying impact. The guy tries to grab at him, but Nagi just shoves the hand aside and hits again.

It’s not rage.

It’s not even personal.

He hits until the tension in his chest eases. Until his blood starts to cool.

Until he hears the coach’s whistle really blow this time—shrill and panicked. Someone shouts. Hands grab at his shoulders, trying to pull him off.

Nagi lets them.

The upperclassman is unconscious. Nagi’s knuckles are red and raw.

It doesn’t feel like a victory. It doesn’t feel like anything.

Until he looks back.

Reo hasn’t moved from the bleachers.

He’s leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, eyes shining under the sun like cut glass. That same fox-smile is back. But it’s sharper, now. Unreadable in entirety.

Satisfied .

Like he knew .

Like he’d been waiting for this moment. Like he knew Nagi would—

Jesus Christ, he knew, didn’t he?

Nagi meets his gaze. This time, he doesn’t look away, instead stares defiantly like he’s demanding answers he already knows he won’t get. Reo tips his head. His smile widens a fraction.

Nagi turns and walks off the court, blood on his hands, heat still in his chest, his pockets swallowing both.

He tells himself he did it because the guy asked for it.

He tells himself it wasn’t about Reo.

He tells himself a lot of things.

(He’s lying.)

—

The sky is darkening. Orange fading into indigo, then bruising to black.

Nagi lies flat on the rooftop, the cracked concrete warm beneath his spine. His headphones are looped around his neck, one side still broken and buzzing with static whenever he shifts.

Down below, the school is loud and distant. boys shouting across stairwells. Fists hitting lockers. Laughter that always sounds like a warning. Usual.

Here, it’s just wind. just the thrum of power through the solar panels and the sunset.

And the door creaking open. Of course.

He knows who it is before he looks.

The footsteps are unhurried. 

Nagi lifts his head to make sure, then looks away too fast.

“I wasn't expecting you here,” Reo says, voice light.

“You keep showing up places I go,” Nagi mumbles, not quite a complaint.

Reo hums, slow and thoughtful. “Do you always lie down like this? Like you’re waiting for the sky to fall on you?”

Nagi glances at him.

Reo's eyes are brighter in the twilight. The color’s strange—between violet and stormcloud—they catch every bit of light left in the sky.

Reo sits. Not beside him—but close enough for nagi to smell his cologne, citrusy with a hint of smoke underneath. Sharp enough to sting.

The silence stretches just long enough to be uncomfortable. Or it would be, if Nagi wasn’t so good at weathering things in silence.

Eventually, Reo breaks it with a sigh. “That fight you had? Nice form. Lazy footwork, but clean punches. That’s talent, y’know. Raw talent, especially if you don’t have formal training.”

“Didn’t do it for the grade.”

“Oh, I know,” Reo says, leaning closer, like a secret. “You did it because you knew I was watching.”

Nagi's face doesn’t change, but his heart skips. Once. Twice. He huffs, “You’re imagining things.”

“Sometimes I do,” Reo admits, syrupy. “Not this time.”

Something about that makes Nagi's stomach curl. Not unpleasant. 

He pushes himself up slowly, sitting now, arms draped over his knees. He doesn’t look at Reo, but he doesn’t move away either.

“You’re not curious about me?” Reo asks suddenly.

“No.”

“Liar,” Reo whispers, sharp-edged, foxlike. 

Nagi shifts. “You think everything’s about you.”

Reo’s lips quirk. “You can keep pretending you’re not watching me. But I can feel them—your eyes always find me first.”

Reo holds his gaze, unblinking. There’s something wild under his stillness—coiled, teeth-bared, but beautiful. like something dangerous wearing a flawless mask. Like he’s always about to do something stupid just to see what will happen.

And Nagi? He’s helplessly magnetized.

Reo tips his head, voice turning metallic, softer, serious. “Do I bother you?”

Nagi hesitates. In the end, he’s honest, “No.”

“Do I interest you?”

Nagi doesn’t respond. But somehow, that’s all Reo needs.

He rises to his feet. “Good,” he says, too easily. “Then, we’re even.”

Nagi watches him turn, walk toward the roof door.

But before he leaves, Reo glances over his shoulder, eyes glinting in the last sliver of sunlight. 

“Next time you want to pretend I don’t exist,” he says playfully, “maybe don’t stare like you’re dreaming with your eyes open.”

Chapter Text

The common room is quieter than usual. Dim overhead lights buzz faintly. Most students have cleared out for club hours.  

Heavy rain outside clatters against the windows, casting shadows across the low couches and scattered tables.

Bachira drops down next to him with a lopsided grin, “I always knew you were a fighter. Isagi didn’t believe me. You have the vibe of a guy who never moves, but always knows what’s going on.”

Nagi doesn’t respond right away. Then: “I move when I need to.”

Bachira laughs and leans back on his hands, stretching. “I figured. You’ve got the build for it.”

Isagi approaches, cautious out of habit. He glances around like someone still getting used to not being hunted.

“Hey,” he says, settling down on the sofa opposite them. “I didn't know you could fight.”

A pause. Nagi says nothing.

"You could’ve done something, you know," Isagi continues.

Nagi yawns, scrolling through his phone. “Huh?”

“Back then. When they were kicking me around. You just watched.”

Nagi's thumb taps idly at the screen. “Not my business.” He shrugs. “And I didn't feel like it.”

Isagi scoffs in disbelief. “Seriously?”

Nagi tilts his head. “Eh. You’re better off now, anyway. Bachira’s got you. Even if he’s kinda nuts.”

Bachira giggles, like it’s a compliment.

"You really don’t care, huh," Isagi finally mutters.

"Huh?”

Bachira grins, stretching like a cat. “He means when people mess with you.”

Nagi shrugs, “Takes effort.”

“Effort?” Isagi echoes. “But you can fight. You just—don’t.”

Nagi doesn’t answer. He doesn't owe anyone anything. And besides, getting hit isn’t a big deal. Letting things slide is easier. He doesn’t see the point of reacting unless it matters. Unless it means something.

Isagi looks vaguely irritated by that. Not enough to argue, just vaguely bothered.

Nagi rolls his head to the side to glance out the window. The rain has stopped.

Ah. There he is. Reo always draws a crowd.

Even in the open quad beyond the window, where the sun now casts warm light over patches of wet grass and crumbling pavement, he’s unmistakable—

Laughing too loudly, talking with his hands, slinging an arm over Karasu’s shoulder while Shidou barks something crude across the table.

Reo moves like nothing touches him. The glint of violet in his hair, the bow of his lips, the sharp line of his jaw when he tilts his head—but it’s more than that. More than just how he looks. It's how people respond to him. Orbit him.

Reo’s not looking this way. He probably won’t.

Nagi tells himself it doesn’t matter. Still, his gaze follows the lazy flick of Reo's hand as he pushes his hair back.

A ray of sunlight hits his cheek just right, and Nagi's stomach tightens. He’s so pretty , Nagi thinks, it’s something that’s been repeating in his head on loop. 

Shidou laughs at something Reo says and knocks into him a little too hard.

Reo rolls his eyes, pushes him back, swipes his water bottle, and takes a long, smug sip with a raised brow. Everyone laughs. Karasu slings an arm over his shoulder and presses close. Reo’s good at that—pulling people into his rhythm.

Nagi isn’t better than any other sucker.

There's something about Reo that makes Nagi feel like—like doing something . Like, if he just stepped into Reo’s orbit, he’d burn or freeze or lose his mind completely. And he wouldn’t even mind that much.

But then, there’s also a part of him that wants to see that confident, cocky facade break.

Not in a cruel way, necessarily—he just wants to know what’s under it. Wants to know if Reo slips. If he falters when no one’s watching. If his eyes ever look soft. If his voice ever cracks. If he ever cries.

It's stupid. But Nagi can’t stop thinking about it.

Reo shifts suddenly, reaching for something, and for a second, his shirt rides up a little—just a glimpse of tantalizing, cool honey skin and a narrow, slim waist, lean muscles contracting with the movement. 

Nagi's mouth goes dry.

He swallows, tearing his gaze away for exactly two seconds before he looks again. 

His thoughts are looping, unhinged: Ah. I want to trap him. I need to see what he looks like cornered. I want to ruin him. Shatter that perfect front and watch him shake apart in my hands.

The thought hits like a punch to the gut, shit, I'm in too deep.

On the other side of the window, Reo leans forward on the table, elbows resting on the wood, and glances up absently—his gaze sweeping across the quad.

For just a second, Nagi thinks their eyes meet.

But Reo doesn’t react. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t frown. Just blinks and looks away.

Nagi's heart throbs. It’s nothing. It means nothing.

And yet, he can’t stop staring, can't stop thinking—one day, Nagi's going to get close enough to pry him open.

Call him crazy—Nagi wants to see Reo shatter . Not in a bad way—he just has an inkling of what might be hiding behind that mask—and fuck if Nagi doesn’t want to see it.

Isagi taps his shoulder. “Hello? Dude, you good?”

Nagi groans and turns his face into the sofa cushion.

—

The hallway is nearly empty after PE. Nagi moves slowly, sweat cooling on his skin, hair sticking slightly to his temple. He rounds the corner without looking, eyes half-lidded, and bumps shoulders with someone moving faster.

A thud. The clatter of a bottle hitting the floor.

Sendou stumbles back a step and turns fast, already scowling. “Watch it, freak.”

Nagi pauses mid-step. Looks at the guy—recognizes him, vaguely. Bright orange hair, salmon colored—a kind that always reminds Nagi of the smell of fish. Hence, he isn't particularly fond.

Sendou's not tall. He's built compact—defined shoulders, sharp jaw, twitchy energy like he’s always waiting to throw the first punch.

Nagi sighs, expression flat. “Didn’t see you.”

“Yeah?” Sendou scoffs, loud. “Open your damn eyes.”

He steps closer. Posturing . 

Nagi doesn’t react. Doesn’t shrink back or square up—just stays there, watching, trying to decide whether or not this is worth caring about. (Spoiler: It’s not.)

Sendou’s lip curls. “What, nothing to say now?”

Nagi's eyes flicker—barely—and then settle behind Sendou, toward the group just coming into view. Aiku, Niou, and some other guy hover near the gym exit.

Aiku's halfway through a stretch when he calls out, tone casual. “Sen.”

Sendou doesn’t move, just continues baring his teeth.

Aiku tries again, firmer, a command. “Sen.”

Sendou finally glances over his shoulder. “What?”

“Drop it,” Aiku instructs, strolling closer, hands in his pockets. He nods at Nagi, “Careful. Can’t touch this one. He's Mikage's new plaything.”

Nagi blinks, caught off guard. His thoughts stutter temporarily—did Reo say that? What does it mean? Meanwhile, that gets Sendou to pause. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Means ease up, because if you lay a finger on him, you’ll be dealing with Reo .” Aiku stops just short of them, looking relaxed in the shoulders but a bit wary in the face. “And I ain’t gonna be helping you if you get in trouble with him.”

Sendou’s jaw works for a moment. He looks back at Nagi, genuinely befuddled. “Reo? But this guy—he doesn't look like anything special to me?”

Aiku glances at Nagi—languid, unreadable. “Doesn’t matter. Reo picked him.”

The words hang there. Picked him. Picked Nagi.

Sendou clicks his tongue, scoffs, but steps back. “Fine.”

He grabs his bottle and makes a show of storming off with a muttered curse under his breath.

Aiku watches him go, then turns to Nagi.

“Are you good?” He asks, offhand.

Nagi nods, confused as to why he would bother asking. “Uh, yeah.”

“Cool,” he turns, walks off without anything further.

Nagi stands there for a moment longer.

He thinks about the way Reo moves, about that glint in his eye, about the way their silences feel loud and thick with something Nagi can’t explain. The way his chest heats when—

‘Mikage’s new plaything.’

He doesn't know if he likes that.

He doesn't know if he hates it either.

—

The first time Nagi sees Mikage Reo fight, it’s in front of a crowd.

It happens in the ruins behind the old gym, at the edge of the back field, where the grass grows in patchy tufts and someone once left an old tire swing tied to a dead tree.

Cracked pavement, rusted scaffolding, old tires, and broken fencing scattered like debris from a storm. It’s a hangout spot, a gathering place, a casual afternoon activity.

And right now, it’s packed.

Nagi doesn't mean to stop. He'd only been cutting through the field on his way back from the faculty offices, but the sound of shouting and the churn of bodies caught his attention. 

But the first thing Nagi hears is the sound of a body hitting the ground.

Not just a fall. It’s a thud —the dense, sick sound of someone slamming into cracked concrete hard enough to leave a mark.

He pauses at the edge of the crowd, tall enough to see over most heads.

A beat later, a sharp cough splits the air, and Nagi steps closer, hands in his pockets, still mostly disinterested, but somewhat drawn.

The chain-link fencing rattles as a body is thrown into it. 

It’s Raipi or ricey or Raichi or something. The one on the floor—curled halfway over, spitting blood between his teeth, face twisted in fury and something close to shame. The crowd watches excitedly, whooping and cheering.

Somewhere in the background, someone plays music from a busted speaker.

Does he think he’s in a K-drama? Nagi scoffs internally.

He pushes through a few more cheering people, scanning students until he spots a familiar head off to the side with his fingernails between his chattering teeth.

“Baldie,” Nagi walks over.

“I told him not to pick a fight with Aoi,” the baldie whimpers, now scratching his temples with wet fingertips.

Nagi doesn’t respond. He's watching the other one now—Aoi, towering, scarred, with shoulders like slabs of concrete. He hardly looks like a teenager.

The dude is taller than Nagi. Maybe 200 cm? Rachi or Ricky or whatever is dumber than a rock if he tried to pick a fight with that, believing he could win.

“The fuck,” Nagi says, mostly to himself.

A voice cuts in from his other side, where Baldie isn’t. “—Hey, Nagi, isn’t it?”

Nagi turns. A shiny-looking guy with glasses smiles at him. “You know me?”

“Not formally,” Glasses pats him on the shoulder in place of a handshake. “I'm Yukki. I remember reading your application.”

Nagi stares.

“Student government,” Yukki gestures to himself to clarify. “I run a lot of tasks for admin.”

“Oh,” Nagi replies blandly. “Cool.”

“Is Raichi a friend of yours?” Yukki inquires. “Or are you just into pseudo-MMA and stuff like the others?”

Yukkimiya's eyes aren’t really on the fight anymore, though. He's tracking something at the corner of the gym building.

“Neither,” Nagi glances back at Aoi. “That hulk dude is just too big. and freaky. He looks forty.”

Yukimiya snorts. “Yeah, I guess so. Size doesn’t matter when it’s Reo, though.”

Reo? Nagi blinks. He doesn’t have a fucking clue what that’s supposed to mean. But before he can ask—

Reo steps into the space—not from the crowd, but from the opposite direction, rounding the old gym, cutting clean across the cracked ring of fencing and broken crates without looking up. He has white headphones on, wire dangling loose against the collar of his dark blue jacket. His hair is pulled back into a small ponytail,  navy jacket sleeves rolled up to his elbow, the hem of his white shirt riding up slightly over his hips as he walks.

He’s moving through the middle of a fight like he doesn’t know it’s happening. The headphones, Nagi realizes. Shit.

Aoi glances over and sees him. His eyes darken, irritated.

“The fuck is this?” He laughs meanly. “Lost, pretty boy?”

Reo doesn’t react. He doesn’t even glance his way.

The crowd goes quiet. Anticipating.

Nagi stiffens. He should— should what, the voice in his head mocks.

Aoi stomps forward, grabs the back of Reo’s shirt with one massive hand, and rips the headphones off Reo’s head with the other, yanking Reo's head back, taking his hair tie with it.

The cords rips. Reo freezes mid-step.

The headsets themselves clatter loudly onto the ground.

His violet hair spills loose, disturbed strands curling by his chin and falling into his face.

For a second, no one moves. The silence is deafening.

Nagi's heart begins to speed. Adrenaline . His body is expecting him to do something. But something else roots him in place.

Nagi can’t see his eyes, but Reo doesn’t move for a moment. Then, he straightens slowly, as if the world is finally loaded in. The music must’ve been turned up loud , Nagi muses. He wonders what Reo listens to.

Reo looks up at Aoi.

“You deaf or just that fucking arrogant?” Aoi sneers, leaning down, like he’s about to spit on him. “Little prissy bitch walking around like you own the place.”

Reo tries to step back, but Aoi follows him, clearly unwilling to let this go. Reo regards him boredly. “What’s that?”

Aoi grins wider. “You think being a little pretty and being a little coy makes you untouchable, huh?” 

His voice dips, mocking. “Guess Daddy’s business partners didn’t teach you much, other than how to spread your legs.”

Nagi inhales sharply. The whole crowd pauses for breath.

Aoi isn’t done, though. 

“You’re so fuckin’ lanky I could snap you in half. But hell,” his gaze drops. He smirks. “There are better uses for you. Must be easy, huh? Probably did the same for the cops to keep your record clean. What was it—your mouth, or your ass?”

Reo doesn’t blink. Doesn’t waste time speaking. He just moves first.

Too fast for Aoi to register—he barely starts to react before Reo turns on his heel, using Aoi’s own grip to pivot, wrist locking as he slams his elbow under Aoi's arm and wrenches. There’s a pop—sharp and ugly—and Aoi stumbles with a shout.

Reo doesn’t wait.

He moves like water—fluid, calculated, merciless. Every step is soaked in trained efficiency. He follows Aoi’s momentum, plants a knee into his ribs hard enough to make him choke, then slams an elbow just shy of his temple. Aoi roars and tries to grab him again.

Another seamless motion—Reo’s shoulder hits low into Aoi’s abdomen, twisting his entire body with practiced leverage.

Aoi staggers, tries to counter with a heavy swing. Reo catches it. Redirects it, spins around him, and drives his elbow into the side of Aoi’s ribs. Sharp. Deep.

Controlled. Like Reo controls every single atom within a 100-meter radius. Aoi staggers. Reo's heel catches his ankle mid-step.

The larger boy crashes backward, and the air goes silent for half a second as his spine slams against the concrete.

Reo stares at Aoi, breath steady. Not even with his cunning smile, Reo just looks—purely bored. Clinical. Like he’s dissecting him with his eyes, like Aoi is the subject of an uninteresting middle school science lab.

He shifts his weight back for a beat, and without a word hops fully onto—up onto Aoi’s chest.

Boots pressed flat to muscle and bone. Balanced. Steady.

He stands over him, poised and composed, not even breathing hard.

The wind lifts through the courtyard, pushing through Reo's hair, catching the loose hem of his shirt.

And Reo tilts his head. Just slightly.

Nagi can’t look away.

There’s something horrible in his chest, hot and sharp and tight behind his ribs. 

Reo looks unbothered by Aoi. Like the whole altercation didn’t cost him a single breath.

“Ugh, boring,” Yukimiya exhales, dispassionate. “Reo always ends it too quick.”

Nagi's heart thuds once. Slow and deep.

Reo is strange. So fucking weird.

Nagi really shouldn’t care but he does .

Aoi chokes, breath cut short, spine grinding into the cement.

Nagi turns and walks off, heading to the vending machine, mind blank and racing at the same time.

—

It’s quiet in the old rec corridor—dusty light filters through the high windows, fractured by dust motes and the buzz of faint conversation bleeding in from nearby rooms.

Nagi slouches against the wall, one knee up, fingers absently tapping at his phone.

Bachira sits cross-legged a bit away, humming tunelessly (tone deafly) under his breath while fiddling with a techy plastic puzzle he'd swiped from someone’s bag earlier. Isagi is the furthest from the wall—half-sitting, half-perched on edge.

Nagi’s bored . They aren’t really talking. Not that Nagi finds much of what comes out of Isagi’s mouth interesting (and listening to Bachira ramble feels like taking 7 shots of whathefuck juice).

They’re just existing—in the way you do when you don’t have anywhere better to be.

Then: footsteps. Rhythmic. Confident.

Nagi doesn’t look up immediately, but Isagi does. His head snaps up, and he goes still, shoulders locking tight as his whole body tenses, his face paling. 

Bachira glances up too, casually, and a wide smile spreads across his face, a contrast to Isagi's abject terror.

“Reo,” he greets, cheerful as ever.

Nagi's eyes drift up, and sure enough—there he is.

Today, he’s dressed softer—a loose, cream knit shirt over dark pants, collar artfully frayed, eyes half-lidded, hair down and ruffled by the wind. His jacket is slung over one shoulder.

Reo doesn’t even glance at Isagi. That alone makes Isagi go stiff as a board.

“Bachira,” Reo returns with a warm, wry smile, only one corner of his mouth lifting. “What a coincidence.”

Bachira giggles, sprawling his legs out lazily as he looks up at Reo. “You always say that.”

“Oh, right—I always forget you don’t believe in coincidences,” Reo sighs and winks playfully. 

Finally , Reo looks past him—his eyes landing on Nagi.

Nagi stares back with mirrored intensity. Something slow and electric passes like static in the air, though no one moves.

“Nagi. You really make yourself comfortable anywhere,” Reo says, stepping closer. Gold dangles from his ears. He looks ethereal.

Nagi shrugs. “S’quieter here.”

Reo smiles again—slower this time, less performative. Pretty. Nagi's heart kicks hard against his ribcage.

“You don’t mind their company?” Reo asks, flicking his gaze vaguely in Isagi and Bachira’s direction.

“Don’t care.”

That seems to amuse Reo, and Nagi swears it’s like he’s glowing.

“Thought you were the type who liked being alone.”

“I was,” Nagi replies. “Still am.”

Reo tilts his head slightly, considering him. “So why stay?”

Nagi's eyes don’t move. “Waiting.”

“For what?”

Nagi doesn’t answer. Reo puffs, a small exhale. Something flickers behind his lashes—mirth, maybe. Or like he sees the rhythm Nagi’s moving with and finds it familiar.

A beat passes. Reo's eyes linger, flickering across Nagi like he’s trying to puzzle him out.

He shifts his weight, loose and elegant, and sighs. “Anyway. Don’t let me interrupt.”

Reo turns, hair bouncing as he walks past. “Later, Bachira,” he calls over his shoulder.

“Bye, Reo!”

Isagi exhales like he’s been holding his breath the whole time. His hands tremble slightly. Annoying.

Bachira leans over Isagi’s lap, staring up into his face, giggling, his typical manic delight coloring his voice. “You’re so scared of him.”

Isagi doesn’t answer right away. His gaze snaps to Nagi. “Why aren’t you?”

Nagi doesn’t bother looking away from the corridor Reo has vanished down. 

“He’s pretty,” he admits simply. 

Bachira cackles. “Right?”

Isagi stares like he’s grown a third head. “That’s—not an answer.”

“It’s mine,” Nagi doubles down.

It’s not entirely the truth. But he’s not lying. He just leaves out the part where he wants to see Reo and unravel him from the inside out.

—

Nagi doesn’t really go to the library often. But today, for no clear reason, his feet bring him here. wandering. Idle. Bored. At first, it’s just about the quiet. Then, it becomes about something else.  

He doesn’t know what he’s looking for until he finds it.

Tucked away in the furthest back corner of the second floor, surrounded by forgotten shelves and old textbooks. The ceiling overhead is low, and the sun filters in through a high, cracked window. Golden, like it’s been sitting there all afternoon, stretching out on the ground.

Reo. Asleep.

Nagi stops moving.

Reo is curled sideways in a deep armchair. One knee tucked under him, one arm flopped useless over the edge. His phone dangles from loose fingers. He must’ve been reading something—or texting someone—before it slipped from his hand.

He’s not wearing that expression he always has on. That knowing, sly-eyed, fox-like smirk, lips curled like he’s one step ahead of everyone in the room. That perfect composure like he’s untouchable.  

None of that’s here now.

Nagi feels his lips stretch into a smile. He tries to push it down but struggles. He probably looks like he’s gone insane. Or that he’s doing a Bachira impression.

Reo’s frowning a little in his sleep—the faintest furrow in his brow. His mouth is parted slightly, breath coming slow and even. One lock of lavender hair clings to the corner of his lip. Unintentional, raw.

Nagi drifts closer silently. Something in him understands—if he breaks the stillness, this moment will vanish.  

He stands just a few feet away now.  

And stares.

Reo’s face is—open like this. No guard up. No mask. Just the real thing. It’s fucking unbearable .

Nagi's arm twitches; twitches with the urge to fix Reo's askew collar.

Nagi's footsteps are soft against the carpeted floor. He moves closer, silent, like he’s approaching a worshipper in a temple.

What the fuck. He’s so—fucking cute. So pretty.

Soft in a way that makes something coil tight in his chest.

His hand twitches. He wants to touch—run his fingers through that inky hair. Brush the back of his knuckles along Reo’s cheek and feel how warm he is. To reach out and tuck that strand of hair behind Reo’s ear.

He doesn’t move. Because he knows if he does, it won’t stop there.

He’ll touch Reo's cheek, then maybe his jaw. Maybe tilt his head to study his throat, the hollow of it, and wonder what kind of sounds Reo would make if he whispered something against it.

Stop it —Nagi clenches his fists. He crouches beside the chair, not touching. Just watching.

Nagi wants to peel him open. Like a tangerine. See every look on him. Flustered. Smiling without meaning to. Angry. Crying.

He wants to know what Reo looks like when he falls apart. If it’s anything like this.

Reo shifts a little in his sleep, turning toward the back of the chair with an incomprehensible mumble. A line of skin appears where his shirt rides up. A sliver of his lower back, cool-honey and smooth.

Nagi’s swallows. He stuffs his clenched hands into his pockets.

Pressure. On his ribs. Like someone standing on his chest.

He stares a moment longer. Memorizing details. Then—slowly—he steps back.  

Another step. Another.

He doesn’t look away until Reo’s out of sight again.

But even when he’s gone, the image burns bright behind his eyes.

—

Today, it’s raining again, and the lights in the lower wing have a warm, amber kind of hum. Nagi finds a couch in one of the group study rooms that feels soft enough and drapes himself across it, long legs stretched out, hood up, earbuds in with nothing playing. As usual.

Unfortunately, he’s not alone for long enough.

Isagi comes a few minutes later with someone new trailing behind him. small frame, thick bangs, square glasses. Nagi can’t even see his eyes. He glances up once, registering the presence, and goes back to doing nothing.

“Hey,” Isagi mutters, nodding toward the empty seats near Nagi. “Mind if we sit?”

Nagi shrugs. “I don't own this place.”

They sit. An unfamiliar kid perches on the edge of a chair, while Isagi slouches, looking more tired than usual. ‘Usual’ being since Bachira first picked him up.

“Where’s Bachira?” Nagi asks despite his better judgment. It’s just strange that that manic little pixie isn’t buzzing circles around Isagi like usual.

Isagi slumps pathetically, making a noise like a deflating balloon that was blown up by a spitty third grader. “Suspended.”

“Ah,” Nagi answers, monosyllabic. “Okay.”

“He accidentally stole Mr. Noa’s pet lizard, and he, yeah,” Isagi explains without any prompting. “S’why I’m hiding.”

Accidentally? Nagi questions. 

“Hiding?” He says.

Isagi nods. “Shidou’s looking for me,” he shivers pusillanimously.

“Ah,” Nagi repeats, sounding significantly more sympathetic this time. He even glances up to look at Isagi pityingly. “Damn.”

“Yeah. I figured it’d be the safest bet to just find you and hide here.”

Nagi blinks. “Why?”

“Uh, because you can actually hold your ground?”

Nonplussed, Nagi readjusts the pillow behind his head. “What’re you talking about?”

“Well, since—since Bachira can’t right now, and since we’re—uh—friends,” Isagi trails off.

Nagi raises an eyebrow. “You think I'd fight, or win in a fight, against Shidou ? I'm not that stupid.”

Isagi struggles to find a response to that.

Meanwhile, Nagi notices the strange kid subtly studying him. Not the way people stare at Nagi’s height or lack of grace. This is sharper.

“Oh, this is Niko,” Isagi eventually offers, glancing between them. “He’s a first year.”

Nagi hums faintly, acknowledging it. He doesn't offer his own name. Doesn't feel like it.

“I've heard of you,” Niko says, direct but respectful. “You’re the new one. Mikage Reo’s.”

That gives Nagi pause, fingers stilling where he was toying with the rubber cord of his earbuds. “Says who?”

“Says people,” the tiny kid doesn’t back down.

Nagi tips his chin up, challenging the notion, but subtly.

Isagi clears his throat, awkward. “Anyway! Um, Niko, uh—he knows stuff. About how things work around here.”

Nagi stretches an arm above his head with a squeezed exhale. “Didn’t ask, but fine.”

“Be nice,” Isagi tries, but it lacks any real force. Seems like Isagi’s still a bit scared of him. “Niko’s the one who managed to get Barou off my back.”

Yawning, “Congrats,” he rolls his neck, massaging out the knots at the base as he glances lazily at Niko, “What’d it cost you?”

Niko shakes his head.

Please don’t monologue, Nagi begs internally.

“This school’s got a structure,” Niko begins with a flourish, adjusting his glasses.

God fucking dammit. 

“Not written anywhere, but it’s there. Most of the upperclassmen with real power just build circles around them—presence. Loyalty. Protection.”

“Dramatic,” Nagi drawls.

“It is,” Niko agrees. “But it works. You’ve seen it even if you didn’t realize. Barou’s one of the better, bigger names. Keeps a close circle, but he protects his own. If he sees potential, or if someone’s being kicked too hard, he’ll step in.”

Nagi’s deadpan ad-lib, “Heroic.”

“You know,” the tiny thing says, turning to Isagi (having given up on Nagi), “you got lucky, falling under Bachira’s wing and all. Basically cheated the system.”

Isagi frowns, “What do you mean?”  

Niko leans back in his seat, “This place is all hierarchy. You’ve seen it. Everyone gravitates around someone stronger. top dogs take their picks.”  

“Sounds roguish. Like gangs,” Isagi mutters.

(Nagi rolls his eyes.)

“But you—got stuck with the one guy unpredictable enough that nobody fucks with, but cool enough that he lets you do what you want. That's lucky.”

“That's lucky?” Isagi parrots.

Niko shrugs. “Could’ve been worse. Have you seen Shidou?” He grimaces, “Guy’s feral. Lets one cling to him like a barnacle. Igaguri. Probably the only reason that guy’s still got his teeth.”

Nagi hums. Must be the bald one, he thinks.

“Rin's another one,” Niko continues, clearly getting into the story like a child describing his favorite cartoon. “He's a real lone wolf. Got only one guy—Nanase. But Rin's not really present, not since Sae left.”

“He's that upset about his brother getting a degree?” Nagi exhales, rubbing his left eye with the heel of his palm.

That interruption makes Niko huff irritatedly, but it pulls a snuffed-out snort from Isagi.

Although, Nagi doesn’t really know what he’s laughing about, it wasn’t a joke.

“I’m taking a nap,” he declares, kicking a sneaker off in Isagi’s direction. Unfortunately, it doesn’t hit him. He’ll try for better aim next time. “So shut up now, ‘kay?”

Nagi closes his eyes and throws an arm over them for good measure, but unfortunately, he can still hear Isagi and Niko whispering to each other, the conversation proceeding. 

“I guess he’s right,” Niko says, stretching his arms behind his head again.

“It doesn’t matter unless you’re trying to rise. But people like us are just trying to stay standing, huh.”

Ugh . This entire thing is stupid and a needless hassle. Nagi doesn’t care about kings or followers or whatever backroom deals idiots and weaklings make to feel safe.

He turns over and ignores the curiosity, the question at the base of his throat (that he’d ask if he wanted to prove that he cared more than he wanted to admit, so, no)—

What about Reo?

As if on cue, Isagi mutters, not bitter, but something more complicated, “Easy for him to say. He's on Mikage Reo’s radar, basically backing him.”

‘It’s not like I asked for it, ’ Nagi is tempted to argue, just for useless pride’s sake. ‘It just happened, I didn't have any say.’

“It was definitely unexpected,” Niko clicks his tongue in agreement. “It’s rare for Reo to show interest in anyone, really.”

“Huh?”

“Well, Reo—doesn’t take people because he doesn’t need to. People orbit him anyway. He doesn’t collect. So when someone does pique his interest—you can deduce the rest.”

Isagi makes a disturbed noise at that. Again, Nagi doesn’t know why , but then again, why does Isagi do any of the things he does?

But what does it mean, Nagi wonders, if Reo does claim someone?

Fuck hierarchies—but if he did, Nagi—might actually like the idea of being Reo’s exception.

—

Nagi hates going to get groceries, but the price of vending machine snacks is taking a toll on his already-depleted bank account, and he just ran out of jelly, so. 

A spontaneous burst of energy, the train station, afternoon, off-peak.

The open-air platform stretched under a cloudy sky, wind rustling through the brittle baby trees just beyond the tracks.

A few kids from one of the neighboring college prep schools hover near the far bench, laughing ugly. Someone slurps instant noodles out of a paper cup. Loud.

Nagi stands near the ticket gate, hands stuffed in his pockets, earbuds in but not playing anything. Why? because he’s watching—

Okay, well—listen, it was completely unintentional to see him here, but he’s watching—

Okay, he’s watching Reo from across the platform.

Reo's also headed into town, presumably for perhaps another purpose, though. He’s leaning back against a column, one ankle crossed over the other, scrolling through his phone as the wind toys with the ends of his hair.

He’s not smiling. Not performing. Not doing anything at all. And somehow, that’s what Nagi can’t stop looking at.

He doesn't know when it started. But it’s not new, it's been creeping, like moss up a wall, a leak beneath the floorboards—rhythmic and slow drips until boom, suddenly everything’s damp, and you can’t remember it ever being dry.

Reo shifts, reaches for the drink can beside him. He takes a sip while continuing to scroll. Immersed in whatever he’s reading.

Nagi isn’t even sure if Reo knows he’s there. ( Don’t lie, he scoffs at himself, you know he does. He almost 100%, absolutely knows Nagi is there. )

Five boys, all in crisp prep-school jackets. Matching ties. The group doesn’t approach unusually fast, but it feels sudden.

Their shoes are too clean. Their hair is too styled. A couple of them laugh as they climb and lounge all over the short set of stairs onto the platform.

That brittle faux laughter that only works when they know the odds are stacked in their favor.

One of them walks past Reo too close. His shoulder checks Reo’s.

Nagi straightens. Subtle, reflexive. His eyes narrow before he can help it.

Reo doesn’t even react. Doesn’t look up. He just takes a sip of whatever soda is in the colorful can and breaks his staring contest with his phone to look off toward the tracks—checking for the train.

“Watch it.”

Reo glances at him, barely, then looks away again.

The guy frowns. “Too good to say sorry?” He mutters.

There’s a puffed-up energy to him now—performative. For the other kids standing nearby. The tension’s familiar. Posturing, cheap bravado. No real threat.

Reo exhales slowly through his nose, more irritated at being interrupted than anything. “Didn’t know I bumped into anything.”

The guy bristles, then pauses, as if noticing something. “Shit,” he says, loud and slow, gesturing toward Reo like an auctioneer presenting an item. “It's a Blue Lock Reform kid, out in the wild.”

He grins wider. “Lost or something, freak?”

One of his friends snorts. Another one shifts nervously behind him, looking around like maybe they’ve wandered too far past familiar territory.

Nagi doesn’t move. Nor does he turn away and go back to gaming. Tugging out his headphones, he watches Reo’s face carefully. That sliver of amusement means he’s winding something tight, letting the string pull just a little further. Playing.

“Didn’t know the psycho school let you out unsupervised,” the guy goes on, braver now. “Aren’t you guys supposed to be chained up and drooling on each other?”

A few weak chuckles behind him. But it’s encouraging enough. The guy keeps going. He's working himself up now—for reasons lost on Nagi.

“You’re real pretty for that place, though. Poor guy. Probably just someone’s favorite little hole, right? A perfect communal stress toy.”

Reo just hums, so quiet it’s barely audible. Rolls one shoulder, like the tension in his neck is more interesting than the grating noise in front of him.

Nagi snorts. The guy, however, is clearly very upset by the dismissal.

“Hey,” voice sharp, the verge of embarrassment. “Don’t ignore me, bitch.”

Reo turns his head. Eyes up, lashes low, smile lazy and unreadable. a particular fox-like smile that always comes just before something terrible. 

He’s looking, for sure.

He's looking directly at Nagi .

Nagi exhales through his nose, destabilized.

He feels it in his chest—building. Not anger, not exactly. It’s something stranger, a heat that sinks under the skin, low and dense, like blood trying to escape, moving toward something it already belongs to.

He sees the way Reo glances at him. Like a hook sinking into flesh.

Reo’s not cornered. He's not overwhelmed. He's playing .

And Nagi—god help him—has never thought of himself as this easy to lead around. But he doesn’t even fight it.

He's already moving. Doesn’t even realize—his feet just carry him across the platform. He just goes .

“What d’you do to get locked up, huh? Kill someone? Sell yourself?” The guy seems to be desperate for a reaction to justify his efforts.

The cement grates under Nagi's shoes as he walks. The guy, somehow, doesn’t notice him. Nagi supposes he’s always had very little presence.

“Crashed a car, minor accident,” Reo’s saying, like the guy is making friendly conversation. He shrugs. “People got real dramatic about it.”

The guy pauses and glances back at his friends, unsure of what to do with that.

(Nagi isn’t sure what to do with that either.)

Reo speaks. Calm. With almost genuine excitement, “Did you know, though? A car going 120 kilometers per hour can obliterate a human body.”

The guy frowns, thrown. “What?”

Reo tilts his head toward the tracks, expression deceptively innocent. “Let's play a game. Guess how fast these city trains go.”

And then—he looks at Nagi . A cue.

That slight tilt of his head. A flick of his lashes. A glimmer, dancing purple flames in his eyes saying ‘well? go on, ’ handed to him like a gift.

Something in Nagi snaps tight.

He grabs the guy by the front of his stupid ironed blazer and shoves.

The guy chokes in surprise, stumbling backward as Nagi moves with him—one hand fisted in the fabric, the other steady, like he’s done this before (he has not).

He shoves him all the way to the edge, the guy’s loafers scraping the ground desperately. His shoes land halfway off the platform, dangling over the tracks.

If Nagi lets go, he’ll fall.

The guy's hands claw at Nagi's wrist, his chest heaving now, fear blooming wide in his eyes. “Wait— wait , what the fuck! Fuck, man, hang on, don’t —!”

A train whistle pierces the air.

Behind Nagi, the guy's friends panic. One of them begins to shout and plead. Another backs away. The third actually screams for help.

Reo laughs over the shrill of the whistle. A high, delighted thing, like the punchline finally landed. Gorgeous, chiming.

Nagi doesn’t blink. Or breathe. He feels high .

Reo steps closer, leaning into the space beside Nagi’s outstretched arm, watching the guy try to beg and keep his footing. He's so close, Nagi can feel the warmth radiating from his body.

“Relax,” Reo huffs, mocking. “They’re not that fast.”

As prompted, Nagi yanks the guy back, letting him crumple in a heap against the cement.

A heartbeat later, a whistle splits the air again as the train comes into view.

The guy scrambles back, gasping, looking like he pissed himself. His friends haul him up by the arms. No more jokes.

The prep school gang flees without a word.

Reo sighs like he’s a cat stretching after a nap. He brushes invisible lint from his sleeve, then turns to Nagi, smile still intact.

“You have good timing.”

Nagi hands are still tingling. He stares at Reo. He should be annoyed. He should feel used. After all, he knows he just got played. He walked right into it. He knows he walked right into it. (And he’d do it again.)

Reo knew from the start, knew probably the second the gaggle approached him.

Instead of being angry, Nagi just feels hot. Dizzy, like a sparkler crackling in his brain.

Reo meets his eyes.

“You didn’t have to do exactly what I wanted, you know,” he grins, like a tease, as if he can read Nagi's mind.

Nagi doesn’t answer. (Because he would’ve done it anyway.)

Reo turns away like it’s nothing. Like he hadn’t just baited a boy into begging for his life, like Nagi hadn’t nearly murdered someone on a whim he never meant to act on. (It’s a dramatic recounting, of course, it’s not like either of them actually would’ve done it.)

The train clatters past, each carriage blurring by in a gust of dust and grit and speed, and Nagi watches the way Reo doesn’t flinch, doesn’t step back. The edge of the platform is still at his feet, a line he could cross without effort.

Reo glances at him sideways.

“Come,” he says. Not a question.

Nagi follows. He doesn’t ask where they’re going.

They fall into step together like gravity—simple and impossible to resist. 

Reo doesn’t look back to see if Nagi's coming. (He doesn’t have to.) There’s something smug in the slope of his shoulders, something easy in the way his hand brushes just barely past Nagi’s as they walk, but the contact feels like lightning. 

Nagi—Nagi had watched it all unfold, knowing somewhere in the back of his mind that he was being pulled in, tricked, maybe, used, even. But it hadn’t felt like that. Still doesn’t. Instead, it just feels like Reo had reached inside of him and tapped something blind and dormant and ancient with those elegant, manicured fingertips.

And now, it’s awake.

—

The ocean of it all pulls back on a night that reeks of smoke, metal, and fire.

This building has been abandoned for years—abandoned demolition and swallowed by weeds—but tonight, it pulses like something alive.

Graffiti blooms across broken walls dripping from the crevasses that open up to the night sky above in neon splatters. Spray cans roll underfoot, kicked aside by boots and scuffed sneakers. There’s glass piled in the corners, ash and chemicals floating through the air.

Half of the roof has collapsed, along with most of the upper floors, leaving an entire side of the structure exposed to the night. 

Music thunders through an arrangement of speakers rigged to half-functioning busted power grids—nearby, a generator coughs and spits sparks.

A bonfire roars in the center of what was originally the building’s lobby, flames licking upward, casting flickering LED light and deep shadows on faces and walls.

It’s packed—students sway and laugh and stagger around.

Concrete slabs make makeshift tables and makeshift chairs.

Everyone's drunk or high. At least a little bit.

A group by a lower crumbled balcony is daring each other to climb an old sewer pole. A duo is playing cards on a fallen piece of ceiling while someone sprays another tag over a snapped concrete pillar: NO GODS, NO MASTERS.

Nagi leans against a jagged wall just outside the thickest of the crowd, half-lidded eyes scanning without urgency. He hates people touching him. Hates all the shouting over noise. Hates the press of too many bodies in too small a space.

Yet he’d come. Why?

Bachira had dragged him. (That’s not why.)

(There’s really no point in lying to himself anymore, but he’ll do it just for the habit.)

He hasn’t seen him yet.

“Yo,” Bachira calls, dragging Isagi behind him like a suitcase. “Rad, right?”

Isagi looks like he wants to vomit.

A few guys are scribbling tags on the far wall, one of them has climbed a toppled counter to reach the upper concrete, everything in motion.

“I told you I didn’t wanna come,” Isagi mutters, eyes darting between, shadows, unfamiliar faces. “I don't even know half of these people.”

“That's the fun,” Bachira replies, smiling wide, eyes wider, like always. “No rules, no roles.”

“You’re insane,” Isagi hisses as someone sprints by, yelling. “We’re going to die here.”

So dramatic. Nagi sips the beer in his hand. He'd say as much, but it’s not worth the hassle.

“Nagi!” Bachira, unfortunately, enlists his help. “This place is crazy fun, huh? Reo really goes all out when he plans these! It feels like a scene from a movie!”

He’s practically bouncing on his feet, sipping something neon out of a solo cup.

“Mhm,” Nagi says, noncommittal. He’s not paying attention at all anymore—because he feels it, even before he sees it—the way the air shifts.

People unconsciously make space.

Reo enters. From a far hallway, like a king arriving at court.

Nagi’s breath catches, just a little.

Midnight blue shirt, collar open, light catching low against his collarbones, refraction off the silver around his neck, fingers, ears. Hair pushed back, a few strands falling forward, effortless; lethal, his face sculpted like a painting that doesn’t belong in this century. Even the flickering of the bonfire seems to bend to him.

Yukimiya and Karasu trail behind, laughing about something. Karasu holds a bottle in one hand, halfway through. Yukimiya has a paint marker tucked behind his ear and the grin of someone who just tagged something obscene.

They pause by a ruined column, and Reo speaks to them, gesturing with two fingers, like a king deciding what matters to bother with. The other two lean in like court counsel, close, listening with amused smirks.

Finally, Reo’s eyes slide across the room—and catch. And he grins, walking over.

“Bachira,” he greets, voice light but not loud, but the clarity of it slices effortlessly through the noise.

Bachira beams. “There he is.”

He raises a hand in greeting, like they’re casually running into each other at a café, not an off-path, smoke-filled ruin.

Reo's hands slip into his pants pockets.

“Strange to see you sitting still,” he tells Bachira. “I figured you’d be off painting giant teeth on all the parking lot signs.”

“Maybe I already did,” Bachira grins. “Maybe one of them bit back.”

Reo laughs, short and sharp. Then, his eyes slide again—toward Isagi. Nagi frowns. He's not familiar with impatience, not this kind. It pricks, makes his legs restless.

“Brought your pet?” Reo asks, genuine and curious.

Isagi goes still.

Bachira shrugs. “I wanted him to see the fun, your generosity.”

“Shut up, don’t flatter me now,” Reo chuckles. He takes a step closer.

Startled and scared for his life, Isagi takes a half-step back.

Reo raises a brow. “I've been wondering, does he always look like that?”

“Only around you,” Bachira answers cheerfully.

“Fascinating.”

Nagi watches quietly. Reo still hasn’t looked at him, addressed him yet. Not directly. His frown deepens, until—

“You too?”

The words are pointed his way, as Reo’s gaze meets his across the soft flicker of purple strobe lights. Finally. Nagi feels a bit like a needy dog waiting for a morsel of attention. He should probably feel some sense of indignity and self-loathing for it, but he doesn't. (Reo's still so pretty.)

“Did Bachira drag you here?”

Nagi shakes his head.

“Hm. Then, you always show up to things like this?” Reo rephrases, patient.

“No,” Nagi replies simply.

Reo’s head tilts. Smiles, soft. “Huh. Lucky me.”

There's no reason for his voice to feel like a knife sharpening between Nagi’s ribs, silky and daggered. But it does.

Behind him, the fire crackles. Someone screams as a bottle shatters. A pair of first-years start to kiss like the world is ending.

But all Nagi can see is Reo, right here, in front of him, firelight and flames licking the sharp lines of his cheekbones, jaw, throat, and lips.

Nagi stares. He doesn’t even try to make it subtle.

Reo doesn’t seem to mind. At least until Karasu calls his name from under the staircase.

He glances over his shoulder, rings glinting as he raises a hand in acknowledgment. He looks back at Nagi one last time—eyes dragging, like he’s filing something away for later.

“See you,” he says, already turning, his smile a dare, something for Nagi. “Don’t get eaten.”

And he’s gone.

Bachira sighs. “Reo's so great.”

Isagi sits down hard on a concrete block, pale. “I hate it here.”

Nagi doesn’t move. The hand he has wrapped around the beer can is soaked and pruny with condensation. His pulse races faster than it should—he can hear it rushing.

Something in his chest tries to yank him, like a chakra trying to force him to follow, blind and helpless.

He swallows. Takes another sip.

Nagi doesn’t remember climbing the stairs.

He doesn't remember weaving through the ruins of the apartment’s skeleton, or the way the firelight fades the higher he goes, until the sky cracks wide above him. The wind carries the music up in pulses—low, muffled, thudding against concrete walls and broken stairwells.

From where Nagi climbs, the crowd below looks distant. Blurred movement and noise. Spray paint fumes, bonfire smoke, alcohol. Laughter that’s too loud. Most of the windows in the stairwell are shattered, and someone has sprayed WE LIVE HERE NOW in thick red paint across the exposed rebar. Higher up, a platform stretched out near the edge, collapsed in places, shadowed and silent except for the faraway hum of the party below.

Reo.

No longer lit by the orange flicker of the bonfire far beneath them, his features glow like they were painted by some obsessed god—too elegant, too precise. His hair catches the firelight and burns violet, windswept and soft.

His lashes cast shadows. His lips curl with just enough aloofness to drive Nagi insane. He’s leaning against the platform’s rusted railing, one boot pressed lazily to the wall, cigarette balanced between his fingers. The smoke ghosts over his shoulder like a veil. The moonlight hits him just right.

His profile’s turned just enough to catch the starlight. violet hair glowing silver-royal, the faint arch of his throat exposed, like an invitation. Fuck . Nagi wants to—he wonder what would happen if—

Nagi can’t stop staring. He wants to press Reo into that railing.

He wants— what does he want? 

To feel his body under him, surrendering and breathless and real. He wants to drag his lips down Reo's throat until his pale skin blooms with bruises the color of his hair. Mark him up so thoroughly that no amount of collared shirts can hide it.

Is that too much? Yeah, too much. But Nagi isn’t used to this, he doesn’t know what to make of it, doesn’t know what to do with it.

Nagi hasn’t moved in minutes, but inside, he’s burning up faster than a wildfire.

“Staring,” Reo says finally, amused, glancing over his shoulder.

Nagi doesn’t respond right away. He moves—a deliberate step that closes the gap between them by half.

A small, Cheshire smirk, “You’re really not subtle, you know.”

Nagi shrugs. “I don't try to be.”

He watches Reo’s lips move around the cigarette.

He watches the soft drag of breath in, the faint catch of his throat. He wonders if Reo makes sounds, that sound, when he breathes hard—or maybe when his breath stutters, or he’s overwhelmed. (When he’s held down.)

(Nagi wonders if he could make him cry. What it would take.)

The cigarette’s cherry glows bright, then dulls as Reo exhales. smoke curls from his lips again. Nagi doesn’t look away—not even for a second, not even to pretend.

Reo notices, “Still staring.”

Nagi doesn’t deny it. He couldn’t even if he wanted to. Not when Reo’s mouth is flushed a maraschino-red from the heat of the cigarette, and his Adam's apple moves slightly with every inhale, candid portraiture in motion.

“Didn’t know you smoked,” Nagi murmurs in response to Reo’s expectant gaze.

Reo huffs, “Just sometimes.”

(He wants to snatch Reo’s cigarette away and press their mouths together—wants to taste his own want on his tongue, push at Reo's defenses until he’s stripped of every centimeter of that smug, smooth control. What would he look like flustered? Blushing? Laughing unanchored? Teary? Defenseless? )

“I thought you were the type that absolutely hated parties. And loud places,” Reo says conversationally, with a shrug that seems to mean he’s giving up on questioning Nagi about his unbidden and unrelenting staring.

“I do.”

“So, why come out tonight?”

“I don't hate you.”

That seems to catch Reo off guard. He blinks, something flickering across his face—surprise. Or something quieter than that. He holds Nagi’s gaze for a second too long before looking away again—and it’s a shard of honesty; real and open, and Nagi needs more of it.

Reo doesn’t respond to Nagi’s confession. But he doesn’t tell Nagi to leave, either. Instead, he offers him the cigarette, fingers curled toward him. “Do you smoke?”

Nagi stands by his shoulder, close. The answer is no, Nagi’s never liked it—the taste is too unpleasant. But he takes the cigarette anyway—not because he wants it, but because Reo offered it. 

The filter is still warm. He stares at the faint mark of Reo’s mouth before putting it to his own lips. The taste is sharp with spice and heat. He exhales, coughs, then hands it back.

Still, Reo's gaze lingers on him, unreadable, eyes flickering ever-so-slightly, swirling as if he’s considering something. Says, “Ever shotgun?”

Nagi blinks. His mouth is sticky and dry, saliva too thick all of a sudden. “No.”

Reo smiles, coy. “Wanna try?”

“Huh?” Nagi says dumbly, brain suddenly suffering a glitch.

“Shotgun?” Reo asks again, softer this time, but still playful. He knows what he’s doing. Right, Nagi thinks. He has to. Otherwise—

Nagi nods once, not quite trusting his voice’s reliability while his pulse thunders.

Reo turns toward him, his hand lifting the cigarette again, but this time it’s slower. Intentional. He drags deep, then leans in—and Nagi follows, helpless and drunk on proximity.

Reo cups his jaw, leading, just under his chin, and exhales smoke into Nagi’s open, waiting mouth.

It burns.

Nagi’s eyes flutter half-shut, his whole body taut. Every nerve alive, every thought sharpened to a point on the curve of Reo's mouth, the softness of his palm, his delicate fingers. Nagi wants to grab him by the waist and pull him in.

Pull back. Another drag.

He leans in again, a second time.

Reo breathes out. Nagi breathes him in.

But it’s not the smoke that makes his head spin, it’s everything else.

The nearness. The heat . The faint, startled hitch from Reo when Nagi doesn’t pull back right away; instead, Nagi’s hand rises, curls around the back of his neck, almost unyielding, holding Reo there, just a little too long. Indulgent, greedy.

(Because Nagi wants to taste his lips, slip his tongue past them and find the sweeter, secret places inside; lick the roof of his mouth and hear him gasp—privately undone.)

God fucking dammit, he tells his brain to please, please shut up for one second, he’s kind of in the middle of something. Something he’d like to remember in detail, down to the number of Reo’s eyelashes he can count.

Reo pulls back, white rings still on his breath. (He looks edible .)

“I didn't expect you to be good at that,” he chuckles, letting their shoulders brush.

Nagi forces his eyes away from those lips. His voice is low when it comes out, nearly hoarse. “I'm good at a lot of things.”

Reo blinks. “Like what?”

I’d be good at pinning you to this railing , Nagi thinks offhandedly, and I'm good at imagining the kinds of sounds you’d make, noises that I would pull from your pretty mouth if you let me. 

“You shouldn’t offer that to people,” Nagi changes directions entirely. “Not when you don’t know what they’ll do with it.”

Reo bristles. “You almost sound like you’re warning me.”

“I am.”

Confusion, mostly. The smirk falters, just slightly, and something flickers in Reo’s gaze. Unfiltered interest, curiosity. A bit of caution. Because he doesn’t know what Nagi means, not really, not at all.

(Nagi does.)

(Because Reo is too pretty and too easy to want. Too good at keeping everyone at a distance with just a smile and has too many secrets—and Nagi wants all of them.)

(He wants to break him open to see what he’s hiding underneath. Because he’s seen glimpses, and he needs more.)

Reo flicks the cigarette away. The ember trails in the dark like a comet. “Why’re you looking at me like that?”

Nagi hums. “Like what?”

“Hm. Like a,” Reo grins, “like a sad, rain-soaked puppy at the shelter.”

Nagi raises an eyebrow. “That's what I look like to you?”

Reo smirks, leaning one elbow against the railing to face Nagi completely; the toe of his boot taps the outside of Nagi’s ankle—not a taunt, but a rhythmic reminder of his presence (not that Nagi could ever forget it).

“If you disagree, change my mind. What's your story, puppy?”

“My story?” Nagi asks, still hyper-focused on the way that if he moves his head just a bit forward and down, he could kiss Reo.

He can’t—so he does the next best thing. He takes just one step to the right and lifts his arms to grab the rusted bar, caging Reo against the railing.

Reo blinks inquisitively, completely unfazed. At least, on the surface.

Nagi can hear the groan of the railing under his grip. Fuck . Reo's presence always does this to him. He wants —but not the surface stuff. Not the smirks or the careless glances or the cocky flirtation.

It's camouflage. Nagi sees it for what it is—bait, glitter, distraction. But Nagi—Nagi isn’t satisfied with that like everyone else. He needs to know, to see, to dig his hands into the mask and pull until it breaks open in his palms. Because there is something hidden under. Dangerous and raw and maybe even soft. God , it’s probably so soft —he can sense it.

Nagi wants to touch it. To taste it. Wants to watch Reo fall apart and know exactly how he did it.

He wants Reo to stop pretending this is normal, stop looking at him like this is routine. Because it’s not. They both know it’s not.

He can feel Reo’s breath, warm and peppermint in the shallow space between them. Close enough to be not ever close enough.

Reo leans his head back, studying him. "Yeah. What made the puppy bite? What got him sent to the pound, hm?”

Nagi snorts softly. “It's pretty boring.”

“That's not a story.”

“I guess not,” Nagi says. An idea pops into his head. “But—what will I get if I tell you? What will you give me?”

Reo snickers. “Is this a trade, now?”

Nagi doesn’t reply. Expectant, he waits.

Whatever Reo sees on his face, he seems to like, because he smirks, lopsided and full of sharp teeth. “Alright, I'll play. Name your price.”

But he’s mistaken, because Nagi isn’t challenging him.

“Let me see you.”

Reo freezes.

Not in fear, but not quite in surprise either. More like—something inside him stutters; gears misaligning for half a second, the hallways change shape, that polished ease faltering.

He recovers fast, of course. That’s the thing about Mikage Reo: he always does.

He tilts his head and lets the pause stretch, like he’s weighing the meaning behind the words—like he’s trying to decide how serious Nagi is.

(He’ll find that Nagi’s not joking. In fact, he’s never been more serious in his life.)

“See me?” Reo repeats, voice lilting. “You’ve got eyes, don’t you?”

Nagi doesn’t back down. “I want you to show me something real.”

“Oh?” Reo tips forward now, playing, taunting, a distraction , and for a second, it almost works—almost makes Nagi forget how to breathe. “Tell me, what is it that you think you see in me?”

“I don't know yet,” Nagi says, honest. “I know you never show anyone. But I know it’s there.”

Maybe it’s the way he says it: not desperate, not accusing. Matter-of-fact. As assured as a weather report—he doesn’t need Reo to confirm.

Reo’s grin wavers. Not all the way. But enough.

Enough, at least, for Nagi to catch a glimpse of the tension under it—the gritting of his teeth behind his lips, the unobtrusive shift of his shoulders, just slightly back, almost defensive, like he’s holding ground.

Because Reo knows, now. That Nagi’s serious, deadly.

“Not asking for much, huh,” he says dryly. "Just a striptease of my soul.”

“Something real,” Nagi murmurs a correction. He doesn’t say, ‘because you’re already so pretty when you lie; I can't imagine how beautiful you are when you’re real.’

He doesn't want Reo's arsenal of razor-sharp smirks. He wants the things that Reo doesn’t show. The parts he hides even from himself. (Nagi wants to pry him open like a nectarine and lick the sweet, tangy tears off wherever they fall.)

Reo’s eyes flick up to his again, searching. Calculating.

But there’s something else behind them now, too. Something new. Uncertain interest. Like maybe, for the first time, Reo doesn’t know how all this ends either.

“Is that all?” He asks tacitly.

Nagi shakes his head, unkempt hair flying in the wind. “Just where I want to start.”

And, again, for the first time, Reo doesn’t smile. He says, with a twitch of his mouth, soft and strange, “Not a puppy at all, are you? You’re dangerous.”

Nagi blinks, and says what’s true, “So are you.”

A laugh. “Okay. Fine. I'll play. All in.”

Like a gamble. Good. Nagi will play too—only, Reo doesn't seem to get it—Nagi doesn't mind losing. In fact, he wants to. He hopes to. Because even then, all his losses are wins. Reo seems to miss the way that Nagi has started a completely different game in another desktop window, one that he'll win, he's sure of it.

“All in,” Nagi echoes.

Chapter Text

It starts the next morning.

Not with fanfare, just with Reo walking through the courtyard between the main building and the south wing, one hand in his pocket, the other fiddling with the strap of his bag. 

He doesn’t look back to check if Nagi’s following. He doesn’t have to.

The terms of the deal they made on the ledge were vague. But Nagi already knew what he, at least, would make of them.

For him, it’s permission—to fly a planet closer to the sun. Orbit. Not resigned to just watch Reo from a dozen meters away.

So, unless Reo stops him, he won’t.

And Nagi knows Reo knows. There's a subtle shift—invisible unless you’re looking: the way Reo retimes his pace by a fraction of a second to adjust to his, the tilt of his chin that angles imperceptibly toward Nagi, as if he’s saying: Fine. Your move. Let's see how far you follow.

They pass under the breezeway. The stucco is cracked and weather-stained, walls tagged in permanent marker and fading spray paint—names and threats, dates of fights, dead jokes scratched over bloodstains. This is where the smokers loiter when it rains—the ashtray’s full of half-done joints and burned filter tips.

Reo speaks, finally, right as they approach the doors to the north stairwell, “Are you always gonna be this quiet, or are you just acting shy?”

Nagi doesn’t falter. “You could talk enough for both of us.”

Reo snorts. “At least pretend to be mysterious. You’re ruining your aesthetic.”

They push through the door. The hallway smells like industrial cleaners and metal lockers. Class hasn’t started yet, but there’s a handful of students loitering—leaning against the walls, trading pills or gum or rumors in low voices.

A couple of them freeze when they see Reo, gazes flickering between him and Nagi. But they look away immediately. One of them drops their voice to a whisper, another starts walking the opposite direction.

Reo tilts his head back, amused but used to it. 

The presence of Nagi at his side seems to create a darkroom image that no one wants to see processed. (That, Nagi thinks with a thrum of possessive heat, might be his favorite thing about this.)

Reo taps Nagi’s forearm once with his knuckles, like punctuation. Nagi pauses. 

He looks at him, eyes gleaming.

“Sure this is how you wanna play?” Reo murmurs, like he’s testing him. Nagi doesn’t know if he’s talking about the eyes he feels on them or something else entirely. “You can still think it through, I'm not going anywhere.”

Nagi tilts his head to the side. “Don’t wanna. Thinking’s a hassle.”

Reo smiles—not that polite, razor-bright one, but something subtler. Curved and close and edged with satisfaction. Fox-like.

“Alright,” he says, like it’s a verdict. “I guess it’s not my concern. Do what you want—let’s see how long you last.”

He pivots and walks into the lecture hall without sparing Nagi another glance.

Nagi doesn’t answer. He just smiles to himself, quietly, and follows him in.

—

The midday sun filters through the glass ceiling panels of the school’s greenhouse courtyard, slicing lines across stone. There’s a lazy kind of noise floating around—shoes scuffing, laughter from the far tables, the whir of a vending machine against the seating area wall.

Nagi trails behind Reo like something tethered. It isn’t deliberate—he doesn’t plan where his feet go anymore when Reo moves. He just follows.

Reo doesn’t slow down or glance back or tell him to cut it out. He just keeps walking like Nagi’s always been there, beside him.

The whispers started two days ago. 

“Mikage's watchdog,” someone muttered in the stairwell. The name stuck.

Nagi doesn’t mind. He likes that people see it, because it’s not a game. not for him. He follows Reo because he wants to. Because he can. Because Reo lets him. Him, and nobody else.

They cut across the courtyard and head toward the old fountain, where four figures lounge like they own the sun.

Nagi recognizes them from afar. They’re Reo’s friends. 

Karasu leans back on the stone bench, sharp-eyed and loose-limbed, sipping from a juice box. Yukimiya sits on the edge of the fountain with one leg crossed over the other. Aryu is talking animatedly with his hands—something about posture or hair volume, judging by the way he keeps motioning to his own reflection in the water. 

Shidou is draped across the backrest of the bench opposite Karasu’s like a lion on a ledge, long legs spread and head tilted back like trying to blind himself with the light rays from the clear roof. He perks up the moment Reo appears and approaches, stepping into earshot.

“Look who decided to grace us with his presence,” he calls, grinning like an asylum dweller.

Karasu lifts a brow. “You’re late.”

Reo shrugs, uncaring. “I'm here, aren’t I?”

Giving him a once-over, Karasu bristles before his eyes flick to Nagi, recognition followed by analysis followed by levity. “What, you picked up a stray?”

Reo slides into a space between Yukimiya and Aryu, fingers brushing Yukimiya's sleeve in passing.

Nagi doesn’t like the way Yukimiya leans in when Reo gets close. too familiar. like he’s allowed. (He probably is.)

Nagi stays standing. Close. He doesn’t say anything. Yet.

“That's him?” Aryu asks, vaguely interested, with a slight curl to his lip, looking Nagi up and down like he’s judging a coat Reo brought home from some clearance rack. “The white ghost?”

“The watchdog,” Yukimiya corrects as he turns to Nagi. “White ghost is a war film.”

Karasu scoffs. “Fucking nerd.”

“I've been hearing a lot about you,” Yukimiya comments, ignoring Karasu pointedly. “You've got people curious.”

Reo snorts. “Like you weren’t already nosy.”

“I'm always nosy,” Yukimiya agrees. “You can’t blame me, this—” he gestures to Nagi, “—is new.”

Nagi, once again, says nothing. just leads his hands to his pockets. He meets each gaze indifferently—Karasu’s skeptical analysis, Aryu's glossy interest, Yukimiya's polite welcome.

Shidou stares, unblinking. His grin is wolfish, “Bun, I thought you didn’t keep pets.”

“I'm not his pet,” Nagi snaps flatly, eyes drifting toward Reo out of reflex. Not for any rational reason—just to see if he minds.

Reo smirks, faint and incomprehensible. He doesn't correct anyone.

That should probably bother Nagi. (It doesn’t.)

Shidou, somehow, by some fucking insane god knows what ability that Nagi definitely would prefer to live the rest of his life not knowing, picks up on that. He grins again, toothy and delighted. 

“Damn,” kicking Reo in the knee lightly. “You’re really not housebreaking him?”

Reo shoots him a look, more amused than annoyed. “What would I need to fix?”

Shidou’s grin splits wider. “Fair.”

Karasu stretches. “Watchdog or not, he passed Reo’s vibe check.”

Aryu waves a hand. “Duh. Just look at his bone structure.”

Yukimiya laughs. Karasu groans. “Of course that’s all you care about.”

“So,” Yukimiya prompts after the laughter dies down. “Are you ever going to say anything?”

Nagi looks at him. Then back at Reo. Clockwork. “I don't want to,” he says, blunt.

“Cute,” Shidou snickers. “Bet that goes over real well.”

Karasu exhales. “Our prince found himself a quiet one.”

‘Our.’ A sour taste spills across Nagi’s tongue.

“I like peace and quiet,” Reo says smoothly. “Besides—he’s fun sometimes.”

He says it like it’s nothing—a reminder that he thinks it’s a game. But the corner of his mouth curves just slightly as he says it. Not a grin. Not sharp.

Private.

Nagi almost forgets to breathe.

Karasu raises a brow. “He's not just for decoration, is he? Can he do tricks? Or does he just stand there?”

Reo turns his head. Looks at Nagi, unreadable for a moment. Then, “Nagi. Sit.”

It's half a joke, half a test.

Nagi just stares for a second, face kept carefully neutral.

He sits on the bench beside him, spreading his legs out like he was going to do it anyway. leans back on one hand. The stone is slippery and cool under his palm.

Reo flashes a pleased smile, one that has a softer undertone that makes Nagi’s heart skip a beat. “Good boy.”

Shidou barks abrasively. “Rumors didn’t lie, huh?”

They move on after that—start circling into some conversation about the upcoming matches and the administration’s next press campaign. It moves fast, a rhythm clearly practiced. And Reo slips into it easily, laughing at the right times, tossing in sharp, cutting jabs when needed.

They keep talking around him, sometimes about Nagi, sometimes not. Snide jokes and inside references. Nagi tunes most of it out. 

He’s not here for them, after all. He's here for Reo.

And Reo—doesn’t send him away. (If anything, he lets him stay closer.)

Later, they’ll all walk off together. The others will lose interest or keep watching.

Yukimiya might throw Reo a look that’s half question, half tease. Aryu might ask if Nagi dressed himself in the dark. Shidou will probably call him a mutt.

And Nagi still won’t care.

As long as they know that Reo picked him. That Reo lets him be an exception. If attempting to dissuade or embarrass Nagi like this is Reo's idea of a statement opening move, Nagi can’t wait to keep playing.

He’ll play until no one remembers what it was like to see Reo without him.

—

In the end, they wind up close to the beginning—the rooftop basketball court only accessible from the back stairwell in one of the offices of the administration building.

Late afternoon—when the sun starts softening and the wind picks up just enough to make the air feel alive.

They’re both seated on the cracked concrete, backs propped against the rusted railing. No one else is around. From up here, the rest of the school feels far away—just rooftops and empty courts, windows catching light.

Nagi stretches his legs out. His thigh brushes Reo’s.

Between them, a half-finished game scratched onto the concrete with stolen whiteboard chalk—unique and convoluted, made up on the spot. Boxes and numbers meet chess.

One wrong move resets your whole line. Reo made up the rules—Nagi hasn’t bothered learning them. He just plays (winning or losing here means nothing, but also everything). 

Reo flicks a piece across the board with his thumb, with exaggerated focus on his face.

“Checkmate.”

“That's not how this works.”

“It is if I say it is,” Reo retorts, tucking one leg under the other. The sunlight catches in his hair, royal velvet indigo, a silken stitch. Or something.

There’s a smudge of chalk near his knuckle, and he licks it off absently, distracted.

Nagi watches his mouth for too long. He doesn’t pretend not to.

It’s his turn—he picks up Reo’s discarded piece and moves it forward. Waits.

Reo tilts his head. “That's a stupid move.”

“No,” Nagi says, not in argument.

“You just killed your whole chain.”

“I don't mind starting over.”

Reo glances at him, strangely, something different about the way he does it—no smirk, no slanted grin, no shine. Unfiltered. 

He turns back to the cement before Nagi can take a mental picture. (Which he would then further analyze with all his other mental pictures of Reo's face, catalogues of his different expressions. He'd pin this on the corkboard next to another and sit back and stare with his arms crossed, like a detective in a B-list mystery film.)

“Whatever you say,” Reo mutters, not quite put off, but a bit irked. Peeved. Nagi’s insides light up. He loves it. It makes him want to test just how far he can push.

They fall into silence again. It stretches, softened by the rustle of wind and the low drone of a plane overhead.

Reo accepted his first loss—Nagi’s prize? Reo rests his elbows on his knees, sunglasses pushed up into his hair. His expression isn’t readable, but there’s less mask. Less—actor’s projection. 

Still too bright, too pretty—but not as polished. A little careless. Nagi’s obsessed. He doesn’t let himself show it, but it’s constant. The pull. The constant need to be near Reo, to—yeah.

He can be patient. Wait for the moment where the enigma that is Mikage Reo finally lets go.

Reo exhales, leaning back against the railing with a slight wince. “Have you ever noticed how the vents under the east wing sound like someone screaming?”

Nagi blinks. “No?”

“Just me then.”

“Maybe you’re being haunted.”

Reo hums, eyes half-lidded. “Wouldn’t surprise me. Suppose that means I've got two ghosts haunting me.”

Nagi snorts.

They go quiet again. Nagi listens to the rise and fall of Reo’s breathing. It’s steady, but a little shallower than usual—he’s relaxed, or close to it. He keeps looking at the sky and back at Nagi like he’s trying to reconcile the two.

“Well. It’s your move, isn’t it?” Reo’s not talking about the chalk on the concrete.

“Is it?” Nagi replies, but it’s rhetorical. He knows it is.

Reo flicks his eyes suspiciously to watch Nagi through his peripheral vision.

“So? Take it, weirdo. What’s your return?” He drawls, “The suspense is killing me.”

Nagi hums. Take. There are a million things he wants to take from Reo. But they’re just starting. And Nagi is too lazy to plan ahead. He'll play safe, at least for now. “Tell me—tell me something you wouldn’t mind forgetting.”

One of Reo’s brows quirk. “A philosopher now, are you?”

He looks at him a few beats longer, waiting for some further clarification, elaboration. Nagi gives none.

Reo sighs. “I ever tell you how I got here?” 

“No.”

Reo doesn’t look at him. He taps his nail against one of his own chalked lines. “You wanna know?”

“Yeah.”

“To be fair, I did plenty more to deserve it, but—something I wouldn't mind forgetting—the last straw was a crash. I drove my dad’s imported Maz into a ditch off the highway. I was drunk.”

Ah. DUI—drunken crash. At-fault. 

“It was stupid,” Reo adds to cushion it. “I think I saw a fox on the road or something.”

“I didn't hit anyone,” he clarifies after another dense second. It sounds almost anxious. Almost. Nagi remains silent in hopes that he gets more—more of this shakiness, this vulnerability. “And no one died.”

Nagi watches him carefully. There's no flair, no sharp grin or wink. But Nagi can tell it’s not the full story. It might not even be half. It’s alright, though. Nagi will wait. He'll earn the rest.

Reo presses his knuckle to his mouth like he’s trying to bite back a yawn. He doesn’t look upset, just—reminiscent? No, not quite.

Nagi wants to see more. He wants to ask—what else? Who was there? Why did it matter? Why do you want to forget? Did it hurt? Did you cry? Did you—

But he doesn’t say anything. He just takes Reo in, memorizing every sliver of the honesty (although incomplete) that Reo is offering.

It feels like a privilege. An invitation. And he doesn’t want to scare it off.

It’s Reo’s move. He flips the question back on Nagi. “You?”

Nagi picks at a crack in the dried splash of tar beside him. It’s a good question—he just doesn’t think the answer is worth much.

“My teachers wanted me gone,” he says simply. “Said I was too checked out. Not worth the resources. Sent a letter to my parents. They’re overseas. They didn’t ask questions, just signed all the forms.”

Reo's eyes narrow on him, just slightly—another crack, a piece of unplanned veracity. And suddenly, reliving the memory of his teachers’ resentful eyes on his back as he walked out is worth it.

“They didn’t fight it?”

Nagi shrugs. “I think they forgot they had a kid.”

The words don’t taste bitter. They don’t feel like anything at all. After all, he’s said them before. Not out loud, but in his head. Enough times that their edges have worn smooth.

Reo is still next to him, quiet, pensive.

The chalk clacks against the ground as he flicks one of the pieces at Nagi. “Seems like they did you dirty.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m not angry about it. I don’t think I ever was,” Nagi scratches a new line next to Reo’s. “I just go where I won’t get bored.”

Reo looks at him again, fully, something like understanding in his face. Or maybe it’s just curiosity (but Nagi already knows what curiosity looks like on him. Maybe, just maybe, Reo’s cataloging Nagi the same way Nagi always catalogs him—he hopes that’s true).

Something under Nagi’s skin absolutely preens at the thought. If it's true, he hopes Reo never stops.

He stretches one arm behind Reo's shoulder to lean more comfortably on the railing. Their sides press together lightly, but Reo doesn’t shift away. Doesn’t even react.

This close, Nagi can feel the heat off his skin, see the faint pink sunburn starting on his cheekbones. The slow blink of his lashes. (He looks so close to breakable like this. Not fragile per se, but complex. Hidden in layers. Nagi wants.)

He thinks he might lose his mind. He probably already has.

“I saw you playing Sekiro the other night,” Reo says, changing the subject. For whose sake, neither of them knows. “You suck.”

“You watched?” Nagi asks. You watch me? He thinks.

“Yeah, you died to the same boss eight times in a row.”

“I was distracted,” Nagi defends, eyes tracing over Reo's throat, the shape of his jaw—his tongue erupts with the phantom taste of Reo's skin— “Someone kept texting me.”

It was Bachira, obviously. Insisting that Nagi come watch him parkour up the big tree swing on the west lawn.

Reo exhales a short laugh through his nose. “Yeah, well. I just wanted to see how long it’d take before you threw your phone.”

“I don't throw things,” Nagi asserts. “Too much effort.”

“You’ve got no killer instinct.”

Oh, you have no idea, Reo. “I beat the boss eventually.”

Reo glances sideways at him, smirking. “Only after watching five speed runs and three walkthroughs online.”

“Exactly. Efficient.”

Their conversation drifts like that for a while—low, offhand, meaningless in a way that feels like breathing. They talk shit about a few classmates, rank movie endings from most to least tolerable, try to decide who in the dorm would die first in a horror scenario (Raichi, unanimously). 

Reo’s voice gets softer the longer they talk, less punchy, less rehearsed, less prepared. Nagi watches habits slip through—his hands move while he speaks, long fingers tugging absently at the hem of his shirt, brushing over his chest where he hooks his sunglasses into his shirt to get them out of the way.

This is good.

Something in Nagi’s chest settles. 

This is exactly what he wanted.

—

“I'm gonna fail calc,” Isagi moans miserably.

“You say that every week,” Bachira replies through a mouthful of chips.

Nagi’s stretched out flat on the grass, hoodie bunched and used as a pillow, one hand shading his eyes. Bachira, meanwhile, is sprawled beside him with a bag of chips tucked into his chest, legs kicked over one another like a tangle of wires. Isagi sits cross-legged, scowling at his notebook, tapping the end of his pen against his thigh like it owes him money.

The sun’s taken on that bruised light—clouds drifting low, dull orange threading into the blue.

“Because it’s true every week.”

Everything’s quiet except the distant metallic ring of a soccer goal being dragged across the field for a casual game between friends. Somewhere nearby, a cicada buzzes out its dying rhythm.

“You get, like, mid-eighties,” Nagi grunts. “And shut up, you’re too loud.”

“Not the point.”

Bachira leans over and draws a little cartoon penis in the corner of Isagi’s notebook. Isagi swats at him, missing entirely. Nagi watches them move like he’s under water—sluggish and detached and half-listening.

Maybe a little nap wouldn’t hurt.

The grass is dry and warm underneath him, itchy against the back of his neck. A student left a soccer ball under the bleachers. The wind smells like old asphalt and cut weeds.

“Bachira, by the way, I started that dumb show you wouldn’t shut up about,” Isagi snaps his fingers.

“Which dumb show?”

“The one with the high schoolers on steroids and the bombs and the found family and all the trauma.”

“Oh! That one!” Bachira claps his hands like an ecstatic child. “Did you get to the part where the technopath—”

“—Don’t fucking spoil it!”

Nagi tunes them out for a while, lets their voices slide over him like white noise. The sun’s angle is just enough to paint sharp shadows across their arms. A car honks from the intersection on the other side of the fence.

He could and would stay like this forever, probably. He can’t, though—because Reo.

Reo, who hasn't texted him today. Reo, who vanished after class with Karasu hours ago, and Nagi hasn’t seen him since. Reo, who walked past him in the hallway earlier with a sideways glance and that smile—calm, maddening. Nagi’s stomach coils, heat spreading low in his gut.

He hates that smile. Or maybe he loves it. Fuck knows.

Maybe he wants to stretch the corners of it until it breaks, slip his fingers into that pretty pink mouth, and press down on his tongue until he gags. Make Reo breathe unevenly because of him, only him.

“—Nagi,” Bachira sings.

“Hello? Earth to Nagi.”

Nagi blinks back into reality, realizing they’re both staring. “Huh?”

Isagi snorts. “Where'd you go just now?”

“Nowhere.”

“You’re smiling,” Bachira comments, delighted.

“Yeah, and it’s fucking terrifying,” Isagi chimes in, looking somewhat disturbed.

“I was thinking,” Nagi mutters, glancing at the dirt between his knees to school his expression.

“Yeah?” Bachira's grin sharpens. “About who?”

And of course, they already know.

“Reo,” Isagi sighs. “Again.”

There’s no point pretending. Nagi’s never pretended. He just shrugs, the corner of his mouth still lifted from the ghost of whatever thought had made it curl.

Isagi huffs. “Okay, I really gotta ask. What is this? With you and Mikage.”

“He's following him around like a dog,” Bachira says. “It's so cute.”

Nagi doesn’t bristle. He sits up instead, slow, like peeling himself up from the roots. The grass sticks to his shirt—he brushes it off absently.

“I dunno. I like being near him,” Nagi replies, although sounding unsatisfied with his own answer.

“Do you like him?” Isagi presses. “Like, like-like?”

Bachira giggles, something about cuteness aggression, before he half-launches himself at Isagi, knocking his book out of his hand and ruffling his hair in a way that looks incredibly painful. Grimacing, Isagi tolerates it.

Nagi tilts his head, pensive. ‘Like’ isn’t the word.

He likes—? No, he wants—wants Reo close enough to ruin. Wants his hands in his hair, wants his fingers in his mouth. Wants to hold him down and soothe him at the same time. He wants to pin his wrists over his head and reduce him to a drooling, crying mess. Wants to see how far that band of perfect performance can stretch before it snaps. He wants tears and honesty.

The cut-open core of Mikage Reo, trembling and defenseless and breathless and bared open and his.

He wants everything.

“I think—I want to take him apart,” Nagi confesses, voice even and serious and thoughtful.

Isagi goes still, his teasing smile faltering. 

Bachira laughs.

“Ah—”

“I want to kiss him and wreck him and hit every weak point until he cries, then learn him inside out,” Nagi says, utterly conversational; he’s not really looking at them anymore. “I want to be the only person he can’t lie to.”

Isagi gapes. Bachira lets out a long whistle.

“I'll be his watchdog for now. He can treat me like a pet if he wants. I don't care. I'll follow him until he gets used to it, and expects it. I'll be standing there to catch the pieces in my hands when he finally shatters.”

Dead silence.

“You’re—out of your fucking mind,” Isagi grits out.

“No shit,” Bachira's still grinning. Perhaps even more so than before. “You’re in love, man.”

Nagi just shrugs.

Isagi looks weirded out, mildly horrified by both Nagi and Bachira’s apparent nonchalance with the situation at hand, whatever that might look like in his small, stupid little head. “That’s so—”

“Devoted,” Bachira finishes for him dreamily, wide-eyed, hands clasping. “Romantic.”

“Sociopathic,” Isagi corrects under his breath.

No one speaks after that.

A gust rattles the vending machine. Someone drops a glass bottle on the gym floor.

Who knows, maybe Isagi’s right, and he’s insane. Who cares, though?

Nagi leans back onto the grass.

—

Nagi finds him in the courtyard.

The light is soft gold, leaking through the canopy of leaves above, warm enough to make the stupid stone benches bearable. Reo’s sitting on the platform edge of the fountain, one leg pulled up, flipping through a book laid open on one thigh.

He always looks half-focused, like he’s two moves ahead of whatever’s happening now.

Nagi glances at the time. Seems good. Then, approaches.

“You’re going to your room?”

Reo glances up from his novel, long fingers posed prettily against the translucent paper, one page caught between his extended middle and index finger, one eyebrow raised, his mouth forming a straight line. “Maybe. Why?”

“I'm coming with you.” He leaves it at that. It’s not a question, just the obvious conclusion.

Reo blinks, then laughs, eyes twinkling in amusement. “Yeah? Says who?”

“Me.” Nagi shifts his weight, uniform sleeves too tight on his wrists, cuffs dotted with coffee stains of varying opacity.

The breeze pulls at Reo’s hair, catches a strand that’s slipped loose from the careful hold of his tie. He doesn’t fix it.

“And why should I let you?”

Nagi shrugs. “Because I want to.”

“That's not an answer,” Reo notes. But his voice is playful, not dismissive.

“It's my move,” Nagi counters—and it’s true, he’s been waiting. 

That makes Reo still for a second. not stiff—just ruminative.

“Fine,” he says, snapping his book shut and rising to his feet. He slips the novel into his bag before picking it up. “Let's see what you do with it.”

They walk in sync. The dorm buildings are farther off than most students prefer to walk midday—up a ‘The Exorcist’ staircase tucked between two secondary corporate houses past a neighborhood garden, a series of steps, then the old building with sun-bleached columns.

Nagi’s never been inside Reo’s dorm building before. He's seen a bit of it from his own second-story window, obviously. Newer, sleeker, different from the standardized sameness of the rest of student housing.

Recently built, an upscale dorm paid for by Mikage money, so Nagi’s heard. Occupied mostly by Reo’s friends and those with connections.

Fitting. Reo doesn’t suit ordinary.

The elevator ride is quiet. Reo leans against the wall and stares at the mirrored ceiling. 

Nagi watches the numbers change, and wonders if Reo knows that even like this—doing nothing, saying nothing—he’s the most interesting part of Nagi’s day.

When they get to the room, Reo unlocks the door with a lazy swipe of his ID.

Clean. Pale wood floors. Slate walls. A TV set up. The desk’s organized, the shelves curated—books and paintings and small expensive objects lined in even spacing. A diffuser puffs out lemon mist.

Yeah. The space smells like him. Like linen, citrus, subtle sandalwood cologne, spiced and faintly expensive. Nagi steps inside without asking.

“You always keep it like this?” He says, eyes drifting from the bed to the shelves to the windows.

Reo drops his bag beside the desk.

“Duh. I'm not about to live in a sty. Or a jail cell.”

Nagi steps past him, pauses in front of the neatly made bed. There’s no clutter. No evidence of stress. It doesn’t feel lived in—but it is. Reo fits here.

“You have too much money,” Nagi mutters.

But he wonders—if Reo's dad was fed up and resentful and materialistic enough to ship him off to this pig sty, why would he invest in building an entire dorm building here. For Reo. Was it even for Reo? It seems like some of the other richer kids at the school also stay here, but Reo’s on the top floor. Did Reo's father still care? Or was this one of those things—a blade disguised as a hair comb, one of those laser lipsticks in the movies. Or maybe it’s more double-edged.

Nagi wants to ask—Reo's parents seem to still care about him, but something still feels off.

“Didn’t hear a ‘thank you for inviting me in’.” Reo rolls his eyes at Nagi’s approving nods at his decor.

“You didn’t invite me.”

“True,” Reo grants, grinning as he collapses into his desk chair. “You barged in like a stray. Bad boy. Bad dog.”

Nagi watches him, the way he sprawls, loose-limbed and arrogant.

The way the light from the window cuts across his face and mouth, catching on his cheekbone. His expression is lighter now—perhaps just a consequence of being in his own space. (But no one else gets this, this Reo, hopefully.)

“What's that look for?” Reo asks, chin in hand.

“Nothing.”

“You’re thinking something.”

“Yeah. I do that sometimes.”

Reo snickers again, teeth catching on his lip. “Dangerous. Don’t hurt yourself.”

Nagi walks a slow circle around the room like he’s scoping it out (like he’s laying claim). It is a claim, in a way. If reo’s letting him in here, into the space he keeps for himself, then that’s something. 

Another opening. Another crack. A strip of wallpaper peeled away. And Nagi doesn’t care if the whole school starts whispering about it—he’ll bare his throat if that’s what it takes.

“Are you going to just keep shuffling around like a buffering Roomba?” Reo drawls, arms folded behind his head now, fingers pulling the tie out of his hair while stretching, and it spills loose.

Nagi looks at him, thoughtful. “Thinking about where I'll sleep when I stay over.”

Reo chokes on a laugh. He wheezes and nearly coughs. It's incredulous. It's a beautiful sound. “You’re already planning sleepovers?”

“Why not?”

“God, you’re actually a brat.” Nagi watches Reo—his mouth twitching, the angle of his legs. “Won’t you get bored?”

Something flickers there—something that’s not entirely a joke, almost vulnerable.

“I don't get bored of you,” Nagi says. And it’s not smooth or clever or calculated. It’s just true.

Reo looks at him for a long time. Doesn’t joke. Doesn’t smile. Then, he turns away.

“Whatever. Don’t touch anything,” he says, like he’s trying to shrug it off. Like he’s trying not to believe Nagi’s confession. “Snacks are in the fridge, but if you spill anything, I'm going to kill you and hide your body under my floorboards.”

It’s not a yes. But it’s not a no either.

Reo, despite his feigned nonchalance, is affected by Nagj. Just sometimes. And Nagi relishes in the thought. He smiles to himself as he sits on the edge of the bed, sinking into the expensive memory foam with a happy sigh.

—

Saturday is warm and overcast, stuck between moods—too dark for sun, too light for rain; campus is quiet, thinned out by sleep-ins and off-site plans. Reo's hair is tied up in a loose half-bun, his jacket sleeves rolled to the elbow as he stuffs a grocery list into his pocket.

“You can stay if you want,” he says over his shoulder. “I'll be back in an hour.”

Nagi shrugs, falls into step beside him anyway. “I didn't say I wasn't coming.”

He hates walking. It's a hassle and long, and makes his knees ache for no reason. But it’s Reo. So, obviously he’ll go.

They cross the south quad. The sidewalks are speckled with dried leaves and candy wrappers. A group of underclassmen kick a medicine ball back and forth near the fountain, yelling insults at each other.

The gate off-campus is open—no security guard posted on weekends, and the road slopes gently downhill toward the little cluster of shops two kilometers out. Nagi stares at the cracked pavement and scuffs the toe of his sneaker against a weed pushing through.

“The campus shuttle runs every other hour,” he says eventually, hands cold. “You know that, right?”

Reo doesn’t answer right away. He slows down a little, eyes drifting toward the road, where a white shuttle bus just passed a moment ago—half-empty, humming, forgettable.

There’s something strange in his face.

Nagi steps closer. Their shoulders brush.

A hitch. The faintest shadow of something unreadable, thin and sharp and brief.

“I—don’t like—cars,” Reo states. His tone is casual, perfectly even. But he doesn’t look at Nagi when he says it. Doesn’t wait for a response either.

Just turns away, jaw twitching, adjusting the strap of his crossbody bag like the conversation is over.

And Nagi realizes—belatedly, stupidly—that he accidentally touched something real. The crash—obviously. It clicks into place in his brain with a quiet snap.

He remembers the way Reo said it—offhand, barely anything. There was a car. There was a night. It was the end of something. A last straw. He said it without asking for sympathy. 

And now, Nagi sees how it lingers anyway.

Mikage Reo, a wound that still bleeds, from time to time.

Reo keeps walking, pace easy and shoulders relaxed, like nothing happened.

He tucks this moment away—files it under everything else about Reo: his favorite gum, his dislike of cake frosting, the way the corners of his eyes fold when he lies, the way he can never stay still.

All the pieces that don’t match the polished version he gives to everyone else.

Nagi decides to take a huge gamble—because he has suspicions, but Reo makes him impatient. Reo has already given him an inch. He'll take a mile and hope Reo forgives him for it.

Yeah.

The rain comes quiet, like it doesn’t want to interrupt them. Just a faint, misting drizzle, clinging to the air.

Reo doesn’t seem to mind the weather. His sleeves are still rolled up, neck bare, hood pushed back even as the first cold beads settle against his collarbone.

Nagi can’t help it. He says, quietly, “You lied to me, didn’t you?”

Reo doesn’t stop walking. His head tilts, just barely, like a twitch of muscle. “What?”

Nagi shrugs, watching the ground. “About the crash. About why you ended up here.”

“What the fuck?” Reo's voice is sharp, caught halfway between disbelief and insult. “What the hell are you talking about? I never—fucking lied. Do you think I'm some kind of attention seeker? What the fuck?”

“You said it was because you got into an accident after a party,” Nagi says softly, hoping Reo won’t completely shut down and storm off. “And you were drunk. So they sent you here.”

“Yeah? That’s what fucking happened.”

“No,” Nagi shakes his head. “That's what you told me.”

Reo turns his head, frowning now, rain catching in the ends of his lashes. “What, you gonna say you know when I lie or some corny shit?”

“I've seen you get into Karasu’s car,” Nagi refutes calmly. “You've made driving plans with your friends. Said you were going to the coast last weekend. You don’t avoid cars. You still drive. Your car is kept in the campus lot.”

Reo breathes out a short laugh. Bitter, but with an undercurrent of nervousness. “So?”

“You lied.” Nagi doesn’t hesitate, “You don’t hate cars.”

Drizzle beads in Reo’s hair now, catching the strands that slipped loose from his half-bun. His voice drops low, lethal. “Do you think just because I haven’t told you to fuck off you’re entitled to everything about me?”

Nagi looks at him. Really looks.

He’s not mad at Reo. He should be, maybe—but mostly he just feels that same gnawing thing again, low and hungry. Want.

“No,” he says. “But you invited me into your dorm.”

Reo’s jaw tightens.

Nagi keeps going, “Your dorm’s new. It's nice.”

He flicks a glance sideways, quiet and deliberate. “That whole building’s funded by the Mikage family, isn’t it?”

Reo doesn’t answer.

“So, why would your dad build you a private dorm if he was done with you?”

The silence rings between them.

Finally—finally—Reo sighs. Long. Deep. The kind of sigh that sounds like it hurts on the way out.

“Because he’s not done with me,” Reo says, like it takes effort. “I'm done with him.”

The rain thickens. The sidewalk darkens in patches beneath their feet. Reo resumes walking, but this time, his balance is off. Not a lot, just slightly.

Nagi walks beside him, gaze fixed to the curve of Reo's shoulder.

“You’re so—just—fucking persistent. Fine. I wasn’t drinking that night,” Reo declares. “Just soda. Because I was driving my friends home.”

Nagi listens.

“All three were in the car, wasted as hell. Something wasn’t right, though. With me or the car. The brakes gave out halfway. I crashed through a median and into a ditch.” Reo pauses. His voice thins. “Broke like, three ribs. Right arm. Fractured two vertebrae and my wrist. It was pretty bad.”

Something in Nagi coils and stabs and hurts—the image hurts like hell—the smoking car, a scared Reo.

“Anyway, I couldn't wake the others. They were out cold. I couldn’t tell how bad they were hurt or bleeding—I could barely see much myself. There was no one around, it was the middle of the night on a deserted highway. But they could die without help. So I walked.” His mouth twitches, like he’s laughing at himself. “Seven kilometers down the highway, on the side of the road. I was seeing double the whole time.”

Nagi doesn’t speak. If he does, Reo will stop.

“When I got help, the police didn’t find anything. No prints, no footage. My darling father thought I'd cut the brakes myself. Said it was another dramatic stunt to get out of taking responsibility. Investigation was called off."

“That's—” Nagi starts, but Reo cuts him off.

“—Stupid, I know,” he rubs a hand over his face to wipe off the water. “It wasn't until after I got here that the guy finally confessed—this guy who used to hang around my friends—he was older, kind of obsessed. He got scared and told the cops. Said he’d spiked my drink, cut the brakes of my car because he wanted me scared and helpless to see if I'd call him.”

Nagi’s blood begins to boil under his skin.

“Anyway, my father apologized to me. The press died down. But by then,” Reo’s voice trails off. His hands are deep in his pockets, now, feigning nonchalance. “I didn't want to go home anymore.”

Reo's voice is soft now. Measured—he’s spent so long convincing himself he’s over it.

“Google the rest if you want,” he chuckles. “Made headlines for weeks.”

Nagi’s incapable of speech. His hands itch. With the urge to touch, to soothe, to do something. But he just walks silently, next to Reo. The space between them feels fragile now.

Reo let him in—told him the truth. Not the clean version, not the easy one.

And Nagi wants—more than anything—to keep that. To curl himself around it and never let anyone close to it. The itch only gets worse. Crawling down his arms like static under his flesh.

Reo walked seven kilometers, bleeding. In pain.

Saved his friends. But didn’t even mention that part like it mattered.

You’re so lovely, Nagi thinks, you think you’re so many bad things, and you’ve assigned yourself so many onerous adjectives because you don’t even realize how soft you are. How utterly lovely.

How pretty Reo must’ve looked then—drenched in rain and blood and streetlight, too stubborn to fall, too desperate. How soft his mouth would’ve looked even then. hHw saturated his eyes.

Did he cry? Pulling glass out of his hands in the car? Or at the hospital?

Did he do it alone, quietly, the way Nagi imagines he does now—when no one’s watching, when the world goes still?

He said he was seeing double. Had he been scared? Had he dragged himself up from the concrete because no one else would save him?

Nagi wants to go back in time and find him. Not just to stop it—that would be merciful. And kind (Nagi is neither merciful nor kind). But to see it, touch his face, carry him, hold all of that pain in his arms and make it his.

He's never wanted anything so badly in his life.

(Nagi’s never been homicidally inclined, but he feels it right now—for that faceless idiot who spiked Reo’s soda. Nagi would do it today, if given the chance.)

This is what he wants. He wants to be the only one Reo tells things. The only one Reo chooses. The only one who gets to see beneath the surface, the casual laugh, the practiced mask.

The need crawls up Nagi’s spine like a fever. It's hot. It’s eating him alive.

He looks at Reo's fingers, freed from his pockets now. The arch of his palm. He wants to sink his teeth into the delicate skin beneath his wrist and never let go.

He doesn’t. Not yet. He just keeps walking beside him. Thinking: Tell me more. Give me everything. Let me keep you.

Thinking: You should’ve cried into my shoulder, Reo.

Thinking: Next time, let me be the one you call when you’re bleeding.

Nagi could—could pull him back by the strap of his bag and ask if it still hurts when he closes his eyes. Ask who picked him up after the crash, and who didn’t. But that’s not the move.

Instead, he mutters, “Stupid.”

Reo glances back, offended. “Excuse me? What now, you asshole?”

“You,” Nagi responds, “Walking this far. For groceries. On purpose.”

(Reo doesn’t hate cars. As long as he can check the brakes before getting in.)

Reo smirks. “Tired already?”

“You owe me snacks for this,” Nagi complains, pawing at Reo like the desperate hound he knows he is.

Reo snorts. “Unbelievable.”

They pass a cracked sign for a florist’s shop that closed down two years ago. A dog barks behind a rusted gate. Nagi moves sluggishly. Lets Reo pull a little ahead again. Lets the leash stretch just far enough before tugging taut.

(He’ll walk beside him, aching knees and all.)

—

Mid-afternoon, the sun slants and catches and bounces against aryu’s stupid fucking gigantic sunglasses (it’s the biggest eyesore Nagi has ever seen. Other than, like, Isagi. In general). The refraction blinds Nagi as Aryu re-applies lip gloss to his mouth.

Shidou’s draped across a sun-warmed lounge chair with his shirt half-off, arguing about anime endings with Karasu and Otoya, while Karasu keeps trying to light a cigarette that keeps going out in the wind. 

Yukimiya’s fixing his hair in the reflection of his phone screen like he doesn’t care about the conversation, but at the same time, won’t miss a beat.

And in the middle of them all, quiet as breath, Nagi sits on the ledge, beside Reo.

They don’t bother trying to talk to him directly anymore. They’ve stopped asking what he’s doing here.

They’ve stopped trying to figure it out. They just glance once—confirm he’s still tucked near Reo like a tall shadow—and move on. Nagi doesn’t mind it. After all, it’s not disrespect. It’s resignation.

Reo has always been precise about who he keeps near. They know it as well as Nagi.

So when Nagi stayed—showed up again and again, strange and standoffish—and Reo never told him to leave, they eventually understood. He wasn’t going anywhere. 

Good, Nagi thinks. He watches them without expression, one knee bent, head tilted against the ledge wall.

They’re all too loud; too much talking, too much stupidity—but Reo's sitting next to him, thigh brushing his, idly sipping from a bottle of flavored iced tea with one leg stretched out, the other bent, lazily scrolling through his phone. And that makes everything else tolerable.

Nagi’s eyes drift. Reo’s hair is mussed from the wind, his sleeves rolled to his elbows. 

Nagi notices a few scars peaking out, varying discoloration. He makes a note to ask about them when it’s his turn again. Which ones were from the accident? What fights gave him the others?

His fingers are slim around the bottle, pinky ring catching the light. He’s chattering to Yukimiya about something—a new nightclub opening, Nagi thinks (Yukimiya and his stupid fucking ‘connections’ again)—his tone is only halfway interested but not personally insincere.

Then, Reo’s gaze flicks sideways, just for a moment. He looks at Nagi like he’s checking in. No reason, just because.

It makes Nagi’s head swim. He doesn’t need much. Just that.

“Bored?” Reo murmurs under his breath, too quiet for the others to hear.

He shrugs. “Not really.”

“Want to go back?”

“No.”

Reo tilts his head. A flicker of something in his eyes. “You like it here?”

“No,” Nagi repeats. “I like you.”

Reo doesn’t flinch. His mouth curves slightly at the corner. His lashes lower. He looks back at Yukimiya and doesn’t say a word about it.

Later, when Karasu throws a bottle cap at Shidou and Aryu starts loudly ranking everyone’s “kissability scores” just to stir chaos, Reo leans close to Nagi, shoulder pressing in, and orders, “Come,” before standing and walking toward the doors.

He says that a lot, Nagi muses. Like he’s testing, waiting to see if, when Nagi gets tired of Reo commanding him like a dog. It's an amusing thought. Because Nagi never will. Smirking slightly, Nagi rises and follows.

They step inside the stairwell—quiet, empty, dim—and Reo doesn’t stop until they’re a few landings down, where the rooftop noise doesn’t reach.

It's still warm here, though. Concrete bricks and sun-soaked echoes.

Reo turns to him and leans back against the wall, arms crossed. “You’re really okay just sitting there? Not saying anything?”

‘Careful, it almost sounds like you care about me,’ Nagi wants to say. But why would he, when this is exactly what he wants? The more naive Reo gets, the more careless, the better.

Nagi nods. “It's fine.”

Reo looks at him for a long moment, like he’s trying to read something that keeps changing under his eyes. “You’re so weird.”

“No, you are.”

Reo’s mouth curves. This time it's even smaller, but it’s unadulterated and real.

His face is lit up in a way that makes Nagi’s throat tighten. His hair falling around his cheekbones, lashes dark against his skin, an even darker indigo than his hair. 

The shape of him is lithe and angular and wiry and defined all at once. Like a jewel. A shard of pure amethyst. Tanzanite. Garnet. No—something stronger. Something that might not even exist. Purple diamond.

There’s a light, unnoticeable sheen of sweat at the hollow of his throat (Nagi wants to lick it). His fingers are tucked under his arms where they cross, a dainty silver bracelet on one wrist glinting (probably costs two years of groceries), clasped below a black hair tie.

“You’re staring again,” Reo says, interrupting his thoughts.

“Yeah,” Nagi admits. “Problem?”

Reo laughs airily but doesn’t tell him to stop. He just exhales, eyes fluttering half-closed like the weight of it—Nagi’s attention, his presence—wraps around his ribs and tugs. Something he’s begun to expect.

They’re not touching, but it would take nothing to close the distance.

Nagi can feel it down to the soles of his feet, a pulse—coiling and possessive. He could.

Could push Reo up against the wall and kiss him until he forgot every name but his. He could. Could tip his chin up and make him promise things, make him surrender to Nagi completely. 

He could. And win once and for all. But he doesn’t. Because that’s not how the game works.

Instead, he says, filled with unspoken implications, “It’s your turn, y’know.”

He says it, knowing Reo didn’t forget. He says it because Reo didn’t forget.

This too, could be a test. To see if he’d cheat. But no, he’ll keep playing with Reo’s rules, Reo’s terms, Reo’s conditions. And Reo doesn’t realize it, but he’ll win anyway.

Proving his inference correct, Reo smiles, a creeping thing, slow and dangerous and Reo. “Good boy.”

Ah, fuck—Nagi’s system stutters, breath wobbly as the room swirls like it’s underwater. But the air he takes in is insufficient, low oxygen, like he’s on the summit of a mountain. The sound of the drawn-out vowels nearly makes Nagi shudder, full body, euphoric and devastating. Like he’s being pulled from his body.

Reo notices. His smile grows wider, his eyes flash gleefully. Nagi feels himself pouting. 

Reo’s so unfair. So fucking unfair. Even when Nagi’s playing nice over here.

Reo flicks him in the forehead. The sting is distant compared to the warmth emanating from his skin. 

“My turn, hm? Should I go easy on you?”

Nagi touches his fingertips to the center of his forehead. Shakes his head. He doesn't want easy—he wants Reo, and he wants it to burn. “Do your worst.”

Chapter Text

The town feels like it’s been put on half-volume.

Shadows stretch long between old trees, and the light has gone syrupy. The hum of traffic’s a low murmur behind ivy-covered walls. A few blocks from campus, past a dead bookstore and a shuttered barbershop, Reo slips down a narrow alley with no sign, no street name.

“Come,” he says in that addictive way he does, glancing back once. “Shortcut.”

Nagi follows. (Of course he does.)

The path opens into a small courtyard behind what might’ve been a classical teahouse once—yagisugi-paneled and worn, the faint smell of something sweet and herbal drifting from inside. A koi pond curls through the stonework, uneven in shape, the bridge above it slightly tilted, settling into age.

Reo tosses his jacket on a bench and stretches his arms overhead, shirt riding up a little. He sinks down lazily, legs sprawled long, head tipped back. The veins at his throat catch the light like delicate woven cords.

Nagi stays standing for a beat. Watches him breathe.

Then, without comment, he crouches near the pond’s edge instead of joining him.

He draws his fingertips across the surface of the water until a few of the koi curiously drift toward him—dumb-looking, fat, and unhurried, their scales glinting copper and white and blue.

Reo tosses him a small cloth bag that crinkles with plastic inside. “They like soy crackers.”

One of them stares determinedly at Nagi. He frowns at it. Its stupid round face looks increasingly stupid and familiar as it swims ahead of all the surrounding fish self-importantly.

He tears the cracker packet open and pinches one crumbling piece between his fingers.

“They like anything,” he replies to Reo absently. Then, to himself, he mutters, “I don't wanna feed the Isagi-koi, though.”

Maybe he should catch it for Bachira.

Reo grunts from behind him, seemingly moving a bench or something closer to the water. “Who?”

“Never mind. Anyway, they like anything you give them.”

Reo laughs under his breath. “Sounds familiar.”

Nagi glances over his shoulder. “Me?”

Reo doesn’t deny it. He walks over before squatting next to Nagi, propping his chin on his hand. “You do have a habit of showing up and demanding wherever there’s something to consume. Games. Food. My attention.”

“I don’t consume your attention,” Nagi argues. “You offered it.”

He drops a crumb into the pond and watches the koi fight for it. The Isagikoi is fucking winning. Nagi considers googling if grabbing a koi by the gills will kill it, or if it’s good corrective discipline.

Reo takes and throws a piece of a cracker at his head. Nagi lets it hit him.

The silence between them settles again, not uncomfortable. The breeze picks up, rustling through bamboo and vine. One of the koi bumps the side of the pond with its head. The Isagikoi swims over to check on it.

Reo eventually gets up and dusts himself off to go sit back on the sun-warmed bench, legs stretched out in front of him. He snaps open the can of sparkling water he picked up from the convenience store the way here and begins sipping it like it’s wine.

Nagi stays by the edge for a while. Watching.

Not the koi, he doesn’t really care about the koi. Reo. He just likes the way Reo looks from this crouched angle, with sunlight painting his throat. Like a painting.

Eventually, though, he stands and makes his way over to the bench, and he sits too.

Not beside Reo—at least, at first. He tucks the cracker pouch into his own pocket and sinks to the smooth stone ground near the bench instead, one knee up, back against the edge. 

He’s always liked being lower than him. He likes looking up.

Reo says nothing about it.

Nagi watches him sip from his drink again. Watches his lashes lower when he lifts the can, the way he swallows, the intoxicating motion of his throat, the shimmer of condensation on the rim of the can where his mouth just was.

Nagi wants to kiss it off him. Wants to pin him down on this bench and drag his teeth across his throat, slow and possessive and selfish, until Reo stops pretending to be unaffected.

Reo glances down at him suddenly, sharply, like he felt the thought.

Nagi blinks up, expression blank. Big eyes, innocent. Yeah. He’s the total picture of innocence right now. A harmless puppy.

Reo snorts. “You’re doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

“That thing where you look like you’re five seconds from eating me alive.”

Ah, well. At least he tried. 

Entirely unconvincing, “I'm not.”

“Mhm,” Reo placates mockingly and takes another sip.

He doesn't move away, though. Doesn’t even look that fazed.

The silence between them stretches, but not uncomfortably. There's a rhythm to it now, the pauses and glances and small shifts in weight. It’s become a language. One that Nagi’s learning by heart. It's his new favorite.

“So,” Reo speaks. “My turn.”

Nagi hums.

Reo shifts slightly, stretching his legs so one heel taps Nagi’s sneaker. “Tell me something you’ve never told anyone. Like, literally.”

“What kind of question is that?”

“That’s rich, coming from you. Now answer, or it’s my win.”

Nagi hums, tuneless. There’s no particular story in his life that he feels is worth telling.

But maybe Reo should get used to the mundanity. He ponders, searching through dream-like memories.

A cloud overhead, shaped like a baby chick.

“When I was eleven, I forgot how to speak.”

Nagi watches the gears turn in Reo’s head as the words register. “What?”

Shrugging, he says, “My speaking ability was already kind of bad from the start. As a toddler, my parents left me home pretty often with a babysitter—our teenage neighbor. And she didn’t really talk to me. So I learned to speak and read from TV and the arcade, when I was old enough to walk down the block on my own. But when I was ten, my parents went abroad. My memory around that time is kinda fuzzy, though. It was boring and all, so I think I forgot most of it.”

Reo makes a noise of some kind that almost sounds disapproving.

“I went to school, even though I hated it, because it’s what my parents told me to do before they left. I came back. The neighbor would leave the meals for the next few days in the fridge for a while. But it stopped after a few months or so when my parents still weren’t back and they didn’t realize. I never asked. I just went to the store and bought jelly drinks in bulk. The squeeze packets—it was the only thing that wasn’t a hassle to eat. I hated wasting time eating instead of sleeping, because I'd rather sleep. A year passed pretty quickly. My parents came back from their travels.”

Nagi remembers the casual greeting, like they’d only been gone for a few hours instead of over a year. “They hugged me and greeted me but when I tried to respond, I couldn't get any sound to come out. When I tried to talk, I couldn't. It was like laryngitis, but not? I dunno, it’s weird to describe. It took a while to realize it was because I hadn't spoken a single word in a year. I had just—forgotten how to speak, I guess.”

“You were going to school, though?” Reo interrupts, his face an incomprehensible jumble and his eyes darkening rapidly, swirling like a galaxy. “Did—none of your teachers notice? That you didn’t speak? Didn’t say anything?”

Nagi can’t do more than just shrug again. “I got detention a few times for being uncooperative and disrespectful to teachers because they thought I was ignoring them. But my grades were fine, school was really easy. So it didn’t really matter.”

“But,” Reo trails off. He shakes his head, gesturing for Nagi to continue.

“It was just annoying to have to relearn to talk. I had to spend two hours in the guidance counselor’s office every day figuring out how to speak again with her. It didn’t take that long, but it was still annoying.”

“Then,” Reo actually sounds cautious, aggrieved. “What then?”

Nagi pulls at a splinter of wood sticking out of the bench. “Well, the next time my parents left, they gave me a plant. A cactus—he’s still in my room right now. They made me promise to talk to him, at least say good morning and good night. So it wouldn’t happen again.”

“A—cactus?” Reo's voice sounds odd, like it’s being squeezed somewhere in his throat.

Nagi brushes it off. Probably nothing. He twists to rest his forearms on the bench next to Reo's thigh, brightening at the prospect of introducing the two of them. “His name’s Choki.”

Reo forces a smile. “That's cute.”

Maybe Reo isn’t a cactus person. Maybe he’s more of a dog person. Or a flower person.

Maybe another story would work better. 

Awkwardly, he resolves to try again, “Uh, there was also the other time where—I liked the sound of chalk on the ground, so I used to draw on the sidewalk outside—and the neighborhood kids were convinced i was drawing satanic summoning circles so they refused to come near me.”

“What the hell?” Reo looks even more flabbergasted. Nagi suppresses a chuckle. “What were you drawing?”

“Video game diagrams. Maze patterns. Fake runes from fantasy RPGs.”

That gets a real laugh out of Reo. A sharp and pretty one, head tossed back. “What the hell, you were one of those kids?”

Nagi side-eyes him. “What kids?”

“The ones who grew up and now slink around Reddit forums trying to explain to normies why their microwave is haunted.”

“I did that once,” Nagi says, expression deadpan.

Reo chokes. “Seriously?”

Nagi nods sagely. “It wasn't haunted. I just microwaved a battery by accident. It melted.”

“I can’t tell if you’re stupid or insane.”

Both. “Neither. I was curious.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Reo snorts, scoots over, rests one elbow on the bench’s arm, and pats the space next to him. “Up, puppy. Come sit.”

Nagi obeys without protest.

“Good boy.”

“Hm,” Nagi responds.

“Anyway,” Reo exhales slowly, leaning back farther. His arm brushes Nagi’s shoulder as he does, and doesn’t pull away. Warmth blooms from the contact. “For what it’s worth, I like the sound of your voice.”

Nagi’s breath stutters. He doesn’t know if Reo notices.

“It’s—not grating and annoying like other people’s, it’s gentle, and,” Reo continues, more to himself than anything, “and like, salving, like cool water.”

The words sink into Nagi's spine like electric heat. It’s not a declaration. Not a confession. It’s just something Reo let slip—unthinking, offhanded. And maybe that’s what makes it so intimately close.

Nagi swallows. His pulse beats in his jaw, his throat, and his fingertips. Murmurs, “You like hearing me talk?”

Reo finds his gaze.

For a moment—his eyes are bare. No mask. Something softer. Real.

Then, he tips his head, and says, “Maybe.”

Nagi leans in slightly. Not enough to close the distance like he wants, but enough to make it known.

“It’s my turn again,” he says quietly, placid.

Reo’s lips (pink, pretty) part—his breath catching basically imperceptibly.

“Yeah?” He returns airily.

“Yeah,” Nagi hums. “You gave me too much just now.”

Huffing out a laugh, Reo concedes, “Then take what you want, puppy.”

And so Nagi does.

He shifts closer, lets his fingers brush Reo’s wrist, the one still holding the drink. Traces the ridge of a vein with a fingertip, featherlight and slow. He watches the faint quiver in Reo's fingers with rapt attention, cataloging each reaction.

Then, he takes the can from him, tilts it to his mouth, and puts his mouth to the same spot Reo did. And drinks.

Deliberate.

When he sets it back down, Reo’s looking at him with something unreadable in his eyes.

But still—still—he doesn’t say no.

And Nagi knows he’s winning.

—

Okay, so Nagi might not win everything, per se. 

Bachira and Isagi are debating something aggressively next to him, but Nagi’s elsewhere. Particularly, he’s thinking about some silly thing Reo said earlier—an offhand comment about the art history teacher’s sewage breath—and how the corners of his mouth had tilted up, just a little, before he caught himself.

Yeah. So, that’s where Nagi’s head is when someone stops in front of him.

“Y’know, when you first showed up, you didn’t look the type to play a bitch’s lapdog, Nagi. Especially after you walked around the first couple of months like you were beyond that.”

Nagi suppresses a yawn. The only thing he’s beyond right now is this conversation.

The voice isn’t overtly hostile at first. Just cold.

Kido—something. Nagi doesn’t fully recall the guy’s full name.

A third-year. Not a friend of Nagi’s, not one of Reo’s. At least, not anymore. (At the very least Nagi knows they weren’t ever particularly close. Casual acquaintances, at most.)

Nagi’s eyes flick up lazily. Kido stands with his hands in the pockets of his blazer (which looks dumb, by the way).

Two guys are behind him, neither worth remembering the names or faces of. They’re ugly anyway. Even more visually upsetting than Isagi. So, bad.

“Okay,” Nagi says. “I really don’t care, though.”

Kido’s expression grows sharp, irked. “You ought to watch your mouth, watchdog.”

“Hey,” Isagi shifts to Nagi’s side, protective yet visibly shaking in his boots. “He’s not bothering anyone.”

Kido ignores him. “I'm surprised, is all. Reo doesn’t usually let people hang around unless he’s getting something out of it. Thought you seemed smarter than that.”

It’s not anger in his tone—it’s something else—bitterness? Wounded. Like he’s been here before and didn’t walk away clean.

Nagi stares at him. The breeze pulls a strand of hair into his eyes. It itches.

“If you have a problem with him,” he replies evenly, slowly, “take it to him, not me.”

Kido's jaw ticks. “Oh, I did. More than once. Reo’s good at pretending not to hear things he doesn’t like.”

“So talk louder,” Nagi says.

Isagi steps forward again. “Okay, seriously. You’re starting shit for no reason—”

Kido cuts him a glance, unimpressed. “—Stay out of it.”

Before Isagi can continue to try and peacemake, one of Kido’s friends steps up and puts a hand on his shoulder. Isagi shoves it off and gets shoved back, stumbling a few feet with a grimace.

“Yo,” Bachira pipes up, tone light but eyes black. “You wanna do this here? You sure?”

He’s smiling, but it’s not kind. Kido's friends step back swiftly. Bachira proceeds to walk to Isagi’s side to haul him back to his feet, eyeing them all warningly.

The pause that follows feels longer than it is. Kido doesn’t look at Bachira—he looks at Nagi again, like he’s weighing something.

“You think he’s letting you close because he likes you?” Kido asks, almost too low to hear. “He lets people in when it’s useful. Then, he drains them fucking dry and drops them when he gets bored. I just hope you’ve got an exit plan.”

Nagi says nothing.

Kido’s not completely wrong. But Reo’s already let him closer than most, so he feels it’s justified for him to be hopeful. And Nagi isn’t looking for permanence. He's looking for more than that.

Kido holds his stare a second longer, then scoffs. Walks off without another word.

The two with him follow, one throwing a last glare back.

When they’re gone, Isagi mutters a string of curses under his breath and dusts off his shirt. “Fucking assholes,” he finishes.

Bachira hums, back to his chipper, bubbly self. “Nagi's got a fanboy.”

“More like antifan.”

Nagi doesn’t respond to either of them. He’s still watching the space Kido left behind.

Not because of him, obviously—but because of what he said.

Probably because it doesn’t really make sense to him—all that—melodramatic, angry spewage. Because Nagi doesn’t care if he’s being used. He just wants to be there. Wants the slivers Reo lets slip through. The half-smiles, the tired eyes, the mask starting to crack.

There’s nothing he wants from Reo. He just wants Reo. 

They can call him a dog. He’d crawl if Reo asked.

—

The sky’s gone gray, stretched thin by dusk. The air smells like dust and ozone—like rain’s coming, eventually. Nagi doesn’t mind the weather. He's walking along the edge of the west hall, the long back corridor that curves around the equipment shed and the old tennis court. No one really comes out this way unless they’re cutting through.

Nagi likes that.

He’s thinking about Reo again. The way Reo had blinked at something Karasu said earlier and genuinely laughed, unexpected, like it surprised even him.

Nagi had watched, only half-listening to the joke itself. It was easier to keep his eyes on Reo than pretend he cared about anything that came out of Karasu’s mouth. Easier to exist like this—trailing Reo, orbiting just close enough to bathe in the divine light.

The thought has barely settled when he hears footsteps behind him. He doesn’t turn immediately, but a ding of alarm begins to chime in his head.

They’re quick, purposeful. Four sets. Maybe five.

Nagi slows. Shit. He fucked up. He’s fucked up, hasn’t he?

“You’ve got a real smug walk, you know that?”

The voice is familiar—one of the guys Kido brought earlier. Not Kido himself. Yet, at least.

Nagi doesn’t sigh, but it’s close. He stops walking. Turns his head, just a little. They’re close now. Two in front, one behind, another to his right.

“You think you're hot shit just 'cause that annoying prick Mikage picked you up like a lost cat and made you his bitch?”

Nagi’s face doesn’t move. “No,” he says, even though it’s a waste of breath to even try.

“Then fuckin’ act like it.”

The guy on the right moves first.

It’s a shoulder check—deliberate, sharp, not hard enough to bruise but enough to send a message. Nagi lets it happen. His body shifts but doesn’t stagger.

“Not gonna say anything?”

Nagi tilts his head. “Well, you’re gonna swing again anyway, so what’s the point of wasting air?”

The one behind him grabs his hood and yanks back. It’s sloppy—more annoyance than skill—and Nagi stumbles a step, then ducks forward and twists, the movement instinctual. One of them curses. Another grabs his arm.

That’s when the first punch lands—low, sharp, in the ribs. It forces the wind from his lungs.

Nagi drops to one knee to rebalance, and someone kicks his thigh hard enough to numb it. He hears a grunt escape his own mouth. There’s no fear in him—just static. And dull, simmering irritation. Asking ugh, why?

Four on one. He'll capitulate—easier. Wait it out. Don’t waste energy. They’ll get tired and bored pretty soon anyway.

One of them shoves him against the chain-link fence. Another swings again—fist to jaw this time—and it connects. The taste of copper ruptures behind his teeth.

Kido’s here too now—Nagi thinks. At least, he thinks he can hear his voice behind the incessant ringing in his ears that won't shut up now. 

But it doesn't really matter, because they don’t say anything else. Just fists now. Just the clanging, ugly sound of violence in a forgotten corner of the school.

Nagi doesn’t fight back. Not because he can’t, but because he truly doesn’t care enough to. He waits, drifting away from the ground and daydreams; at least, until he hears the first crunch of gravel at the far end of the corridor.

And someone’s voice—casual, but cutting through the air like a knife. A monstrous presence.

“You better be done.”

All of them freeze.

It's Bachira.

He starts walking. His hands hover by his hips, but no one’s mistaking the habit for softness.

“Are you sure you wanna keep this up?” Bachira asks, blinking innocently. “I mean. You can! If you want. But I'll just have to break all the bones in your hands after.”

The guy nearest to Nagi stiffens.

They scatter seconds later—fast, barely a backward glance.

Nagi breathes out slowly, tasting metal.

Bachira crouches beside him. “So. How many was it? Was it Kido?”

“Four,” Nagi mutters, spitting a blood-saliva mixture in the dirt. He's not angry, just done. “Five at some point. I think. And yeah.”

Bachira makes a low whistle. “You gonna tell Reo?”

Nagi hesitates. 

“No.”

Bachira grins. “Then I won’t either.”

They sit there a minute longer, Nagi’s back against the fence.

“Y’know, if you plan on keeping this from Reo, you’re not gonna be able to go to class tomorrow.”

“That bad?”

“Yeah, that bad, bub. You look like you just got hit by a car.”

“Damn.”

Laughing, Bachira replies, “Damn indeed.”

—

The door busts open like it’s been kicked.

Nagi startles a bit, not expecting anyone.

He’s slumped on the edge of the bed, torso bare, one arm draped over his stomach where a bruise the color of spoiled fruit is spreading out beneath the skin. his other hand loosely grips an ice pack, which he isn’t really using. His lip is cracked open and stinging; his cheek is swollen and tender to the touch. He tastes iron in the back of his throat. His knuckles are raw, and one eye is slightly puffy. His split lip is drying crooked, but it doesn’t really hurt. He's had worse.

He’s felt worse just watching Reo smile at someone else.

“You look like shit,” Reo says, voice low and clipped.

Nagi blinks. Then, looks up.

Reo is standing in the doorway like he owns the place (and like he’s trying to shatter something with the way he’s gripping the frame), fists clenched so tightly they’ve gone pale and shoulders high. 

A wild, feral edge to the set of his jaw, and the buttons of his blazer are all done up all wrong, and his tie is half undone. disheveled like Nagi’s never seen.

He’s panting—just slightly. Nagi stares unabashedly.

This—this is different. And Reo is still—somehow—so fucking pretty.

His mouth is tight, lips pressed together like he’s holding in more than he wants to say; his whole body vibrates with rage.

Over him. Over Nagi.

Nagi’s stomach flips. His chest feels too tight, like he’s just seen the sun blink red.

“What happened?” Reo demands, taking a step forward.

Nagi shrugs, then winces hard when the large splotches of purple all over his shoulder blades scream.

“Nothing much,” he mumbles. “Just some guys being annoying. It's fine.”

“You think I'm stupid?” Reo snaps.

The tone takes Nagi aback. But not as much as the way Reo's eyes burn when he says it, like a match struck against his spine.

“They jumped you,” Reo spits. “Who?”

“Does it matter?” Nagi’s voice is hollow (that’s all he can offer right now, with how fast his heart is beating).

“Nagi.” 

Nagi’s insides jolt and spark—Reo doesn’t say his name often (not that Nagi particularly minds the witty nicknames and condescending recalls).

He never found his name particularly nice to hear, but fuck if it doesn’t sound mind-meltingly good coming from Reo’s mouth. Honestly. It’s embarrassing how Nagi’s eyes nearly roll back at the two syllables. 

Reo’s too angry to notice. His lips part like he wants to yell, but he doesn’t. A shift in his eyes recaptures Nagi’s attention.

“I’m going to ask one last time,” he says, voice terrifyingly still. “Give me. The name.”

Nagi still doesn’t answer. Reo takes a step closer—and it’s getting dangerous for both of them, for vastly different reasons. “Nagi.”

Nagi god-honestly bites back a humiliating whimper. Holy fuck. God. He’s glad he’s already blood-stained, because his face feels lava red.

“Kido."

“Kido?” Reo repeats.

“Yeah.”

That’s all.

Nagi watches the storm build behind Reo’s eyes. But Reo isn’t surprised—Kido's always been a territorial bastard—cutthroat and arrogant, always circling Reo like a vulture, pathetically, desperately. Reo never gave him anything, never even looked his way unless forced to. But Kido noticed when Nagi started sticking close.

And Nagi—wants to smile. Genuine, delighted. Not because this is funny. Not because the physical wounds hurt less when Reo is in the room.

But because Reo is furious because someone touched his dog. His thing.

And now, Reo’s gaze is on him like a leash around his throat.

Nagi licks his lips.

“You’re really mad,” he says, slow and quiet, like it’s a secret (he’s trying so, so hard not to grin, to reveal his excitement). “You don’t usually get this mad for people.”

“I'm not people,” Reo replies, like he’s not even thinking about the implications, “and neither are you.”

He moves again, pacing the narrow strip of room between the bed and the desk like a tiger in a cage.

“You’re not going to class tomorrow,” he tells Nagi abruptly.

“Huh?”

“Or the day after. I'll handle it.”

“That’s dumb,” Nagi interjects, a touch puzzled. “I'm not bedridden. I can walk.”

“You don’t need to. You’re staying here. You’re going to stay here, puppy.”

“I’m not a dog, Reo.” (He’s lying.)

Reo pivots fast.

“Wrong,” he stalks forward, only stopping a breath away, too close. “You’re mine.”

Nagi’s breath catches. 

His fingers don’t touch Nagi—but his gaze does. Raking over him, soaking in the damage. Reo’s expression twists—something between rage and something worse.

Nagi wonders if Reo’s furious at them or at himself.

(He hopes it’s both.)

He feels high. He feels sick. He feels euphoric. His whole body burns like a fuse.

“You’re angry,” Nagi observes, like it’s strange.

Reo scoffs.

Nagi watches his hands. His breathing. The wrathful rise and fall of his shoulders. The look in his eyes—vicious. And so damn beautiful.

“You’re not going to class,” Reo repeats. “And if I see you outside the dorm tomorrow, I swear to god—” Reo’s already planning something. Nagi knows that look.

“You’re gonna go after him,” he suggests.

Reo doesn’t deny it.

Nagi breathes in and thinks about the sting in his ribs, the dull ache under his skin—and then about Reo’s voice, Reo's rage, Reo's claim. I t's not the pain that makes him smile. It’s this—this terribly beautiful, paroxysmal boy with fists clenched tight and murder in his mouth.

Nagi leans back on his hands, head tilted.

“I hope you do,” he admits.

Reo’s eyes snap to him, a flicker of surprise in the fire.

Nagi continues, “I've always dreamed of what you look like when you break someone.”

“Stay here,” Reo says again, on the edge of a request, not a command. A plea. “Promise me.”

“What will you give me if I do?”

Reo doesn’t answer. His mouth flattens into something unreadable. Then, he turns, strides to the door, and pauses there—back straight.

“Don’t make me say it again.”

And he’s gone.

The room feels colder, but Nagi stays burning.

He falls onto his back on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. His knuckles throb. But all he can feel is the pressure of Reo’s presence lingering in the air, seared into his skin.

—

The dorm rooftop is empty, the way it usually is during the mid-afternoon lull. 

Most students are in class at this time.  

The breeze is light. The sun slips between clouds, trailing warmth over Nagi’s arms where they lie folded behind his head.

He doesn’t plan to move.

A bit of soreness, his thigh still aches faintly, and the cut in the corner of his mouth that split again when he yawned earlier, but other than that, he’s pretty much back to normal shape. He stayed home for a few days, like Reo told him to. Reo still hasn’t checked on him.

It’s okay. He'll wait. He'll be good.

There’s a piece of lint on his shirt. He plucks it off. Watches it float for a second before the wind takes it.

Murmurs, footsteps, distant calls. Nothing close. Just a low rhythm, like waves. Nagi drifts easily, and hours pass.

The voices start when he’s half-asleep.

Second-years again, maybe third. Leaning out of their window. Too far to see Nagi. He stays quiet.

They’re laughing—but not in a fun way. Not like they’re enjoying it, more like they’re trying not to admit they’re scared.

“—fuckin’ nuts. I heard Kido was crying.”

“Crying? Dude, Kido was begging. Like, on his knees. Mikage didn’t even say anything, just beat the shit out of him.”

“No, like, actually? I thought the video was edited.”

“Because there’s no video of that part. Just the aftermath.”

“Still, it felt—I mean, broken arm, cracked ribs, blood all over his face. And Mikage? Not a scratch.”

“I dunno—I—he went a bit far, no?”

Nagi blinks. His fingers curl slightly.

They keep going, “What are you talking about? It didn’t stop there. You hear about Kido's old man?”

“Fraud, right? Mismanaged funds, unpaid taxes. Exposed in a shareholder leak last night. Stocks plummeted.”

“And the mom—she caught on a hotel security cam. Kissing some younger guy. Jailbait. The clip's everywhere. It’s all real, dates, names, timestamps. Family’s screwed. And then—ah, fuck, I almost feel bad for the guy—then, someone leaks that clip of kido jerking off in the computer lab.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Dead serious. It wasn’t even good porn. It was that cheap ecchi garbage with the bad animation and the stupid squeaky voices.”

“What the fuck?”

“Someone added sound effects to the video, too. Do you hear that?” 

Nagi assumes NPC A is playing the video for NPC B. 

“Oh my god, the wet slap noise? I—how did anyone even get that footage?”

“Dude. Are you slow? It was Mikage, duh.”

“No. You think he’d—?”

“Come on, dude. Everyone knows. Nobody’s gonna say it, but they know. I mean, no way it was random, yeah? It was methodical, like he decided to end Kido’s entire life, minus killing him. Family, friends, sports, pride. Everything. And now? Kido's off the team, kicked out of the group chat, out of the dorm because all his suitemates refuse to live with him. Nobody wants to be near him.”

“That’s—a bit cruel, don’t you think?”

“Would you want to go near him? After all that? With his fucked-up face?”

NPC B doesn’t answer, which is answer enough. NPC A laughs while NPC B deflects and redirects. 

“Anyway, what about Mikage?”

“What do you think? Still walking around like nothing happened. Kido basically got totally blitzed and left to dry. Even though he deserved it, shit.”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you saying you didn’t hear Kido bragging the other day about how he ‘put Mikage’s dog down’ ? C’mon, connect the dots. You tell me.”

“Still—the Mikage family still dabbles in politics, there’s gotta be some backfire or consequence for him for this?”

“Maybe, if he wasn’t Reo. Corporate bastards are always cold and calculating, it probably wouldn’t be too hard to cover it up if Reo ever got pinned by evidence for orchestrating it. Even then, Reo’s nothing like his dad. He's worse.”

The voices taper off, swallowed by the wind.

The sky overhead is bleeding orange now, cloud edges backlit like burn scars.

Reo—Reo did it for him. Nagi doesn’t fully get why. But it still makes him giddy, like he’s been injected with sweetener.

Nagi stays where he is, even after the NPCs’ window slides shut.

—

The sky is cooling into deep violet when Nagi finds him again.

Reo sits on the edge of the low stone wall outside the music wing, his blazer bunched behind him like a cushion, one leg bent at the knee, the other swinging idly. He’s holding something in his hands—a long strip of plastic from a broken guitar case, flipping it over and over between his fingers like it might tell him something if he’s patient enough.

The courtyard is empty except for them. Some distant door slams, but the sound is muffled. The lamplight overhead flickers once and steadies. Nagi doesn’t speak right away.

He just stands a few steps away, hands in his pockets, watching.

Eventually, Reo speaks without looking up, “You walk quiet.”

Nagi shrugs, even though Reo can’t see it. “You wait here often?”

Reo snorts. “What, like a lonely, depressed girl from a B-list teen drama?”

“You said it, not me.”

Now, Reo lifts his head up. Smirks, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You always follow people around after class?”

“Just you.”

There’s a flicker there—something like amusement, something like caution—but Reo doesn't chase it down. He just nods toward the spot beside him. “Sit, watchdog.”

Nagi does.

The stone is warm beneath him, heat still clinging from the sun earlier. Reo keeps playing with the plastic strip. It catches the light in jagged, uneven flashes.

They sit in silence for a while. It isn’t awkward. Nagi doesn’t think silence with Reo ever could be. Reo fills space without effort. Even stillness feels like a choice with him, not a gap.

“You know the entire campus has started calling you that, right?” Reo asks eventually, flicking the plastic at Nagi’s shin. It bounces off soundlessly. “My watchdog.”

“I don’t care.”

“You should.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s pathetic.”

Nagi leans back on his palms, gazing up at the sky. “So?”

Reo hums, half a laugh. “You’re weird.”

“You’re beautiful.”

That makes Reo pause. Just for a moment. He tosses the strip into the nearby bush and exhales. “You don’t know what to do with me, do you?”

Reo’s perceptive. And correct. Nagi turns his head toward him. “I know I want more.”

Reo’s gaze flicks sideways. He considers him—searching for the angle, the game, the trick. But Nagi isn’t playing anything. He never is. And Reo will soon realize that he never was, and he never intended to. 

He just wants. Constantly.

A breeze picks up, lifting Reo’s hair slightly. His collar flutters open a little more. He doesn’t fix it.

“You’re strange,” Reo says, voice quieter now. “I can’t figure you out.”

“You don’t have to.”

“But I want to.”

Nagi feels it like a pin pressed beneath the skin. Sharp and electric.

Reo’s eyes are darker than usual tonight. Tired maybe. Or maybe just—unguarded. A piece of the everything Nagi has been hoping for, waiting for.

“Have you always been like this?” Reo asks. “Clingy?”

“Not really.”

“Then, why now?”

Nagi doesn’t answer right away. He looks at Reo’s hands instead—long fingers, scuffed knuckles, that scar by the ring finger from something he still hasn’t explained. The same hands that grabbed Nagi’s collar two nights ago, dragged him out of a too-crowded room with a lazy smirk and eyes too sharp.

He could lie. Say something light.

But Reo is giving him something rare right now—soft, without performance. And Nagi wants to honor that. Wants to be the person Reo can fall silent around.

He says, “You don’t play fair.”

Reo raises a brow.

“You make people want things,” Nagi continues. “Without asking for anything back. You smile like you’re giving something away, but you’re not. And then you do things like this—and, and everything with Kido, and—and it drives people crazy.”

Reo watches him carefully. The smile fades a little. The real expression slips through—worn and quiet and unamused.

“Is that why you follow me?” He asks. “Because I drive you crazy?”

“Yeah,” Nagi throws hesitation into the wind. “And because I think you’re lonelier than you look.”

Reo’s lips part slightly, like he’s about to laugh or argue—but he doesn’t do either. He just exhales through his nose and looks down at his own hands like they’ve betrayed him. Then, softly: “You think I look lonely?"

“I think you are.”

Silence. Then, “You’re not as dumb as you look.”

“Don’t tell anyone.”

That earns him a real smile this time. Tired. Bare. Gorgeous.

Then he adds, quieter, “You’re not what I thought.”

“And what did you think?”

Reo’s grin returns, smaller now. Realer. “I thought you’d get bored.”

Nagi doesn’t smile back. Just says, “Not a chance.”

They sit together until the lights flicker off, one by one, leaving the courtyard in the hush of shadow. Reo doesn’t ask him to leave. So Nagi doesn’t. Because he could sit like this forever. He would, if Reo let him.

Chapter Text

Nagi knows he’s changed. He knows because he’s greedy—greedier than he’s ever been before. And it’s irrational, but he doesn’t know what to do with it anymore, rational or not.

The grass is warm. Kind of damp, but not enough to matter. Nagi leans back on his hands, long legs splayed carelessly across the lawn, the sun hitting his shoes just enough to make the white look scorched. His hair's pulled back today. Reo told him to, earlier. No reason given.

"Down, puppy. Floor.”

Rather, those are the exact words Reo had said before nudging Nagi’s hip with his ankle, pointing on the ground beside his crossed legs. So, here Nagi is, sitting in the grass like a domesticated animal. It should be humiliating.

It isn’t. That’s the worst part.

Because Reo's leaning forward now, drink balanced between his knees, elbow braces on one thigh, the other hand buried in Nagi’s hair—fingers slow, methodical, scratching lazily at his scalp like it’s second nature.

The group’s loud around them. Karasu’s recounting something about last week’s near-suspension, Otoya keeps trying to get a lighter to work, and the rest are draped across the bench and lawn like royalty with nothing better to do.

No one comments on Reo’s hand in Nagi’s hair. Not anymore.

They all got used to it. Eventually.

Nagi tunes most of it out. Not the noise—he’s good at filtering that—but the closeness, the way Reo keeps touching him even though they’re not alone. It’s not for show. It doesn’t feel performative. It feels worse.

It feels almost real. Almost.

And it screws with his head.

He shifts slightly, enough that Reo’s fingers slip lower, scratching gently at the back of his neck now. Nagi exhales, slow. He can’t help it.

He hates how easily he melts into this. He hates how it makes him want more.

Sometimes, like now, Reo treats him like a pet, and Nagi should hate that too. But there’s something about the way he does it—confident, casual, possessive—that makes Nagi’s chest feel too full. Like Reo knows he has him. And doesn’t mind flaunting it, doesn’t mind touching him in public (but still won’t let him kiss him in private).

He closes his eyes, letting the voices fade into the breeze and chatter. Every now and then someone teases, Reo fires back, and laughter erupts. But Nagi doesn’t join in. He barely speaks around them. Reo never asks him to.

That might be why Nagi keeps coming back.

He could leave. He could. Reo would probably let him go—probably.

But he doesn’t. He sits here like it’s gravity holding him down instead of pure want.

Reo tugs gently at a strand of his hair. “Did you fall asleep again?” He murmurs, tone low, just for him.

Nagi hums. “No.”

Liar. He’s half-gone in his own head.

“You’re being quiet,” followed by a huff of something close to amusement from Reo, amused by his own joke. “More than usual.”

Nagi shrugs, and for a second, Reo’s fingers still. Then they move again, slower now. Calmer. It’s gentle. Soft in a way Reo rarely is. Too soft.

Nagi doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t want to see the smirk he knows is probably there.

Instead, he stares at the sky, lets the warmth soak into his skin, and thinks: If he turned around right now and kissed me, I’d let him. If he leaned forward and said ‘mine’ in that voice that always makes my stomach twist—I’d nod and agree and probably follow him off a cliff.

But he won’t. He never does.

He wants Nagi close. Just not that close. He touches like he means it. But he won’t take the next step.

It’s like Reo’s holding the thread of Nagi’s want in one hand, playing with it idly, testing how far he can pull without snapping it.

And Nagi?

He keeps letting him.

Because this—the grass, the breeze, Reo’s fingers in his hair and his voice a low buzz overhead—is still better than nothing at all.

“Are you hungry?” Reo asks, out of nowhere. “I think Karasu was gonna bribe someone into getting melon bread again from the combini—the premium kind.”

Nagi mutters, “You didn’t even eat lunch.”

Reo taps the back of his head. “You noticed.”

He always notices.

Reo leans forward slightly, his chest brushing the top of Nagi’s shoulder. Close enough to whisper, "You know you're not going anywhere, right?"

Nagi doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. Both of them already know all they need to (for now).

Reo smiles, teeth flashing as he turns back to the group.

Nagi sits in the grass and pretends like this is enough.

—

Nagi doesn’t want to be here.

But he’s here anyway, standing under the oppressive glare of the mid-afternoon blaze, squinting through the uneven lines of a basketball court that’s been melted slightly out of shape by the years. The concrete is cracked in spiderwebs near the outer lines, and half the rims hang crooked. The chain-link fence rattles with the occasional breeze, but it’s mostly still. Thick, humid air. Loud voices. Shoes squeaking. Someone swears in the distance. Someone swears in the—whatever the opposite of distance is. 

The gym teachers have decided to stage a homeroom vs homeroom scrimmage like they’re trying to stir up a gang war. There are no real rules, no fouls that get called. Just sweaty T-shirts and ego. Speaking of Ego—it’s the name of the gym teacher—and Nagi knows that lanky, slenderman-looking guy doesn’t give a fuck about any of them, this is just an excuse to let them shave off excess energy while he can play fantasy football or whatever that fuck does in his spare time. 

Nagi stands near the top of the key, one arm loosely slung over the back of his neck, watching the court like he’s watching a glitchy cutscene he can’t skip.

He knows Reo is on the opposite side before he even looks. He can feel it.

Of course, Reo’s here. Joined by the other peers of his own homeroom, the dynamic duo of Karasu and Otoya, this time. 

Reo, though, is a menace when he wants to be, charming when it suits him, and always more strategic than people give him credit for. Reo is fast, not because of speed, but because of intention. He knows where to be, how to pull people’s eyes without even touching the ball.

And today, he’s glowing with it.

Hair tied back. Shirt untucked. Socks rolled down. God —Nagi would kiss his ankles (and lick each drop of summer sweat from his body) if Reo let him. He’s laughing at something Karasu says—they cackle together, and it’s like two sly foxes plotting a heist.

Nagi tries not to look, but it doesn’t help. Reo doesn’t need him to look to be noticed. He’s loud in the way storms are loud. Beautiful in the way fire is.

The whistle blows.

The first few plays are forgettable. Nagi moves like he always does—half-lazy, efficient, conserving energy. He’s not here to win, not really. But his team expects him to carry at least a few kilograms of the overall weight, and he can’t be bothered to deal with the excess of whining if it’s his fault that they lose. So he sinks a three, then sets up an assist without saying a word. Reo passes by him on the next possession, brushing shoulders deliberately.

“Missed you in calc,” Reo says with that slow grin. “D’you skip again, or just overslept?”

“Wanted to beat a few more levels. Kept dying. Lost track of time.”

“Typical. Bad puppy.”

Reo’s sweat smells like yuzu and something sharper. Nagi keeps walking before he gets dizzy from it (a futile thing). 

The game gets faster. Hotter. One of Nagi’s teammates— Fukaku, maybe, tall and built like a rugby player who got lost on his way to a different sport—starts getting rough. He’s marking Reo now. Bad idea. Reo’s slippery like a chameleon, impossible to catch. And of course, Reo’s mouth runs the whole time, quick, sharp, and infuriatingly smug, which only makes the guy more aggressive (it also makes Nagi’s insides scorch, but that’s a side note).

Then: it happens—Reo goes up for a rebound, clean leap, but Fukaku undercuts him mid-air. Not subtly. It’s a full-body shove from below—illegal as hell. Reo crashes down sideways, slams hard into the asphalt on his shoulder, across the white paint of the endline. He knocks over a water bottle belonging to another player, and it rolls into the dirt, spilling.

Everything stalls for a second.

“Shit,” someone mutters.

Reo groans and rolls onto his back, one arm pressed to his ribs. “Wow, ” he coughs, breathless from having the absolute wind knocked out of him but still smirking, keeping up his. “Did I hit a nerve or something? It wasn’t personal, y’know.”

Fukaku doesn’t even look apologetic. “You flop easy,” he mutters, snorting like a bull and turning away with squared shoulders.

The PE teacher doesn’t even blow the whistle. Just yells, “Keep it moving!”

Nagi doesn’t react. Not yet. He doesn’t go to him, or go to Reo, doesn’t make a scene at all. Reo doesn’t need that—not now, not from him. Wouldn’t want that either—he knows Reo well enough to know that. Reo’s already laughing again, talking shit as he gets pulled to his feet by Karasu (Nagi does wish it was him picking Reo up off the burning rubber, though—hopefully he’ll get the chance sometime). 

Inside Nagi, something rolls like a water bottle, only this time, it’s a scroll and pen, or the building of pressure in a valve that normally remains untouched.

He watches Fukaku’s back as they walk back to set for the next play. His fingers flex once. Just once. Then he breathes out, and everything quiets down inside.

They start again.

The ball goes long. Fast pass. High energy. Fukaku’s cutting through the paint, trying to pivot for an inside shot. Nagi sees the opening like it was made for him. (It was. Sometimes, God is on his side.) 

He shifts on his heels. Waits. Times it to the millisecond. Then moves.

It’s surgical. He doesn’t even touch the ball. Just steps into Fukaku’s blind spot, turns slightly, raises his elbow—like he’s going for a screen. The elbow connects clean, right under Fukaku’s chin.

There’s a gross sound like wet chalk cracking in half. Fukaku hits the ground hard, hand to his face, blood pouring from his mouth and nose. Two teeth scatter. One of them bounces near the three-point line. Within seconds, the front of Fukaku’s shirt is drenched in red like he walked out of a murder scene.

Silence falls across the court—a harsher one than the anxious gasps from Reo’s foul. 

Speaking of the temptation—Reo, from the sideline, lets out a low whistle and mutters, “Holy hell, puppy.”

No one moves for a second. Then the teacher yells, “What the hell was that?!”

Nagi just shrugs, dead-eyed. “Didn’t see him.”

Everyone knows he’s lying. No one says anything. Why would they? Not even Fukaku’s friends dare say a word after taking one look at Nagi’s expression. Good. It feels good, Nagi muses. 

Reo is grinning like a kid turning his favorite toy into a weapon.

—

The showers screech and hiss behind him, steam curling over cheap tile and echo. Someone’s swearing about cleats. Someone else is laughing like they just won a war.

Nagi sits on the bench, elbows on his knees, shirt clinging to his back in the locker room’s low buzz and humidity, looking down at his hands and thinking of nothing. Or, at least, he’s trying to.

A tap on the back of his neck—soft. Barely there. Then a hand in his hair, fingers combing through slow, absent.

Reo.

Nagi’s body automatically melts and flutters like an addict taking his first hit of the day.

He’s standing behind Nagi like he’s always belonged there, towel slung over one shoulder, shirt still damp from sweat and warm water. His hair’s a mess. There’s a welt forming under one knee, a matching one on his elbow, a white bandage is wrapped around his shoulder where the concrete scraped off the first few layers of skin, but he doesn’t limp or walk like he’s in any pain at all. (Good—because there’s too many people here, and Nagi wants to be the only one around, the only one allowed, the only one close enough to see Reo when he hurts, when he breaks.)

“Your aim’s getting better,” Reo murmurs, teasing.

Nagi doesn’t turn around, but pushes his head back into Reo’s touch. “I don’t know what you mean. I didn’t miss.”

“No,” Reo hums. “You didn’t.”

His fingers keep moving, lazy circles through damp strands. Not gentle, not rough—just his. Familiar in a way that crawls under Nagi’s skin and sits there, pulsing.

The air smells like sweat and the cheap, standardized shampoo stocked in the showers. Somewhere, a coach yells something muffled through a closing door. The steam hisses louder for a moment. Nagi wants a hundred things when Reo is around. Wants less space. Wants more silence. Wants to feel that smirk pressed against his mouth just once, if he’s honest. Which he isn’t.

“You okay?” He asks, after a beat.

He can feel Reo blink, nonplussed. (Is he not used to being asked that, Nagi wonders.) “Do I look not okay?”

“You don’t always show it.”

Reo moves around to his side, sitting on the metal bench—bringing them level. The shower noise dims behind them like a curtain’s been pulled.

“I didn’t ask for backup,” he says.

“And I didn’t ask for permission.”

They stare at each other.

Reo’s gaze flickers, something sharp tucked behind the amusement. Like he’s assessing. Testing. “Puppy’s feeling disobedient, huh? Careful not to push it.”

Nagi holds it. Ignores the thinly veiled threat and all the implications behind it. Asks: “You gonna thank me?”

“Spoiled. You think you’re entitled to that from me?” Reo snorts, lips twisting, but it’s playful. “D’you want a kiss on the forehead or a participation ribbon?”

Nagi shrugs again. (He’d kill for both). “Wouldn’t say no to either.”

That earns a laugh—quiet and caught in the chest. Not mocking. Close. Nagi instinctively looks around to make sure no one else saw, no one else heard. Luckily, all the cheap tiles within a two meter radius are deserted, the small space behind the row of lockers that they’re occupying is empty.

Reo leans in, fingers ghosting up the side of Nagi’s neck like he’s thinking about it.

And then he taps his cheek twice with two fingers, mock-serious. “Good boy.”

Nagi doesn’t flinch, but something inside him short-circuits all the same. Every time—he is good, he’ll do anything to be good for Reo. And maybe it’s pathetic (it’s definitely pathetic, and Isagi would definitely give him a disgusted, pitying look for it) but Nagi can’t even bring himself to care even a sliver.

Reo rises, towel dragging behind him like a lazy cape, and saunter toward the lockers. There’s still a bruise blooming low on the back of his thigh (thick and pillowy flesh and muscle, and Nagi wants ). He sees it and memorizes the shape.

He stays on the bench for another minute. There’s no applause. No reward. No proof. Just the warmth on the back of his neck where Reo’s fingers had been, and the way the air feels charged in his absence.

And it’s enough, but Nagi is greedy, so greedy for more. 

—

The dorm room smells like cheap microwaved curry buns and seaweed chips that expired last week. Reo made a big deal about the latter, tossing the plastic pouch at Nagi with a dramatic sigh— I should sue the convenience store —but still ended up eating half the bag.

Now the crumpled foil wrappers are scattered across the floor, Reo’s playing cards fanned neatly between them like a game graveyard. The air's thick with lingering heat from the microwave and that strange warmth that settles in closed spaces shared too long—shoulder to shoulder, laughter quieted by sleepier tones as the night dragged on.

Nagi is slouched on the floor, legs sprawled out, leaning back on his elbows. Reo’s sitting cross-legged on the bed above him, hair loose, cheeks flushed from too much sugar and not enough sleep, talking softly as he shuffles the deck for the fifth or sixth game.

“You’re shit at bluffing,” Reo mutters, drawing two cards and flicking them toward Nagi’s thigh. “You blink every time you’re holding a pair.”

“No, I don’t.” Nagi pouts.

Reo scoffs. “You do. I’d put money on it.”

“I’d lose on purpose.”

He glances at him, sharp. “What?”

Nagi looks away, too slowly to make it seem casual. It’s on purpose, of course. He’s never hidden anything from Reo, after all. Everything is out there in the open, a book ready for whenever Reo wants to read. “Nothing.”

Reo stares at him for a second longer, then shrugs and returns to the deck.

The game stretches into another, and another. Laughter dies down. The snack bags are empty. The fan by the window whirs, moving nothing. At some point, Reo throws himself back on the bed and groans, pressing the cards to his forehead like he’s trying to banish a headache.

“You’re so slow,” he mutters. “Everything with you takes forever.”

Nagi blinks. “You’re still playing.”

“Because I’m generous,” Reo says, yawning.

The clock ticks past midnight, then past one.

Eventually, Nagi stands, joints popping as he stretches, and mutters something about needing water. The dorm is quiet—most students asleep or out—so his bare footsteps barely make a sound as he slips out, makes his way down the hall.

By the time he returns, the water glass is cold, and the hallways have dimmed further. The air's cooler now, midnight cracking closer toward morning.

He steps inside, and stops dead.

Reo’s asleep.

The cards are still in his lap, fanned and scattered across the covers like he passed out mid-shuffle. His torso is twisted just slightly, as if he’d started to curl onto his side and only half-committed. The blanket has slipped down, barely covering his hips, pale legs tangled and one foot pushing into the mattress like he’d fought with a dream before surrendering.

His head rests near the wall, just under the window. The pane is half-fogged from his breath, and the faintest hint of moonlight sneaks through the slats of the blinds to catch in the strands of his hair.

Nagi doesn’t move at first. He just watches.

His chest tightens, folds in on itself.

Reo.

So much smaller like this. Curled and careless. Mouth slack, eyelashes smudged faintly with eyeliner he hadn’t wiped all the way off. One hand half-fisted near his cheek. His wrist is marked faintly by the dent of the watch he always wears but must have taken off before slipping out of consciousness. Vulnerable. Soft in a way that makes Nagi’s blood pulse too fast. 

Nagi’s been allowed this. To see this. Perhaps not even intentionally on Reo’s end, but as a child who grew up surrounded by sharks, he’d never let his walls completely crumble like this if it was someone he had even a smidge of doubt about. He’d never leave himself this open.

Nagi swallows hard.

This is dangerous. The way he wants to kneel by the bed and press his face into the crook of Reo’s arm. To feel the skin of his wrist, the flutter of his pulse. To kiss it.

He doesn’t.

He doesn’t even set the glass down—just places it carefully on the desk with a clink and crosses the floor again, slow, soundless.

The bed creaks as he lowers himself beside Reo.

Knees knock, lightly. Reo doesn’t stir. His breath is steady. Dreamless.

And still, Nagi doesn’t take. Of course not—he’ll wait, he’ll wait for Reo to let him, for those perfect pink lips to form the word yes. Nagi won’t have it any other way. It won’t be worth it any other way. 

He just lies there, turning slightly to face him. Watchdog. He lets himself watch.

His hand trembles as he lifts it, fingertips barely brushing Reo’s temple before tucking a lock of his hair behind his ear. Featherlight. Reverent.

Reo’s skin is cozy-warm. Sleep-soft.

Nagi wants to bury his mouth against it. Wants to memorize every shape his bones make in sleep. Wants to hold him down and keep him, wants to keep him forever.

Instead, he lets his hand fall away and stares up at the ceiling, heart racing and heavy and hollow at once.

I love you, he thinks. The words echo, terrible and silent. I love you so bad it hurts. I would burn for you, if you asked. I would rip myself open and pour everything out just so you could use it. I’ll be your dog, I’d be your dog, I want to be your watchdog as long as you want me.

He turns his head again. Studies the way Reo’s lips part faintly with each exhale.

You look so peaceful like this, he thinks, aching. You’d hate if you knew how I’m staring.

He doesn’t sleep for a while.

Their knees still touching. Their breath syncing. Nagi so close, so terribly, endlessly gone.

—

The campus is quieter than usual in the late afternoon, the kind of stillness that settles in just after the last classes and before the pull of evening plans. Nagi drifts through the open courtyard with no real direction, only the vague, heavy tug in his chest that always leads him toward Reo.

He's not in their usual spot. Not at the vending machines. Not in the rec room either.

It’s the sound of Reo’s laugh that pulls him toward the north building, the older one with the worn brick and peeling paint, where no one really goes unless they’re sneaking off to smoke or make out or hide.

Nagi’s steps slow. He rounds the far edge of the building, careful. The sound of Reo’s voice is clearer now—he’s not alone. Nagi pauses just before the corner, letting the wall shield him, guilt rising sharp in his throat like smoke. He shouldn’t be here. He knows it.

But he doesn’t move.

He stays rooted, helpless in the way that only Reo makes him feel—like he’s tethered by something invisible and impossible to sever.

He doesn’t want to hear anything. Not really. But still, his ears strain for every word.

“Can’t believe you still listen to that garbage,” Reo’s saying, exasperated and familiar. Yukimiya snickers, his voice easy, casual.

“It’s nostalgic,” Yukkimiya replies. “Some of us have history. Unlike you, who has a curated playlist for every emotion like a walking skincare commercial.”

“That’s Aryu, not me.” Reo snorts. “And it’s called having taste.”

Nagi carefully leans against the wall, holding the air in his lungs. Just around the corner, the sharp smell of cigarette smoke threads through the air. It curls toward him, faint but distinct.

There’s the sound of footsteps shifting on gravel. Then—

“Shit—fuck—” Reo hisses.

Nagi stiffens.

“Burned myself,” he mutters.

Yukimiya’s voice is amused. “Idiot. You always do that.”

Reo sighs. “Last one, too.”

A pause.

“I’ll share,” Yukimiya offers.

Nagi’s stomach tightens.

“Yeah? Gimme,” Reo says.

The crackle of a lighter. The inhale. The exhale. The quiet between them.

“You want to shotgun?” Yukkimiya asks, like it’s nothing. Like it’s a joke. “Just for fun. Like we used to.”

Nagi's nails dig into his palms, heat flaring low in his chest—possessive, needy, a sick sort of jealousy he can’t rationalize.

Reo laughs, but his voice is dismissive. “Nah. I’m good.”

Nagi lets out a breath, slow and silent. Relief washes over him so fast it makes his knees weak.

They go silent for a moment. Just the sound of the wind picking up. The rustle of leaves. Someone shouts faintly in the distance from the dorms.

“So,” Yukimiya starts, more casual now, the way people sound when they’ve smoked enough to stop pretending to be clever. “You and Nagi.”

Nagi feels the bottom drop out of his stomach.

Reo groans. “What about us?”

Yukimiya chuckles. “Just wondering. I figured he would’ve given up by now. But he’s still following you around like a lost puppy. ”

“Because he is one,” Reo says, but there’s no malice in his voice. “Big, pathetic mutt.”

Yukimiya snorts. “Your dad would hate him."

There’s laughter—easy and cruel and intimate in a way that makes Nagi want to claw his own skin off.

Then Reo says, flippantly: “Who gives a shit, though. I don't hate him, and that's what matters.”

The silence that follows is different. It stretches. Shifts. Even Nagi, from where he’s hidden, can feel the atmosphere change.

Yukkimiya speaks, still laughing, “Surprised you haven't gotten annoyed by his constant—just—you know, everything."

“I like it,” Reo says airily with another exhale of smoke. "His constant everything all the time."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I guess it's that—the way he doesn't expect anything from me that I find, like, nice, almost. He doesn't drain my energy like everyone else."

"Ouch."

"Oh, shut up." Reo cackles. "Anyway. Watchdog thing aside, I've gotten used to him. Him and those stupid big eyes that blink stupidly and bigly at me when I turn around. I'm—I don't know, it's not like you and the two idiots, that's for sure."

"I'd be worried if it was," Yukimiya deadpans. "But just be careful, Reo. If you get too comfortable and look away, when you look back, your puppy won't be so much of a puppy anymore."

"If I seriously, genuinely told him to fuck off, he would," Reo says strangely. "And I feel like—that fact just makes me want him around more. He's so fucking—naively earnest. And I'm not used to that. He's strange, but he's sweet. I don't—I just want him around, okay? Simple as that."

Nagi's breath catches. He grips the brick wall so hard his fingers ache.

He shouldn’t have listened. He doesn’t know what to do with the feeling climbing up his throat, thick and choking. He wants to laugh. He wants to cry. He wants to walk around the corner, take Reo’s face in his hands, and say something that would ruin everything.

Nagi slides down the wall, breathing shallow. His heart’s beating too fast. Too loud. He closes his eyes and lets it ache.

—

The dorm room’s yellow overhead light hums, casting a dull wash over Isagi’s whiteboard scribbles and the heap of training laundry Bachira still hasn’t dealt with in the corner. Nagi’s half-curled on his bed, propped against the wall, phone screen dimming as he half-heartedly scrolls through a puzzle game. Nothing that takes too much thought. His thumb moves, idle. The conversation happening across the room —something about conditioning drills and reaction time metrics — has become static in his ears.

His body’s here, but his mind isn’t.

He’s thinking about Reo again.

The way he chews the inside of his cheek when he’s trying not to react to something. The satisfied little huff he lets out when he wins a bet, even a small one. The casual cruelty he wields like it’s an extension of his charm. The warmth that still leaks through, even when he tries to be sharp.

Nagi presses the side of his head to the wall behind him. He’s been doing well. Good. Patient. Monitoring Reo when Reo isn’t looking, watching everyone else watch Reo when Reo is. Waiting for something he hasn’t named aloud.

He’s halfway through lazily retrying the puzzle level when there’s a sharp knock at the door.

Three quick taps. Not hesitant. Not polite.

Nagi doesn’t have to look up to know who it is.

Isagi looks up from where he’s sitting cross-legged with Bachira on the floor, blinking like the interruption physically startled him. “Who the hell —it’s almost one.”

He goes to open the door. And there Reo is.

Still wearing the black zip-up from earlier that morning, sleeves shoved to his elbows, a flat box under one arm, and a loose pair of car keys dangling from one finger. Nagi’s never seen those keys before. Reo has a look in his eye like he’s already halfway into trouble and needs just one spark to finish the job.

“You’re still awake,” he says, eyes flicking to Nagi immediately. “Perfect.”

Nagi’s already setting his phone aside, untangling his long legs, standing before he’s even fully processed the words. “Yeah,” he says, like it’s obvious. Like he’s been waiting.

Reo tosses the keys in the air and catches them lazily. “C’mon. The others are already waiting a block down by the back gate. Let’s go.”

“Where are you going?” Isagi asks sharply, standing halfway there, like there are rules to follow and he’s just remembered them. “Wait—you’re not allowed off-campus after ten. That’s—That’s a whole suspension if you get caught. Hey!”

Reo ignores him. Or maybe he’s just not interested in Isagi enough to answer.

Nagi’s already reaching for his jacket. Phone. Wallet. Dorm keys. He doesn’t bother asking where they’re going. Doesn’t care. He’d go anywhere.

Reo glances past Nagi then, and his eyes land on Bachira. He raises a brow. “You wanna come, little maniac?”

Bachira’s head lifts, all teeth and brightness and interest. “You’re sneaking off?”

“Mhm.” Reo’s grin pulls a little wider, a little sharper. “Your pet can come too,” he says, nodding toward Isagi with a flash of something sly. “If he can keep up.”

Bachira cackles, practically slapping his knee. “God, yes. You had me at illegal.”

“I didn’t say illegal, though.”

“Doesn’t matter, I can see it in your eyes.”

“Come on then, arsonist. Let's go.” 

Nagi pauses at the nickname. Then unpauses. Oh, yeah, that’s right. Bachira ended up in this shithole school because he kept setting buildings on fire. Or something like that.

Isagi, somehow already pale, looks betrayed. “Bachira—”

“You said you were bored,” Bachira sings, already up and grabbing a hoodie. “This is enrichment. This is culture.”

Culture, Reo mouths with a snort. Nagi snickers.

“We’re gonna get expelled!”

“Only if we get caught,” Reo says, already pivoting out the door. "Easy up, Hermione Granger."

Nagi follows him instinctively, quietly. Reo doesn’t even have to look back.

They move quickly through the halls, hushed and unlit, the familiar rhythm of carpeted floors underfoot and the sharp, cold air waiting past the emergency exit by the back stairwell. Nagi knows this route well. Everyone does, but it feels different like this, with Reo just ahead of him, shoulders relaxed, keys jangling softly in his pocket, the box still tucked under one arm like it means something.

Outside, it’s damp and just starting to mist. The clouds are heavy, streetlights glinting against the pavement. Nagi stays a few steps behind Reo, drawn by the magnetic pull of his presence. It’s ridiculous how easily he moves around Reo — orbiting without thinking. Like gravity.

“Where are we going?” he asks finally.

Reo throws him a glance over his shoulder. “You’ll see. It’s no fun if I just tell you.”

That’s enough.

Bachira and Isagi bicker behind them. Something about how many demerits count as suspension. Nagi tunes them out. He traces the line of Reo’s shoulders. The slight bounce in his step. How he hums under his breath without realizing. He thinks about how easily Reo could call someone else instead. How he didn’t.

It doesn’t mean anything. Or maybe it means everything. Nagi’s never been good at figuring that out.

But it’s always been like this. Reo appears, and Nagi follows.

And if he’s good — if he keeps being good — maybe Reo will let him stay.

The moment Nagi lands on the other side of the wall, his legs bend slightly on impact, knees jolting with a sleepy thud. The cold hits him first—then the noise.

There’s muffled laughter ahead, the tail end of Reo’s voice rising above the wind like a beacon. He’s already half a block away, standing next to a red pickup Nagi’s never seen before, a half-empty drink in his hand and the faintest smirk tugging at his lips.

Nagi barely has time to fix his hoodie before Reo waves the keys. “Rental,” he calls, flicking them toward Yukimiya, who catches them one-handed and slides into the driver’s seat like it’s muscle memory. Aryu adjusts the side mirror beside him with a delicate sniff, visibly unimpressed with the truck’s aesthetic.

Nagi lingers for half a second, long enough to register the others tumbling into the bed of the truck—Karasu and Otoya roughhousing like oversized kids, Chigiri pulling himself up more gracefully, Kunigami already settled in a corner like he regrets being born. (His spiked hair is stupid, but less stupid than Isagi’s weird sprout, so there’s that.)

Bachira swings an arm around Isagi’s neck. “C’mon! Just think of it as off-campus cardio.”

Isagi doesn’t budge. “We just committed a felony.”

“No one commits felonies with this much glitter lip gloss on,” Aryu declares from the open shotgun window.

“I don’t think you know what a felony is, Inagi,” Reo adds.

“It’s Isagi,” he corrects, sounding hilariously dejected.

“That’s what I said?” 

Nagi drifts closer. There’s a buzz behind his ribs that’s not just from climbing the wall. He can feel Reo nearby without even turning—can feel the gravity of him, of how he moves toward the driver’s side door, gives the tire a light kick, then checks the brakes like he doesn’t trust anyone with anything unless he’s laid his hands on it first.

Reo. Always five steps ahead, always in control. Even when he’s being reckless, he’s precise.

Nagi’s already crawling into the truck bed without thinking, his legs heavy, heartbeat louder than it should be. He slides into the far left corner. A blanket's bunched near his foot, and gym bags filled with something soft—hoodies, blankets, maybe? Booze? A bottle rattles beneath the pile.

Reo rounds back toward the group and climbs in beside him without ceremony, their shoulders brushing.

Nagi doesn’t move. He’s not even pretending to be casual anymore.

Yukkimiya starts the engine. The bass from the speaker hits a second later—something poppy, upbeat, annoyingly cheerful, and a perfect distraction for the sheer lawlessness of what they’re doing. Otoya whoops like it’s a national holiday, leaning back into Karasu’s side as the truck pulls off into the night.

Isagi is practically crawling out of his skin. “There are no seatbelts back here.”

“No shit, this is a truck bed.” 

“It’s against the law!” 

“There are also no cops,” Karasu counters. “Unless you call them.”

“I might,” Isagi mutters.

“Do it,” Karasu challenges with a grin, “and you’ll never see your boyfriend again. Not after he gets locked up in big-boy jail after violating probation again.”

Jesus Christ, what was Bachira even up to before Blue Lock?

Isagi looks horrified. “He’s not my—!”

“—yet,” Otoya supplies smoothly.

The truck swerves around a corner and Isagi screams. Reo snorts. Nagi adjusts only slightly, just enough to feel Reo’s knee brush against him through the blanket. The contact is electric.

He wonders if Reo notices. He wonders if Reo doesn’t.

He wonders how much longer he can keep doing this—trailing after Reo like a dog on a leash Reo won’t admit to holding. He’s used to it now, maybe. That low ache of wanting. That silent, ever-present promise that maybe—maybe next time, Reo will let him closer. Let him in. Let him—

Not now.

Not with everyone here and the road vibrating under them and Reo’s thigh so close it’s like a brand against Nagi’s.

Chigiri tosses a bag of something vaguely edible into the middle of the truck bed. “Snacks.”

Karasu rifles through them. “This is just bread and a bottle of peach soju.”

“It’s practically a meal,” Aryu calls from the front over the sound of the whipping wind.

Reo reaches into the bag, pulls out a bag of chips, and lazily opens them. He offers one to Nagi without looking.

Nagi takes it without hesitation. It’s nothing. Just a gesture, but it still feels like something .

Always does.

The truck keeps rolling down the road, streetlights passing overhead like slow pulses of white-blue light. Nagi looks up. There’s no moon tonight, just stars dusted faint across the sky, barely visible past the city haze. It smells like cold plastic and salt from someone’s sweat, and faint cologne—Reo’s—expensive and warm and firewood and sharp.

He breathes in too deeply. Regrets it instantly as his vision blurs. Either Reo truly is intoxicating, or Nagi is allergic to this cologne. He doesn’t care either way—it wouldn’t matter. 

Reo shifts, finally turning to him. “You good?”

Nagi nods. “Yeah.”

“You’re sensitive to smell.”

Nagi straightens. “You can tell?”

“Just not blind,” Reo’s lip curls faintly. A half-smile. “Should’ve told me.”

“I don’t mind the yuzu one,” Nagi clarifies quickly, not wanting Reo to misunderstand. “The firewood-cedarwood combo just hurts my head a bit.”

“Duly noted.” 

And that’s it. That’s the thing that makes Nagi’s pulse go haywire. Reo knows him. Pays attention in the smallest, most infuriating ways. Doesn’t let him in where it matters, but doesn’t shut him out either.

He wants to rip it out of him. Not violently—just with his hands, his mouth, his devotion. He wants to ruin Reo’s calm, pull that tightly wound composure out by the roots and see what Reo looks like when he’s wrecked. When he needs . When he’s needy and begging . When he’s not controlling everything. (When he hands the power over and allows himself to be had .)

Nagi wants to ask: Why do you keep me so close if you’re not going to give me anything? Why do you touch my wrist like you own it, smile at me like I matter, and then act like it’s just a game?

Instead, Nagi says nothing.

Because this is enough. Because Reo’s here, beside him, willingly, and that’s more than most people ever get. And because Nagi’s a coward, sometimes.

The music changes to something bass-heavy. Otoya yells something unintelligible into the wind and climbs to his knees, screaming the lyrics like they matter. Karasu yanks him down again by the hood and almost flips them both over.

Laughter explodes.

Isagi’s clinging to the side of the truck bed, eyes squeezed shut. “We’re gonna die.”

Bachira hands him a water bottle and says, “Die hydrated.”

Reo leans forward a little, banging on the back screen with his fist. Yukkimiya rolls down the back window, raising a brow.

“Shortcut,” Reo shouts, throwing his phone into the front seat for Aryu to catch and show it to Yukimiya. 

Yukki glances at the screen. “The last shortcut had a speed bump the size of a mattress.”

“We cleared it, didn’t we?”

“Because Aryu screamed loud enough to alert the spirits of the land.”

Aryu scoffs. “It was a spiritual moment.”

They’re idiots. All of them. Loud and chaotic and reckless. Nagi curls deeper into the blanket, head tilted just enough to rest against the side of the truck, stealing warmth from the closeness of Reo’s leg beside his.

Sure enough, they hit a bump in the road and the truck shudders, sending Otoya half into Karasu’s lap and Isagi screeching like a dying bird. Karasu flips him off. Bachira howls with laughter. Kunigami doesn’t blink. Chigiri spills soju all over himself and begins to wail like a banshee. 

Nagi barely notices.

Reo’s legs are tangles in his thanks to all the jostling, solid and constant, and the blanket has shifted between them in a way that makes Nagi stupidly possessive over a square foot of fabric and the warmth it traps.

It shouldn’t feel like this. It shouldn’t feel like anything.

It’s a brush of skin. It’s just noise, laughter, booze, night air, a truck that smells faintly like gasoline and gym socks. But it does feel like something.

Because it’s Reo.

And Nagi’s hands are twitching in his lap from how hard he’s holding himself still.

He stares straight ahead, trying to listen to the others instead—to not feel like his skin’s two sizes too tight and his chest is cracking open beneath the weight of everything he won’t say.

Karasu tosses a soju bottle across the truck bed—Bachira catches it and offers it to Reo like a prize.

“Come on,” he sings. “Drink, drink, drink—!”

“I might have to drive back,” Reo says, holding up his hands.

“You literally made Yukki drive.”

“I’m backup DD, since I rented it,” Reo corrects.

“Sounds fun! Let me drive next,” Bachira cackles.

“No,” says four voices at once.

Reo takes the bottle anyway and shrugs. “One sip.”

He drinks.

Nagi watches his throat move with every swallow—the curve of his fingers around the glass, the way Reo winces and shakes his head, like the taste surprises him every time.

It’s a whole performance, and Reo doesn’t even know he’s doing it.

Or maybe he does know.

Maybe he knows everything. Maybe he knows Nagi is losing his mind one heartbeat at a time.

“You okay over there?” Reo murmurs, tipping the bottle toward him.

Nagi blinks. His voice sticks in his throat. He nods.

Reo leans in a little. Not enough to crowd. Just enough to make it worse.

“You’ve barely said anything all night.”

“You’ve been saying enough for both of us,” Nagi mumbles.

Reo laughs under his breath. “Maybe. Still want to know what’s in your head, though.”

You. You. You. All the time. Every second. I want you in my bed. I want to drag you down into my bones. I want to be the thing that ruins you and rebuilds you and owns you and never, ever lets you go.

He says, “Isagi screeches like a rusty door hinge.”

Reo bursts into laughter.

The truck rounds another bend. The wind cuts sharper now. Bachira pulls a hoodie over his head and has somehow convinced Karasu to let him braid the front of his hair. Otoya’s scrolling through music on his phone with exaggerated drama, showing off some playlist some girl from somewhere made him before he somehow ghosted her and she somehow found him again only to somehow slap him across the face and somehow leave an indent of her nail in his cheek. Isagi has retreated into a fetal position and is muttering about insurance premiums.

Kunigami has not spoken once. Nagi wants to tell him to go back to 2009 Tumblr where he belongs, but alas, Nagi would not be able to stay conscious after taking a sucker punch to the face from that hulk, so he wisely decides against it.  

Reo stretches his legs. The movement makes the blanket slide even more, and Nagi thinks, helplessly, that this is the closest he’s been to Reo in weeks. Not physically—they’re always together. Always shoulder to shoulder at training, elbow to elbow at meals, thighs brushing in hallways—but never like this.

Reo hands him the bottle again. Nagi takes it this time. It tastes like syrup and fire. He grimaces.

“Lightweight,” Reo teases, smiling.

Nagi watches that smile—the way it flares and fades and pulls at the edge of Reo’s cheek like it knows exactly what it’s doing. He thinks about that cigarette Reo had been holding last week. The way he’d lit it too fast. The way he dropped it when it burned too low and hissed through his teeth. The way Yukki had leaned against the wall beside him, offered to share, and—

Nagi swallows the memory down like poison.

He leans back instead. Stretches his legs until they tangle with Reo’s again, just barely. Doesn’t move them.

Reo doesn’t either.

The night keeps going. The music softens to something lower, some vibey, washed-out synth track that floats through the dark like fog. Even Otoya’s quiet now, his head tipped back, hair tangled in the wind, bottle cradled between his knees.

Nagi turns his face slightly, just enough to study Reo’s profile in the glow of a distant streetlamp. His lashes catch the light. His mouth is a soft line. His eyes are lidded but not closed. He looks like he’s thinking.

Nagi wants to know what about. He wants to be what Reo’s thinking about. He wants to kiss the thought out of him. He wants to take his face in both hands, tilt it toward his own, and press his mouth there like a promise. He wants to feel Reo melt under him, open up, choose him—for real, this time. Not in glances, not in shared secrets, not in jokes. But in the way that matters. The way that doesn’t vanish when the morning comes.

Nagi closes his eyes.

Because he can’t do that. Not now. Not yet.

Not unless Reo asks.

He always waits for that.

He always will.

A hand brushes his.

Reo’s fingers rest near his own, barely touching, like an accident. But Nagi knows better. Reo doesn’t do anything without intention.

Not when it comes to him.

He opens his eyes.

Reo’s looking at him now. Quiet. Calm. Observing him like he’s already read every thought out of Nagi’s skull and is still deciding what to do with them.

Nagi doesn’t look away.

The truck slows, the gravel under its tires crunching loud in the otherwise hushed woods. Beyond the final bend, the trees thin into a wide, open clearing surrounded by darkness and moonlight. The headlights sweep over pale, flat stone and uneven patches of crushed pebble, lighting up the center formation—an odd ring of standing stones like a forgotten altar. It's jagged and weird and perfect.

When the engine cuts, silence roars back in, thick and humming with insects and wind through leaves. Reo hops down first, box still in hand. Nagi follows without thinking, always on Reo’s heels. His feet hit the ground and his head feels light, spun out from the ride and the music and the way Reo looked when he turned to check the truck’s brakes before they left.

Bachira tumbles out of the truck bed with a yell, nearly dragging Isagi by the hoodie. “We made it! I thought we were gonna die!”

Isagi staggers out after him, pale and visibly traumatized. “That was not legal. That turn on the C1 was not legal. Who was driving? Why was Yukimiya driving? I want to go home.”

“You survived,” Karasu says lazily from where he’s lounging, feet up on a duffel bag. “Be grateful.”

“Yeah, coconuthead,” Otoya chimes in. “We’re bonding. Shut up and drink something.”

Reo ignores the banter. He’s already on his haunches, opening the box. The others crowd around when they catch the glint of what’s inside.

“Are those—?” Chigiri asks, peering in. His hair’s pulled into a high ponytail, swaying in the night wind. “Oh my god, Reo, what the fuck, you brought fireworks?”

“Imported,” Reo says with a grin. “Courtesy of my father’s driver in Bangalore. Owed me a favor.”

“You’re insane,” Otoya says, delighted. “Where are we even lighting them from?”

Reo jerks his chin toward the far side of the clearing. “We’ll set ‘em up behind the stones. We’re surrounded by rock and trees. It’ll echo like hell. Sounds like the world is ending.”

“Like a fucking arena,” Karasu adds, smiling wide, sly. “Fuckin’ perfect, Mikage.” 

The words are there, scattered like loose glass, and Nagi’s watching Reo. The way his fingers move as he shifts the fireworks carefully out of the box, lips parted a little from the effort. His black hoodie pulled tight over his head, framing his face, and there’s a smear of something on the cuff of his sleeve—ash or marker, something he probably doesn’t remember putting there. He looks flushed from the truck bed and the alcohol, wind-tousled and high off adrenaline.

He looks beautiful. He always does.

Nagi’s hands are still tucked into the pockets of his hoodie, but his thumbs rub the insides compulsively. There’s a buzz under his skin. It never quiets when Reo’s close.

Reo rises, flicks his hair out of his eyes, and finds Nagi staring. He smirks.

“Help me sort the mortars?”

Nagi doesn’t answer. He just moves, automatic.

They kneel together on the pebbled ground, a little removed from the rest. The voices of the others fade into a dull background blur—Bachira wrestling with Karasu, Isagi muttering about something probably insane, Otoya turning up the speaker with some trashy pop remix that echoes off the trees.

But Nagi’s world narrows to Reo’s thigh pressed just barely against his. To the scent of pine and cordite on the wind. To the tiny tremor in Reo’s wrist when he handles the fuses, like he’s trying not to laugh.

“Does anyone know we’re here?” Nagi asks.

Reo shrugs. “Probably not. Yukki has a portable jammer in his pocket right now, we’re basically off the grid. Don’t tell Bachira’s pet, I’m a bit worried he’ll try to kill himself.”

“You dragged Isagi into committing crimes.”

“He’ll live as long as he keeps his mouth shut,” Reo nudges one of the cylinders into place. “So will you.”

“I wasn’t worried about me.”

Reo stills for a second—just the briefest flicker of pause—and Nagi pretends not to notice. Or rather, he pretends he isn’t reading into it, obsessing over it, cataloguing it into the endless archive of things Reo does and what they might mean.

“Your hands are shaking,” Nagi murmurs.

“Adrenaline, baby.” Reo’s smirk returns, slow and cutting. “Your voice is shaking.”

Nagi goes quiet. He shouldn’t like that. He shouldn’t like being read that easily, cracked open that fast. But he does. He wants Reo to read him—wants him to see all the ugly need and want and obsession clawing behind his ribs.

Reo’s breath puffs white in the cold as he finishes setting up the last mortar.

He stands, brushing his hands off on his jeans, then offers Nagi a hand up. Nagi doesn’t take it at first. Just stares. And then, slowly, like gravity works differently here, he lets his fingers slide into Reo’s palm.

It’s warm. Familiar. Too brief.

They return to the others, who are now shouting over the blaring music, drinks in hand. Karasu has a lighter and a death wish. Reo swipes it from him just in time and announces the show’s about to start.

Nagi watches him walk ahead into the dark, the moonlight catching in his hair. There’s firelight in his hands now, too, and when the first firework screams up into the sky and detonates in a bloom of silver and green, Reo’s lit from below, haloed by chaos.

Nagi’s heartbeat is too loud. He doesn’t blink.

He wants everything.

He wants Reo so badly he feels sick with it.

And tonight, with Reo laughing at something Bachira says, firelight painting his cheekbones, and everyone lost in the smoke and noise, Nagi lets himself wonder—

Maybe one day, he’ll get it.

They light them one by one, laughing as the fuses spark and sizzle against the pebbled clearing, scattering back from the crackle of ignition. The air smells like sulfur and burnt cotton and something wild, something reckless.

Reo is the first to run, his silhouette sharp against the low flares of rising sparks, and Nagi doesn’t think he’s ever seen someone move like that—like a shot fired, like he belongs to the sky and not the ground. The echo of laughter ricochets through the trees. Bachira screams and makes raven noises. Otoya trips and swears, Karasu yells after him, someone’s phone is still playing music from the truck bed. Chigiri sets one off too close to the car and nearly sets Kunigami’s shirt on fire with an open lighter. There's a bottle spinning through someone's hand. It's all half-frozen and fast, a moment suspended in motion.

Nagi only sees Reo. And light.

His heart leaps and bangs against his throat. His pulse stutters. The firework bursts above them—sapphire and violet and white and silver splitting the night—and it frames Reo’s profile in flashes of incandescent light. Reo tilts his head back, arms spread wide, cheeks flushed from the cold and the run and the glow. The sparks rain around him. He looks untouchable. Radiant.

And Nagi’s chest hurts with it.

He stands frozen a second too long, watching the streaks fall around them like stars shed from the sky. Then he jogs after Reo, catching up just as the other boy stops near the edge of the clearing, laughing into his own wrist as another set goes off behind them. Reo looks over, mouth still curved, eyes catching on Nagi’s.

“You spacing out again?” Reo asks, slightly breathless.

Nagi just stares. He can’t answer. Not with the way Reo looks right now—cheeks flushed, lips parted, the collar of his hoodie rumpled and crooked, hair a little windblown, backlit by a firework still unraveling in the sky. He feels like a fool. Like he’s unraveling, too.

“Are you cold?” Reo asks, stepping closer, wiping at his face with his sleeve. “Why’d you stop running?”

Nagi doesn’t say he stopped because Reo looked too perfect to look away from. He doesn’t say his body just sort of forgot how to move.

He shrugs, managing, “Didn’t want to trip.”

Reo gives a little snort. “You’re above six feet with reflexes coded by god, puppy. You’re not gonna trip and skin your knees like a toddler.”

But he steps closer anyway, just enough to knock their arms together. Just enough to make Nagi want to scream from how lightly he touches, how little he gives, how badly Nagi wants all of it.

Another firework explodes—a violet one this time, with gold edges—and Reo turns to look at it, lips parted slightly.

Nagi traces his throat instead. The line of his jaw. The slope of his shoulder. The slight shift in the way he exhales like this is the first time all day he’s let himself breathe.

He wants to touch him. Wants to press in and rest his forehead against that shoulder, wants to bury his face in Reo’s neck, wants to run his hands up under his hoodie and feel his warmth, his skin, his ribs beneath his palms. Wants to ruin him, gently. Slowly. Wants to make Reo melt open like wax in his hands.

But he doesn’t. He can’t.

He just stands there, every inch of him vibrating with want and restraint, watching the fireworks burst and fade and burst again.

And Nagi doesn’t say that he’s tired of this ache. Of this wanting. Of holding himself back, of being so good, of waiting for Reo to look at him the way Nagi looks at him, like he’s everything. He doesn’t say that he’d give anything to be wanted back just half as much.

Instead, he says nothing. Just breathes as the next firework shoots up and cracks the sky open with noise.

Reo turns again, and their eyes meet in the afterglow.

There’s something velvety in Reo’s gaze, like a flicker of real tenderness he doesn’t know how to hold for long. Something he keeps yanking back into a smirk or a tease or a deflection. But this time, for just a second, it stays. Lingers.

Nagi doesn’t breathe.

“I like this,” Reo says suddenly, voice low. “Being out here. With all of you.”

Nagi nods, throat thick. “Me too.”

Another pause. Another firework. Boom. Bang.

It really does sound like the world is ending.

Reo steps back, just a half-step, and leans down, scooping a pebble off the ground. He tosses it up, catches it again, idly watching it.

“You ever think about what you’d be doing if we hadn’t met?” He asks, tone strange. Casual. Loaded.

Nagi thinks: Dying slowly. Or not at all. Not living. Not like this. He thinks: you’re all I think about. He thinks: I want you. All of you. I want to bury myself in the parts of you you don’t show anyone. I want to hold your hands down and kiss your mouth until you cry.

“No.”

Reo’s brow lifts. “Really?”

Nagi shrugs. “I wouldn’t want to. It’s a hassle.”

Reo looks away again, flipping the pebble once more. “Figures.”

There’s another explosion of light overhead, but Nagi doesn’t look up.

He’s too busy gazing at the way Reo’s lashes catch the shimmer. The way his throat bobs as he swallows.

Too busy drowning in the way his own heart won’t stop pounding.

—

The air smells like wet concrete, fried food, and old tobacco.

There’s a flicker of neon against the rain-slick bricks behind them—the busted "EXIT" sign humming low above the theater’s back door. Around the corner, the muffled thrum of noise leaks out from the food court: laughter, arcade machines, someone's high-pitched argument over milk tea toppings.

Reo’s leaning against the wall, one ankle crossed over the other, cigarette balanced between two fingers. His silk shirt clings in the humidity, the sleeves falling just past his wrists, the fabric catching glints of red from the neon. He looks… expensive, somehow, even here. Especially here.

Nagi’s crouched beside him, hood up, watching the faint curl of smoke drift up and vanish into the damp night.

He doesn’t smoke. He doesn’t talk much, either.

But Reo does.

“That movie was garbage,” Reo says, exhaling slow through his teeth. “It tried so hard to be profound it looped back around to stupid.”

Nagi shrugs. “You laughed like, five times.”

“Yeah, because I was in pain.”

There’s a pause.

Reo lifts the cigarette again, but doesn’t take a drag—just rolls it between his fingers like he’s thinking. “Like, who the fuck talks like that? No one says ‘you are the ocean I drown in’ unless they want to get punched in the throat.”

“Yeah. That line sucked.”

“Right? And the miscommunication trope? I wanted to die. They would have solved the entire thing if either of them had a single functioning brain cell.”

Nagi hums, eyeing the glow at the tip of Reo’s cigarette.

It’s quiet for a while. Not heavy. Just the kind of quiet that settles between people who don’t need to fill space unless they feel like it.

Nagi pulls at the grass near his sneakers. The back of his hoodie is a little damp from leaning against the wall earlier. He can still hear the echo of the movie in his head, in bits and pieces.

He thinks about how the leads had circled each other for two hours, pretending they weren’t in love. Pretending they weren’t already breaking apart by refusing to close that last few inches.

He thinks about how Reo never lets him touch him first, not really.

Reo lets him get close. Lets him fall into that gravity. Teases. Taunts. Pulls him just to the edge, then grins and backs away like it's a game he’s already won. And maybe it is.

Maybe Nagi should be okay with it. With what they already have. With Reo’s softness behind closed doors and his sharp words in public and the way he sometimes looks at Nagi like he already owns him, body and mind and everything in between.

But he’s not. Not anymore.

He reaches out.

Not with his voice, not with a demand—but with his fingers, tugging gently at the edge of Reo’s sleeve. That long, ridiculous, expensive silk sleeve that hangs too far past his wrist.

Reo glances down, cigarette pausing halfway to his mouth.

“What do you want?” He asks, not unkind at all, but rather, with that casual, easy familiarity that Nagi adores.

“I want you.”

The words come out quiet, but firm. Honest in a way that feels too raw.

Not just I want you here.

Not just I want your teasing, your games, your almosts.

He wants all of him—the softness and the sharpness and the in-between. He wants Reo in public and in private. He wants the Reo who scratches gently at his scalp when no one’s watching and the Reo who sits just a little too close during games and acts like it’s nothing.

He wants the part that Reo’s still holding back. That piece behind the glass.

Reo blinks once, slowly, like Nagi just knocked the wind out of him. The cigarette lowers. His lips part, and his expression flickers—confusion, irritation, fear, something warmer under that.

“I know,” Reo says eventually. “I’ve always known.”

And somehow that stings more than if he hadn’t. Because it means he knows. Knows exactly what Nagi feels, exactly what he's doing. And he still won't give it.

Nagi drops his hand. Doesn’t pull away, but doesn’t press.

Because he could lean in. Could close the gap himself. Could push Reo and maybe kiss him and maybe make him stop playing games—but it wouldn’t be real . Not if Reo doesn’t give it first.

So he just sits there, staring at the concrete.

Reo doesn’t move either.

The smoke curls between them, thin and fading.

And Nagi thinks: This is the worst part of wanting someone like Reo. It always feels like almost. And he knows—god, he knows—he’s not going anywhere.

Chapter Text

It’s the back parking lot of the athletics building—cracked concrete, still warm from the sun, the smell of grass and old rubber wafting in from the track nearby. Nagi sits on the curb, spine curved, chin tucked, long legs stretched out in front of him. His shirt clings to him, damp with sweat, and there’s a dull ache in his thighs from drills, but it’s nice. Quiet.

Bachira is sitting cross-legged beside him, humming something tuneless while balancing an energy drink on his knee. Isagi’s pacing a few feet away, messing with his phone, visibly agitated.

“He’s late,” Isagi grumbles, not for the first time.

“Reo?” Bachira asks, biting at the edge of his straw. 

Nagi shoots Isagi a flat look. “He’s not late—”

“—He is,” Isagi complains, more of a stupid, insectile whine than anything. Nagi frowns at him in disgust, crossing his arms.

Bachira cackles, sharp and mischievous. 

Isagi makes a noise like he wants to die and stops pacing. “Why did we agree to this again?”

“Because he threatened to supply me with several litres of indigo liquid methanol,” Bachira reminds him, tone cheerful.

Nagi doesn’t say anything. He hadn’t actually minded. He leans his head back against the step behind him and lets his eyes drift half-closed. Bachira is humming again. Isagi’s still muttering.

“You good?” Bachira asks, nudging his foot against Nagi’s knee.

Nagi hums in the affirmative.

“You’ve been weird,” Isagi accuses, not looking at him.

Nagi, once again, doesn’t reply. What would he even say?

Yeah, I’ve been weird. I’ve been going insane. I think I’m in love with someone who likes to keep me just close enough to ruin me.

Instead, he says, “Long day.”

“It’s noon,” Isagi rolls his eyes.

Bachira burps loudly. “He’s lovesick.”

“I’m not,” Nagi mumbles, though it sounds weak even to his own ears.

“He’s very lovesick,” Bachira insists, nudging him harder this time. “He’s got that—thousand-yard-fifty-shades-of-gray stare.”

Isagi winces. “Please never say that again.”

Bachira grins, unapologetic.

Nagi sighs, sitting up slightly. “Can you both shut up?”

“No,” they say at the same time.

And it’s weirdly comforting. The chaos. The chatter. The way they never expect him to explain himself too much.

He rests his forearms on his knees, picking absently at the hem of his sleeve. In the distance, someone kicks a ball hard enough for the echo to reach them.

Bachira flops down. “You know,” he advises lazily, “if you’re gonna go feral-mode over Reo, you should just tell him.”

Nagi doesn’t move. “It’s not that easy.”

“Huh? Why not?”

Because he’s cruel, Nagi thinks. Because sometimes he touches me like I’m something, then looks away like I’m nothing but his favorite toy. And I don’t even have the will to resent him for it. But at the same time, I feel like he’s softening, like I’m getting closer, incrementally, gradually. Some days, he naps on the roof with me, and sometimes he peers at me with those irresistible, sleepy eyes, and I'm reminded I'm the only person who's ever been allowed this close. Some days, it feels like I’m almost within reach. Because it’s my first time wanting someone like this, and I can't let him go. I can't go back to who I was before him, I don't recognize the person I was before him. 

Isagi crouches beside them suddenly, dropping his phone into his lap. “You think he doesn’t know?”

Obviously, he does. Nagi shrugs. “Doesn’t matter.”

Bachira blinks. “Why not?”

“Because I’ll wait,” Nagi says, almost to himself. “As long as I have to.”

The words hang there between them for a second. Even Bachira doesn’t say anything.

Then Isagi stands up, brushing off his pants. “Okay, that’s quite literally the saddest thing I’ve heard all week. You’re like a Victorian wife waiting at the window.”

Bachira cackles. “With a lace handkerchief!”

“I hate you both,” Nagi grunts, but there’s no bite to it. He leans back again, eyes following a bird across the sky.

There’s a rumble down the drive then, loud and sudden—a dark purple Mercedes, tires skidding slightly on gravel.

“Speak of the devil,” Isagi jokes.

Reo leans halfway out the driver’s window when the car slows, sunglasses perched on his head, wind in his hair, the smirk on his face making Nagi’s stomach twist violently.

“Get in, losers,” Reo calls. “We’re going shopping.”

Bachira’s up instantly. Isagi groans. Nagi follows.

His eyes stay fixed on Reo the whole way across the drive. Reo, who tosses him a wink and disappears back into the luxury vehicle. Reo, who’s smiling like he didn’t make Nagi wait twenty-three minutes like a whimpering dog tied to a pole outside of an ice-cream shop.

Reo, who will always, always be worth the wait.

The drive to the mall is loud.

Bachira (who called dibs on shotgun) has chosen violence via aux, cycling through bass-heavy playlists that shake the doors and rattle the windows, while Isagi complains from the back seat that he’s going to go deaf before they even hit the highway. Reo, in the driver’s seat, doesn’t bother turning it down—he’s leaning an elbow on the door, sunglasses sliding slightly down his nose.

Nagi sits behind him, shoulder pressed lightly to the door, legs folded in on themselves to fit. Reo’s hair shifts in the breeze from the open window, his fingers tap out a rhythm on the doorframe, his throat work as he speaks to Bachira, who’s yelling something over the music.

He could do this forever, Nagi thinks, just sit in the space Reo occupies. Be where Reo is. Breathe in whatever air he leaves behind.

He leans his head against the window and lets the vibration of the car hum through his skull. At some point, Bachira cranks the volume even higher and Reo turns, tossing him a grin over the seat like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

They pull into the mall’s parking lot forty minutes later. Isagi climbs out swearing. Bachira hops over the trunk. Reo stretches long beside the car, spine arching and shirt riding up. Nagi looks away too late.

Inside, it’s crowded but bright. Artificial light. Echoing floors. They drift in two clusters, Bachira dragging Isagi toward a sneaker store while Nagi trails naturally after Reo, who walks along with his phone in one hand, the other shoved in his pocket.

“You need anything?” Reo asks, not looking back.

Nagi shrugs. “Not really.”

“Good,” Reo nods, pausing in front of a clean white storefront that smells like overpriced laundry detergent. “You can help me pick out something. I’ve got a thing.”

He doesn’t specify what the thing is. Nagi doesn’t ask. He follows, naturally, like he always does.

The store’s too bright. They’ve drifted to the back of it—quiet now, away from the front windows and the register where some college kid is lazily folding polos. This part of the store is dimmer, shelves and narrow aisles filled with layered displays of neutral colors and overly expensive jackets no one needs. Music hums overhead, quiet and sterile. Reo’s talking about something—brands, maybe, or the cut of some blazer—but Nagi’s not listening.

He’s watching Reo’s mouth move. The curve of his lip when he smiles faintly to himself, distracted by a price tag. He’s watching the way the light catches in strands of his hair. He’s watching the gap in space between them and thinking about how small it would be if he stepped forward. 

Reo lifts a shirt from a rack—deep plum, something silky—and turns to hold it up against his chest. “Would this look good on me?”

Unfair.

He steps forward.

Reo stills, fingers tightening faintly on the hanger. His brows lift, something flickering in his gaze—surprise? Expectation?

He closes the space between them until Reo’s back is brushing the edge of a display shelf. Not trapped, not quite. But he’d have to move Nagi to leave.

Nagi stares at him, drinking him in. The line of his jaw, the slope of his collarbone just visible under the edge of his shirt. The scent of his cologne, faint and expensive and Reo. 

He leans in, close enough that he can feel Reo’s exhale against his cheek. Close enough that his hand could settle on Reo’s hip if he just let it.

He doesn’t.

“I’d be good to you,” he says. “I’d never ask for more than what you gave.”

Reo swallows. “Shut up.”

“Okay.”

Nagi thinks about that. About how Reo always needs to be the one in control—of his image, his wants, his orbit. About how letting Nagi have him would mean falling. Not managing. Not orchestrating. Not keeping the upper hand. And Reo doesn’t want that.

Nagi steps back.

And Reo breathes out slowly, like the tension in the air is something he’s been holding in his lungs. He doesn’t look smug. He doesn’t taunt. He just looks at Nagi with those bright, unreadable eyes like he’s trying to piece together the shape of what’s happening between them.

Nagi breaks the silence.

“You looked good in that color,” he says, voice low.

Reo doesn’t respond right away. Then—so soft Nagi almost misses it: “Yeah?”

Nagi nods.

“Go buy it for me,” Reo commands, slipping a hand into his pocket and handing over a sleek black credit card, his voice pointed. And it’s not an order. Not really. It’s a table scrap. And Nagi—Nagi truly is so, terribly weak, so he nods again and takes the shirt gently from his hands.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Anything you want.”

—

The vending machine makes that ugly, mechanical ka-thunk as the can drops.

Nagi doesn’t flinch. Just crouches down, fingers curling around the cold metal—a can of sweet black coffee. The metal hisses against his palm, still chilled from the machine’s insides.

It’s too warm for a jacket, but he’s wearing one anyway. Not zipped. Not thought about. He hadn’t planned on ending up here. He’s not even sure where he meant to go after class—his feet just wandered, like they’ve got some low-level homing system for quiet places.

His body just sort of wandered to the courtyard behind the library, quiet and sun-dappled, where Reo sometimes goes to smoke when he doesn’t want to be found.

But Reo isn’t here today.

Yukkimiya is.

He’s seated on one of the low stone benches by the flowerbeds, tapping through something on his phone, one leg crossed over the other. 

Nagi stands for a long moment, fingers curled around the can, wondering if he should just leave.

He could turn right back around and no one would think it was weird. But then Yukkimiya looks up, eyes sharp and amused, mouth quirking.

“You gonna hover there all day or sit down and be less weird about it?”

Nagi shrugs and ambles over, dropping down on the bench with all the grace of a sack of laundry. He stretches his legs out, lets his body fall into that familiar slump, neck tilted back toward the sky. The sun flickers through the tree, casting a net of light across his face.

They sit like that for a bit. Nagi cracks the can open and sips—too sweet, but whatever. Yukkimiya taps at his screen, looking put-together despite being sunburned in red uniform pants with a thread coming loose from one cuff.

“You look like shit,” Yukkimiya comments after a while, not unkindly.

“Karasu elbowed me in the ribs during drills,” Nagi mumbles.

“I’m assuming it wasn’t part of the drill.”

Nagi snorts. “It was ‘accidental.’”

Yukkimiya clicks his tongue. “Figures. He’s had that glint in his eye lately. Insufferable bastard. Must be crow mating season.”

Nagi lets out a soft sound, not quite a laugh. “He’s not as bad as Bachira.”

“Oh god, that little demon is awful. But weirdly charming when he wants to be. Like a raccoon that’s figured out how to open garbage cans.”

Nagi hums. “Are you always this bitchy?”

“I’m not bitchy,” Yukkimiya retaliates, offended. “I’m refined. You’re just too blunt to tell the difference.”

Nagi sips again. “You’re still kind of bitchy.”

Yukkimiya gasps like he’s been mortally wounded. Nagi glances sideways and sees the smile tucked in the corner of his mouth.

“Heard you were the one who tackled Karasu into the dirt during that fireworks thing,” Yukkimiya says eventually, voice light.

Nagi hums. “He stole my last grape soda.”

Yukkimiya snickers. “Of course. Nothing is sacred.”

Nagi finds himself asking, “You and Reo have been close for a while, right?”

Yukkimiya pauses mid-scroll. Raises one brow. “What, like emotionally or biblically ?”

Nagi stares, slow-blinking. “I don’t know what the second one means.”

“Biblically,” Yukkimiya says patiently, “as in thou knew him in the biblical sense, etc. ”

Nagi frowns. “You’re weird.”

Yukkimiya grins. “And you’re dodging.”

“No, you are.”

“Fine,” he relents, leaning back on one arm, phone still in the other. “Yeah. We knew each other before Blue Lock. Not friends, like, at all, but same prep school.”

Nagi processes that. The idea of Reo, polished and private-school refined, before all the sharp edges and smoke and cold little cruelties. It feels distant. Foreign.

“Do you miss it?” he asks, surprising himself.

Yukkimiya shrugs. “Me? Mostly not. Reo's better now.”

“Better how?”

“Mm.” Yukkimiya leans back on his hands. “I thought he was spoiled and manipulative. He thought I was a shallow narcissist. He put puke-green fabric dye in my shampoo once. I stole three of his girlfriends. In the end, maybe we were both right.”

“Are you?” Nagi asks, before he can think better of it. “Shallow?”

Yukkimiya laughs, delighted. “Maybe a little.”

Nagi thinks about that. Reo, spoiled? Probably. Manipulative? Maybe. But mostly, he’s just—Reo. Blinding and soft and cruel in ways that Nagi would thank him for. Nagi would kiss the hand that wounds.

He doesn’t say any of that. Instead: “I didn’t know you two were that close.”

A loud snort. “I don’t know if you would call that close, but,” Yukkimiya glances sideways at him. “Why? You jealous?”

Nagi frowns. He knows he's been obviously, but really?

Yukkimiya’s voice is quieter when he speaks again. “You’re not what I expected.”

Nagi turns to him. “What did you expect?”

Yukkimiya tilts his head. “Someone a little more cold. A little more like him.”

Nagi frowns. “Reo’s not cold.”

“No,” Yukkimiya agrees. “But he’s careful. With people. With his own feelings. You’re different.”

“Is that bad?”

Yukkimiya shrugs. “I think it’s what’s messing him up.”

Nagi stiffens. “What do you mean?”

“I mean he doesn’t know how to deal with someone like you,” Yukkimiya says, calm. “Someone who’s so open. So direct. You’re not subtle, Nagi. You want him and everyone can see it.”

Nagi doesn’t deny it. After all, he's right. Nagi's throat feels tight. His fingers twitch in his pockets.

Yukkimiya looks at him more closely, his tone softening just slightly. “He’s scared, you know.”

“Of me?”

“Not of you. Of needing things. Wanting them. People like us—we’re taught that needing too much makes us weak. And he’s been left before. Hurt. Disappointed.”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

“Maybe. But unfortunately, there’s no way to prove that. In all reality, he doesn’t know how to deal with someone who looks at him the way you do,” Yukkimiya continues. “With all that wanting, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He’s used to being wanted like a trophy. You want him like he’s the whole game.”

They sit in silence again. A different kind, weightier. Nagi stares at his hands, flexes them in his lap. He wants to ask if Reo talks about him. If he says his name. If he thinks about the way Nagi looks at him, if—

Yukkimiya pushes up from the bench, brushing imaginary lint from his pants. “You’re a good person, Nagi. In that really annoying way where you don’t even realize it.”

Nagi doesn’t know what to say to that. So he doesn’t.

“Well. This has been unexpectedly pleasant.” He looks down at Nagi with an unreadable expression. “Be patient with him.”

“I am,” Nagi says, a little too fast, a little too sharp. “I’ve been waiting.”

Yukkimiya hums, hands in his pockets now. “He notices, you know. Even when he pretends he doesn’t. Especially then.”

And then he walks away, leaving Nagi sitting alone in the fading light, heart loud in his ears.

—

Concrete cracked like old bones, rusted rails bent in the middle, the pool sunken and scarred from years of weather and kids trying to make it their kingdom. It’s surrounded by a chain-link fence leaning tiredly into itself, the posted “NO TRESPASSING AFTER DARK” signs long faded from sun exposure and indifference. The air smells like iron and dust, and the dying light of evening paints everything in lavender and bruised orange.

They had to climb in—Otoya was the first, obviously, flinging himself over the chain-link fence like it was a game, yelling something about “living a little, cowards” as his board clattered behind him. Karasu was next, muttering under his breath, landing in a roll like he’d done it a hundred times. Reo followed after with less grace but more style—his laugh ringing through the air, breathless and bright.

Nagi had gone last.

He didn’t want to climb a fence. But Reo had glanced back at him from the top with a grin, hair tousled from the wind, and said, “Come on, slowpoke.”

So, Nagi had climbed.

Now, they’re spread out across the old skatepark, teenagers skipping curfew, adrenaline threading between them. The concrete bowls are cracked and graffiti-covered, the air sharp with the scent of spray paint and weeds. A busted stereo Otoya found in a trash pile is playing a tinny remix of something vaguely pop-adjacent, the speakers glitching every time someone landed too hard on the pavement.

Reo is wobbling unsteadily on a board clearly two sizes too small for him and cursing every few seconds as he nearly falls, again. Yukimiya’s perched high on the rail beside a straight ramp, a bottle of something carbonated and definitely not allowed tucked under one arm, looking more model than menace, at least in comparison to the rest of them. Otoya’s bleeding from both knees and laughing like a lunatic. Karasu is shirtless now for no apparent reason, and Shidou keeps trying to launch himself into the half-pipe like he’s part of a traveling circus and not just plain insane.

And Nagi lies flat at the bottom of the bowl, limbs splayed out wide, the bruises blooming across his ribs, a dull throb that he’s mostly tuned out. His board is somewhere off to the side. His thigh still aches from where he slammed into the concrete earlier—Reo’s fault, obviously, for convincing him he could nail the drop-in if he “just committed.” He hadn’t even come close.

“You looked majestic,” Reo had said, wheezing and clutching his stomach with laughter. “Like a bird hitting a window.”

Nagi had flipped him off. Reo had beamed.

Now, they’re all scattered across the park like kids on the edge of summer: Reo in his stupidly expensive sneakers trying to figure out how to not eat shit on the board Shidou stole from god-knows-where. There’s a tear in his jeans that wasn’t there before—deep, right over the sharp jut of his hip—and a bruise forming beneath it, dark like plum. His cheeks are pink from wind and motion. His smile is feral. 

The smell of dust and rust hangs thick, broken only by the taste of adrenaline and something sticky-sweet in the air. Nagi lies flat in the bottom of the pool, knees bent, board beside him, half-lidded as the dusk sky sprawls overhead.

Reo’s the wild card tonight. He’s come to lean into every risk—board gliding beneath him, face set in that stubborn half-smile he gets right before something ridiculous happens. His sneaker tips hang over the edge.

“You're insane, Mikage,” Karasu teases, voice echoing across the bowl.

“Someone’s gotta keep the bar high,” Reo calls back, then frowns at the board. He shifts weight, tries again, teeters, arms flailing until—holy shit—he sticks it. Just. Board clicks against concrete, correct angle, ride through. He lands, too proud to call it a victory.

Nagi sits up, shifts forward, heart thudding. He watches Reo hop off the board, brush dust from his knees, hair mussed, face flushed. "You saw that, puppy?" Reo grins over at him—he always waits to see if Nagi’s watching.

“Nice,” Nagi says, biting back a smile.

Reo smirks, shrugs off the moment’s quiet heat. “Your turn.”

The skateboard Nagi abandoned lies inches from him. He picks it up, squeezing the deck’s grip tape, bones pressing through. He steps to the top of the rail, heart twisting.

Otoya yells, “You got this, watchdog!”

Nagi says nothing. He recalls Reo’s method: ankle toe forward, shift shoulders, eyes on exit. He bends knees. Booms down, rails hum beneath wheels, board grips metal—but halfway through, rip, he wobbles, catching himself. He misses the exit, momentum flipping, and tumbles into gravel. Pain stabs his forearm. He grunts and rolls out, dusty and sharp.

Silence. Then laughter.

Reo’s beside him in a few seconds, kneeling. Fingers brush loose gravel off Nagi’s shirt. “Seriously, why do you just turn into a ragdoll whenever your feet leave the board. You good?”

Nagi huffs, wiping dirt on his jeans. “Yeah.”

He sees Reo’s bruised knees again, the way dust clings to dark wounds. It strikes him: this is who Reo is—broken and bold. So compelling that Nagi aches.

Reo stands and extends a hand. Nagi pushes to his feet. He breathes ragged. Reo shifts, body close enough that their arms touch. Nagi’s skin burns from the contact.

"You almost had it, puppy."

Nagi’s throat scrapes. He lets the nickname sink. It burns like honey on a fresh cut—sweet, dangerous.

"Otoya!" Reo screams, loud and violent. "You're next."

Otoya stumbles and drops into a squat to kiss his own, bloody knees. "Remind me later why I keep doing this."

They keep skating. The light keeps bleeding out. Each turning edge, each scrape and stolen laugh, draws them tighter into this bruise of fading day.

And Nagi? He peers at him from close-range; how sweat beads on Reo’s neck, catching the last light. Nagi swears that moment etches itself behind his eyes—how Reo laughs, wild and free, hair whipped in wind, shoes scuffed, ruing pennies on skinned knees and one bruised hip.

He inhales, slow, letting it tape together all the tension in his chest.

Nagi doesn’t mean to stare.

He really doesn’t.

But Reo’s sitting on the edge of the busted halfpipe, elbows resting on his knees, and the sun’s bleeding orange over the horizon like it’s melting. There’s a tear in Reo’s jeans at the knees—not a fashion tear, not designer-distressed or some curated kind of rebellion—just worn denim split open from the fall he took twenty minutes ago.

And there, in the ripped fabric and dirty skin, Reo’s kneecaps are raw and red and bleeding, scraped open and smeared in a way that makes something twist in Nagi’s gut.

They’re so fucking pretty.

Not the delicate kind of pretty. But visceral. Gritty. Something real. Skin torn just enough to show how human Reo is. How reckless. How alive.

Nagi never really understood the world most of the time—how people chase things that don’t matter, talk around the things they don’t mean. But this? This he understands. That sharp glint of pain and proof. That Reo can fall hard and still look heavenly, like he owns the ground he bleeds on.

He wants to touch. Just a little. Thumb over the scab, maybe. Not to hurt, just to see how warm it is. How real. Maybe watch Reo flinch, just a twitch, some reaction that Nagi can hold onto for the rest of the week.

He doesn’t, of course.

That would be insane.

(He still thinks about it.)

And when Reo laughs—loud and wild at something Shidou says across the bowl, head thrown back, hands braced behind him, blood still drying on his knees like warpaint—Nagi thinks he’s never seen something more unfair.

Then—

“Cops!” Yukki’s voice cuts sharp through the chaos, sudden and loud and real.

At first, Nagi thinks he’s joking. He doesn’t move, hearing Yukkimiya’s voice like it’s underwater, muffled and faraway. He just blinks up at the sky.

But gravel crunches. Tires. Floodlights—a blinding sweep of white and red and blur across the far end of the park’s fence. The siren whoops once, short and sharp—definitely not a joke.

Nagi turns his head slowly, disoriented, the high of adrenaline still vibrating in his limbs. His palm is split, skin scraped raw. Someone’s blood—maybe his—is drying on the sleeve of his jacket. His ears are ringing.

Karasu is already moving. “Shit.”

“We’re trespassing,” Yukki hisses, already on his feet, the bottle abandoned in the dirt.

“I told you we should’ve gone to the park by East Street instead,” Otoya cries. His board clatters as he hurls it over the concrete lip as he bolts for the tree line.

Shidou just starts laughing—too loud, too unhinged. “Fucking finally,” he says, voice gleeful. “I was getting bored.”

“Oh my God. If you don’t shut up and move, I will be the first fucking person at your trial to make sure you don’t get any parole,” Yukkimiya snaps, not even yelling—just urgent, teeth bared as he throws Shidou’s board into the bushes, grabbing Shidou’s arm to haul him upright.

“Awww,” Shidou grins, manic. “I was just getting started.”

“Save it for the holding cell,” Karasu returns, already running.

The stereo shuts off in a sharp kick of feedback. Someone’s shoe slips on the rim of the bowl. Nagi feels the panic hit like a wave.

“Move,” Reo’s already halfway down the bowl in two long strides, hand snatching Nagi by the wrist. “Come on, come on—!”

Nagi stumbles after him, barely registering the flare of panic in his chest until it’s already happening.

The air is full of feet and breath and curses. Yukkimiya vanishes behind one of the taller ramps. Karasu vaults the fence like it’s muscle memory with Otoya close behind him. Shidou skips off toward the trees, disappearing into shadows. Reo drags Nagi, weaving through piles of plywood and half-broken rails, both of them stumbling as they run.

Reo yanks Nagi toward the edge of the park, where the overgrown grass and stacked junk hide the old maintenance shed—bent metal, nearly falling in on itself, wedged behind a dead vending machine and warped plywood. It smells like damp leaves and rust and stale cigarette smoke.

“Get in,” Reo snaps, pushing him through the narrow gap.

“There’s no space,” Nagi starts to say, but Reo’s already right behind him, slamming the door shut as softly as he can, breath gusting against Nagi’s neck. He presses close, chest heaving, heart a thunder against Nagi’s ribs.

Outside, the sirens cut sharp through the dark. Flashlights swing. Footsteps crunch over gravel.

Nagi inhales shakily. Reo’s thigh is pressed against his own, hot and trembling. His breath smells like soda and copper. There’s a smear of blood at his temple, right beneath the piece of purple that always falls into his eyes.

They’re both bleeding—Reo’s bleeding onto Nagi, actually. 

Nagi’s never felt more alive.

A car door slams. A man’s voice shouts something in the distance. Radio chatter, another set of tires screeching to a halt. Blue and white—the lights shine through the crack created by the shitty hinges.

“You’re bleeding on me,” Nagi croaks, for lack of anything else.

Reo’s gaze flicks up to him, one eyebrow raised. “Poor you. Send me your dry cleaning bill.”

He turns his head, just slightly, “We’re gonna get caught. ”

Reo whispers back, “They won’t find us here.”

“How do you know?”

“I don’t.” Reo smiles, wild. “But wouldn’t it be fun if they did?” 

Nagi wants to kiss him just for that. 

Another beat. Nagi can hear shouting getting fainter in the distance. Maybe the cops are chasing Karasu or Shidou into the park. Maybe they’ll double back later. Maybe they won’t.

But here, inside this rusted box, there’s only the hum of Reo’s breath. Only the sharp, copper scent of blood, and Reo’s weight leaned slightly into him, like he doesn’t care that it’s Nagi holding him up.

Reo shifts slightly, adjusting his stance, and Nagi has to brace his hands on the wall behind Reo to keep from falling into him completely. Reo’s mouth is right there. Inches. Less than inches.

He could tilt and—

He doesn’t.

But he wants to.

Wants to so badly it hurts in a quiet, primal kind of way. It’s like an itch in his bones, a tremble just beneath his skin. A howl behind his ribs. The restraint it takes not to move is astronomical.

Outside, the flashlights sweep over the gravel. The muffled crunch of boots and the lazy calls of bored cops fill the silence, but Nagi isn’t really listening.

His whole focus is on the shape of Reo’s mouth. And the shallow rise and fall of his chest. And the tiny flick of his tongue against the inside of his cheek when he’s trying not to smirk.

Nagi stares. He can’t help it. Reo glows even in shadows.

He’s not doing anything. Just pressed against Nagi, heat coming off him in gentle waves, smelling like citrus and sweat and wind. But it’s enough to make Nagi feel wired, restless, like his skin doesn’t quite fit right.

"Think they’re gone?" Reo whispers, voice soft and dry with amusement.

Nagi tilts his head slightly, lets his gaze drag down Reo’s jaw, to the stretch of his neck, to the exposed skin at his collarbone. He wants to lick it.

“Nagi?”

“Yeah,” he says finally. “Probably.”

Reo exhales, like he was holding in a laugh. “You’re so weird.”

“It’s cramped.”

“Yeah?” Reo raises an eyebrow, then nudges him slightly with a knee.

Nagi glances at him. “You like this.”

Reo snorts. “I like not getting arrested, yeah.”

“No,” Nagi says slowly, watching Reo from the corner of his eye, “I mean—being close. With me.” You haven’t pushed me away yet.

Reo huffs, but it sounds like he’s trying to mask something. “You’ve got a real high opinion of yourself lately.”

“You keep letting me.”

That makes Reo freeze for half a second. Just enough for Nagi to notice. And he notices everything when it comes to Reo. His lashes flutter. His throat moves. His fingers twitch against his thigh.

Reo rolls his eyes with forced nonchalance. “You’re tolerable. When you’re quiet.”

Nagi hums, low and thoughtful. “So not right now?”

Reo grins again, cocky and sharp. “Not even a little.”

And Nagi stares at him. His bones feel full of heat.

“Careful,” Reo sighs, trying for lightness. “Getting all intense on me like that. Might start thinking you actually want something.”

“I do.”

Reo pauses. Nagi hears the falter in his breath.

Reo recovers, always quick. Always golden.

He clicks his tongue, “Yeah? What’s that? You want me to buy you another drink after this? Patch you up when you fall off your board again? Carry you back to campus like a princess?”

Nagi tilts his head, expression unreadable. 

“Nah.”

“No?” Reo teases, raising an eyebrow. “Then, what do you want?”

This game again. Reo doesn't seem to realize that Nagi doesn't care if he wins. Nagi leans in slightly—just slightly—until his voice drips, like molasses thickening in the heat of a summer sun.

“I want you to look at me the way you look when you’re about to mouth off to some asshole,” he confesses. “Like you’re ready to tear flesh apart with your teeth.”

Reo blinks, taken aback—but Nagi’s not done.

“I want to see if you’d look at me like that,” he murmurs, eyes half-lidded now, watching every twitch of Reo’s face. “Or like—like that, like you really want something.” 

Reo stills. The air goes still with him.

Nagi keeps his voice soft, coaxing. “I want a lot, actually.”

He watches the color rise in Reo’s throat, and the muscles twitch in his jaw.

"You're so full of shit," Reo scoffs, trying for playful, but his voice is a little strained.

Nagi tilts his head again. “I want to know what your voice sounds like when you're crying. Or begging.”

Reo makes a sound, half-laugh and half-something else, but he shifts back slightly—and there’s nowhere to go. His shoulder hits the wall behind him. Nagi stays where he is, deliberate, but barely breathing.

Nagi traces the flush that blooms slowly across Reo’s chest—rising from his collarbones, flooding his neck, burning hot across his cheeks. It’s beautiful. Undeniable. Another crack in that armor Reo wears like a second skin.

It makes Nagi feel like he’s on the edge of something violent and sweet.

Reo tries to laugh—but it’s breathless, shaky. “You’re such a fucking freak,” he says, rough. "Seriously. You're fucked in the—you're actually out of your fucking mind."

He turns his head away like it’ll help, like Nagi didn’t already see the way his hands clenched, the way his eyes went dark and wide and a little hazy. He swallows once, hard.

And Nagi just smiles—lazy, satisfied. Like he didn’t just say something that cracked open the quiet between them and rewired it. "Never claimed otherwise." 

The shed door groans when Reo shoves it open with his shoulder, breaking the stale air with the bite of cool night wind. Nagi trails behind him, silent. The path beyond is empty now—no flashlights, no voices. 

Reo’s still flushed. Not the way he was when they were laughing through the skatepark earlier, but quiet-flushed, like something’s still buzzing under his skin. His hands tuck into his pockets. His shoulders are tight. He walks faster than usual, which Nagi reads instantly for what it is—retreat.

Nagi gives Reo a minute, doesn’t follow too close, and lets the sharp edges of their breathless moment dull back into something navigable.

Still, he’s thinking—you didn’t say no.

They meet the others again by the fence, where Otoya’s crouched and checking his phone, Karasu and Yukimiya talking while Shidou cackles at something only funny to him. 

“You guys took your sweet time,” Otoya notices them, glancing up. “The hell were you doing? Planning a prison escape?”

Reo scoffs. “Cops were right outside. What, you want us to come running into their arms?”

Yukimiya eyes the two of them. His gaze lingers a beat too long on Reo’s face, then Nagi’s. Nagi ignores it.

“You good?” Karasu asks, shifting his weight lazily on one foot.

“We’re good,” Reo cuts in too quickly.

Nagi feels Reo’s shoulder brush his again as they move toward the gates together, stepping where the chain is ripped and bent for an easy out.

He wants like it’s a second pulse. Like the only language he knows is Reo, Reo, Reo.

—

“This is so stupid,” Isagi mutters for the third time in five minutes, chewing on the edge of his pen. “What even is this class for? We’re not gonna be scientists.”

“You’re not gonna be anything if you don’t pass,” Nagi replies, voice dry. “Which, judging by this worksheet, is not looking great for you.”

It’s one of the science labs, half-forgotten during the late afternoon lull between classes, the pale light outside draining everything into shades of gray-blue. Dust floats like static in the air. A lone fly buzzes against the window and fails to escape. The overhead light hums like it’s tired of existing.

Nagi sighs, resting his chin on his palm, his elbow planted on the cool metal table.

“I didn’t ask for commentary,” Isagi grumbles, but there’s no real heat to it. He leans over the table, dark hair falling into his face as he squints at the questions again. “How are you even good at this? You don’t even do anything.”

“I don’t waste time,” Nagi replies. “And I listen in class.”

“Oh, bullshit. You sleep in class.”

“Yeah, but I sleep efficiently.”

Isagi snorts despite himself, shaking his head. His laughter fades as quickly as it came. “Still can’t believe you’re the one helping me.”

“Helping is generous,” Nagi denies. “You begged.”

“ Bachira begged.”

“No, Bachira bet me four thousand you wouldn’t make it one hour without crying.”

“I haven’t cried.”

“Yet. It’s only been thirty.”

Isagi groans and slumps in his seat. “What the hell does Reo even like about you? You’re a horrible teacher.”

Nagi scoffs and picks at a chip in the lab table’s paint with the corner of his nail. “Luckily, I’m not Reo’s teacher.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Isagi shakes his head, like it’s unbelievable. He seems to slow, eyes glazing over with something remembered. “Man. Man, it must be nice to be us, huh?”

Nagi glances at him sidelong. “Huh?”

“We got lucky. Skipped all the dumb shit. No one’s allowed to mess with us now.” Isagi rests his chin on the table, looking vaguely pitying. “I ran into this first year earlier—Naruhaya—or, he ran directly into me and spilled iced coffee on the floor. Anyway, he’s still someone’s fucking errand boy.”

“Whose?”

“Some guy from 2-C. Tall asshole with a lisp. Carries a pocket knife and wears knock-off Versace slides.”

Nagi makes a face. “Sounds pathetic.”

Isagi shrugs like it doesn’t matter, but Nagi notices the tension in his shoulders. Still, he doesn’t say anything. He just watches him for a moment, eyes half-lidded with something like disinterest, but not quite. 

“I didn’t even belong here, y’know,” Isagi blurts eventually, like it just spills out of him. “At the beginning. When I got here. I was scared out of my mind.”

“Yeah, I know,” Nagi says mildly. “You looked like shit. On the bus, I thought you had pissed yourself.” 

Isagi laughs once, low. “Yeah.”

There’s a beat of silence. Nagi keeps his eyes on the table, but his attention sharpens.

“I didn’t do anything,” Isagi reveals. “Not like the rest of you. Not that you—ugh, like, I wasn’t in a fight. Didn’t steal anything. Didn’t get arrested or set something on fire. Didn’t stab anyone in the lunch line.”

Nagi raises a brow—not because he expected any different, but because he didn’t expect different. “Boring.”

Isagi smiles crookedly, bitterly nostalgic. “Wrong place, wrong time. That’s all. Couple of guys from my school jumped some rich kid. Beat the shit out of him, like, half to death because they mistook him for another poor bastard who got fucked by their bootleg gambling scheme. I barely knew them. Just went to the same school. I wasn’t even there when it happened.” He lifts his head, finally looking at Nagi. “Didn’t matter. They wanted someone to blame.”

“You didn’t say anything?”

“I said everything.” Isagi bangs his fist on the table lightly, as if reliving the anger. “But they didn’t care. So. Here I am.”

Nagi looks at him, and for once, doesn’t reply with something dry or biting. There’s a flicker of something in Isagi’s eyes—not sadness, exactly, but resignation. Like he’s told this story enough to stop hoping it’ll land differently.

Nagi finally replies, “Sucks.”

“Yeah,” Isagi agrees. “Sucks a lot.”

He starts doodling a soccer ball in the margin of his worksheet, pen scratching quietly. “But, I think I’ve changed,” he remarks after a while, almost idly. “Since I came here, I mean.”

“You sound dramatic,” Nagi replies, stretching out his legs under the table.

“It’s true,” Isagi nudges the paper aside. “Bachira was the first one who didn’t care what I was like. Didn’t expect anything. Just treated me like I was already worth something, like I was an actual person.” He smiles a little to himself. “After that, it got easier. Oh, and you were there too, I guess, but, y’know.”

“I didn’t talk to you.” Nagi supplies unnecessarily.

“Yeah. You were a dick.” Isagi glances at him. “Still are.”

Nagi doesn’t deny it.

“But I think I’m different now,” Isagi repeats. “Not, like, totally changed, enlightened, or anything. Just—less of a loser.”

Nagi considers him. The dark hair, the slouch, the mismatched focus. The guy who couldn’t balance a chemical equation to save his life. But something about him is different, Nagi guesses. He doesn’t flinch anymore. Doesn’t look like he’s about to fold under pressure. Or instantaneously shit his pants. 

“Maybe,” Nagi admits. “You’re still kind of a loser. Just, like, fractionally less of one.”

Isagi laughs.

Then he turns to Nagi with a sly look and asks, “What about you?”

Nagi frowns. “What about me?”

“You think you’ve changed?”

The question sticks.

Nagi leans back in his chair and stares at the ceiling. He thinks about it longer than he wants to.

When he first arrived, he did everything he could to stay out of sight. Let things happen around him. He’d always lived like that—drifting through school and home and everything else with minimal effort, waiting for things to be over.

And then Reo happened.

Like color bleeding into a black-and-white world. Like heat.

Nagi sighs and scratches his head. “I dunno. Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“Yeah. I don’t sleep through everything now.”

Isagi snickers. “That’s personal growth.”

Nagi shrugs again.

He doesn’t say it out loud, but he knows something in him has shifted. Something he doesn’t quite know how to name. Something that pulled taut and snapped the first time Reo smirked at him and said, all in.

He thinks about his parents, the globe he used to keep in his childhood bedroom. A stack of unpaid phone bills. That first time Nagi sat in a house with empty shelves and an empty fridge and a stack of bills and asked his parents for a bank account over the phone while they yelled through static-y service on an Alaskan cruise, and they replied, we thought you had one already?

He thinks about what home means. What it means to exist. Postcards that read Hello from Paradise! He thinks about what that means. 

He stares at the page in front of him and pictures violet eyes and flash-bang heat. 

“Yeah,” he says at last. “I think I’ve changed.”

Isagi hums. “Well. Welcome to the club.”

Nagi yawns and rests his chin back on his palm. “Now solve number five before I fall asleep again or hit you in the head with the textbook.”

“Dictator,” Isagi hisses, but he picks up his pen.

—

A break between fifth and sixth period. The sky outside the hallway windows is washed-out grey, and the school feels heavier than usual—tired in its bones, too many names scratched into the walls, like it’s been bearing witness to too many years of too many kids like him.

Nagi stands with his back against a column near the courtyard, half-heartedly chewing on the straw of some canned tea that tastes more like metal than herb. 

A few people pass, heads low, voices hushed. No one talks to him. Not that that many people ever do unless they have to.

Except—

“Yo, Nagi,” says someone to his left. A guy. Kind of lanky. Wearing the wrong-colored uniform shirt and a hoodie tied around his waist. Nagi vaguely remembers him from somewhere or the other—Suda? Something like that.

“You’re the one Mikage Reo picked, right?”

Nagi tilts his head slightly. “Huh?”

“You’re his guy,” the guy clarifies, eyes wide with something between admiration and suspicion. “Watchdog. Like, you jumped from floor-mop duty to sitting with the elites in like a week. People say you don’t even have to follow the rotation anymore.”

Nagi blinks. He doesn’t know what the fuck the rotation is. “Uh. So?”

Suda shrugs, scratching the back of his neck. “Just—wondering how you pulled it off, man. That guy doesn’t even look at most people.”

Nagi shrugs. “I didn’t do anything.”

Suda frowns. “But he chose you.”

“Yeah.”

“And now no one messes with you.”

Nagi sips from the can. It’s warm now. He doesn’t reply.

Suda shifts awkwardly, clearly hoping for something more—advice maybe, or a crack in the mystery. “Must be nice,” he says after a beat. “Some of us are still getting our heads slammed into lockers for looking at someone the wrong way.”

Nagi nods absently. “Damn.”

Suda lingers like he might say something else, but Nagi’s silence is solid and still and uninterested, so eventually he slinks away.

Suddenly, Nagi’s phone buzzes.

He glances at the screen. Pauses.

MOM (Intl)

He lets it ring once. Twice. Three times. Then—mostly out of boredom (at least, that’s what he convinces himself)—he picks up.

There’s the telltale pause, that second of tinny static before her voice comes through, sweet like synthetic perfume.

“Seishirou!” she squeals, bright and cheerful, like she’s calling from across the street and not halfway across the world. “You picked up! Oh, it’s been ages.”

Six months and two weeks, actually. Nagi leans his shoulder against the pillar. “Yeah.”

“I was starting to think you were avoiding me,” she scolds, mock-offended.

Can’t avoid someone who isn’t looking for you. He doesn’t take the bait. “What time is it over there?”

“Just past lunch. We’re in Amsterdam this week. Did you get the pictures I sent?”

“Didn’t look.”

“Oh, you should!” She exclaims, bubbly as ever. “There was this beautiful canal boat, and I thought of you. You used to like boats, right?”

Nagi’s quiet for a long beat. “That was when I was five.”

“Well,” she giggles, like it's a minor mistake, “that still counts.”

He can hear people behind her—clinking glasses, wind through trees, someone calling out in Dutch. She’s on a terrace, maybe. Or a rooftop cafe. Wherever she is, it’s far away and loud with a kind of life that never once touched his.

She asks, “How’s school?”

He says, “Fine.”

“No trouble?”

“No.”

“You’re eating well? Taking care of yourself?”

He hums noncommittally.

She sighs, soft and dramatic. “You’ve always been so quiet. I never know what you’re thinking.”

He doesn’t say: That’s because you’ve never tried to.

Instead, he says, “Guess I’m just not that interesting.”

She guffaws like it’s a joke. “Don’t be silly, Sei. You’ve always been so special.”

He lets her talk. It’s easier that way.

She rambles about the cities they’ve been to since the last time they “checked in”—Lisbon, Prague, Barcelona. She talks about how busy his father is, but how he still makes time for the little things. She claims she misses him. She says, “I wish you could be here with us.”

He almost chokes on that one. Instead, he says nothing.

She doesn't notice the silence.

“I’ll call again soon,” she promises, like this isn’t the first time she’s called him since he started at Blue Lock six and a half months ago. “And maybe we can plan something for your break—maybe we can fly you out to meet us. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“Sure,” Nagi agrees, flat and empty.

“You’re such a sweetheart,” she coos, voice dipped in saccharine. “I’ll send more photos. Love you!”

He hangs up without saying it back.

He doesn’t go to sixth period.

The coffee can is long empty by the time he finds himself circling the back of the dorm building. The sun’s dipped behind thick clouds, and the air’s turned sticky.

He spots Reo immediately—sprawled out on the concrete steps behind the old utility room, earbuds in, scrolling through something on his phone. 

Nagi drops down beside him without a word.

Reo doesn’t startle. Just pulls out one earbud. “Skipping class?”

Nagi shrugs.

Reo studies him for a second. “Did something happen?”

Nagi leans forward, elbows to knees, watching the ants crawl across the cracked pavement. He doesn’t lie, because there’s no reason to. “My mom called.”

Reo makes a low sound of understanding. “Haven’t heard you talk about her a lot.”

Nagi shrugs again. “Not much to say.”

Reo doesn’t push. Just tips his head back against the wall and offers one side of the earbuds. Nagi takes it, settles in beside him. 

They sit in silence, bodies close, music low.

Nagi opens his mouth, and hesitates. “It’s your turn.”

Reo’s head turns swiftly, eyes bright with surprise. However, he doesn’t ask. Doesn’t push or judge. His expression returns to one of calm neutrality, and he hums, pensive. “I guess. Want me to take it now?”

“Please.” 

—

Nagi’s on his back on the worn rug, eyes half-lidded, his hair haloed around his head like spilled moonlight. He’s been lying there for who-knows-how-long. Minutes? Hours? Time's melted at the edges. The joints are down to nubs in the ashtray. A new one burns between Reo’s fingers now, fat and slow-burning, the paper gone soft with humidity and spit.

Nagi doesn’t care. He takes it when it’s handed to him.

He inhales deep and lets the smoke sit in his lungs until it buzzes, then exhales slow. Watches the fog twist above him in lazy spirals, catching the lamp light like threads of silver. He can taste the lemon-zest paper and burnt sugar resin on his tongue, like melted candy and old ash.

Reo’s beside him, reclined against a stack of floor pillows like a prince slumming it. He’s barefoot. Shirt wrinkled, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. There’s a smudge of ash on his thumb and a pink bloom on the corner of his mouth from where he bit it earlier, laughing too hard at something Nagi barely remembers saying.

They haven’t talked much for the past while. Not because there’s nothing to say, but because it’s one of those rare nights where silence feels like language, where every inhale and exhale says more than sentences could.

Eventually, Reo flicks ash into a chipped teacup they’ve been using as an ashtray. His voice comes slow and syrupy, dragged down by the buzz. “You always this quiet when you’re fried?”

Nagi shifts, turns his head just enough to look at him, lids heavy. “Dunno,” he murmurs. “I like the way your voice sounds right now.”

Reo raises a brow, then exhales a soft huff of a laugh. “That’s dangerous.”

“Why?”

“You’ll start thinking I’m profound.”

“I already think that.”

Reo glances at him. His grin twitches at the corners. “You’re high.”

“Still counts.”

“God,” Reo mutters, dragging the joint again and letting it curl from his nose and mouth at once. “You say the most unhinged shit when you're like this.”

“You like it,” Nagi accuses, not because it’s true, but just to say words. He reaches for the joint, fingers brushing Reo’s knuckles. Reo doesn’t pull away—he’s high too.

Nagi hums. Rolls the paper between his fingers and drags it slowly, lets it burn down a little more before passing it back. His chest feels floaty. His lips are dry and sticky. His whole body is humming with warmth, like he’s plugged into something low-voltage and steady.

“Tell me something,” he pleads after a pause.

Reo squints at him. “Like what?”

“Something real.”

“This game again?” Reo takes a long inhale and eyes the joint like it might give him an answer. Then, simply, “Fine. My mom ran away when I was twelve.”

Nagi blinks. That’s not what he expected.

“Ran where?”

“No one knows.” Reo exhales, smoke curling around the syllables. “She left in the middle of the night with a suitcase. No note. Just gone. They told me she was sick. Unstable.”

“Was she?”

Reo shrugs, one shoulder lifting. “No. Maybe. Or maybe she just got tired of pretending.”

He passes the joint again. Nagi takes it. Drags it. Feels his brain blaze and slow even more.

“I don’t know where my parents are either,” Nagi admits after a while, the smoke escaping through his teeth. “They travel a lot. Or they say they do. I stopped checking the schedule on the fridge a while ago.”

“Do they call?”

“Only if someone else reminds them I exist.”

Reo doesn’t smile this time. Nagi turns his face toward the ceiling again. The joint’s burned too low to hold. He stubs it out on the tray with a slow, practiced twist.

“You think they’d notice if you disappeared?” Reo asks, with curiosity, not malice.

“Eventually. I think someone would tell them. Maybe.” But he isn’t sure that someone even exists. Maybe it’s just wishful thinking, and it’s something he told himself as a child to keep from crying from the reality, the truth.

“Would it matter to you?”

Nagi’s eyes are unfocused now, distant. “No.” 

It’s not—true, but it’s not a lie either.

Reo shifts beside him, leg brushing Nagi’s.

There’s another beat. The room smells like smoke and sweat and the old candle Reo always lights but never trims the wick on. The shadows pulse with movement from the flicker of the lamp. The world feels stuck in amber.

“You freak me out sometimes,” he admits, and it’s not dramatic, not even particularly intense. It’s not a confession. It’s just a fact, let loose like the rest of the smoke.

Nagi blinks. “Why?”

“There’s something about you,” Reo murmurs. “You don’t play games. You say what you mean. You mean it. It’s fucking disarming.”

Nagi tilts his head. “Is that bad?”

“Yes. No. Maybe,” Reo shakes his head with indecision. “It’s just—not how people usually are.”

Nagi watches the way Reo's fingers flick ash into the tray—careless, practiced. “Do you always play games? With everyone?” Is it in the same way we do? Nagi hopes not. 

Reo huffs a small sound, not quite a laugh. “When you grow up around people who’d sell their own blood if it made the right headlines, yeah. You learn to stay two steps ahead. Close the margin of error. The importance of staying on top trumps everything else.”

“I don’t want our games to be like that.”

“That’s the freaky part,” Reo murmurs, voice half-lost in the haze. “They’re not.”

Nagi doesn’t respond. Not because he doesn’t have anything to say, but because something heavy presses in his chest at that. Not painful, just dense. 

“I used to lie all the time,” Reo continues after a moment. “To myself. Told myself I was special. Told myself I wanted the things my dad wanted.”

“And now?”

“Now I just want a life,” Reo breathes. “Music. A place with shitty furniture I picked myself. A cat I can give a stupid name to. Someone who doesn’t ask questions when I stop talking.”

Nagi exhales. “Sounds nice.”

Reo turns to look at him again. “You ever want anything?” He asks.

Nagi takes a long breath. Then: “Somewhere warm to sleep. With year-round heating and aircon. At least four duvets with varying densities for different seasons. With someone I like. And not have to wake up early.”

Reo smiles faintly. “You dream big.”

Nagi doesn’t smile back. “I used to think I didn’t care about anything. I used to not dream about anything. But then I met you.”

Reo’s eyes flicker. For a second, it’s like something wavers in him—a tiny misstep, a fracture in composure. He covers it quickly with a smirk. “You sound high.”

“I am,” Nagi agrees. “Doesn’t mean I’m lying.”

Reo laughs—a short, real one, exasperated but fond. “Fuck, you’re dangerous.”

The smoke’s almost burned out. Reo pinches the last of it and stubs it in the tray, then sighs and flops onto his back again.

Above, the ceiling fan spins uselessly slow, like time has stopped trying to pass.

“Do you think we’re bad people?” Reo asks softly, real and pretty and inquisitive.

“I don’t think so. I think we’re just—people.”

Reo hums, eyes half-lidded now. “I keep waiting for someone to stop me. To say: ‘That’s enough. You’ve done enough damage.’ But no one ever does.”

“Do you want someone to?”

Reo swallows. His throat works around the movement.

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly. Again, weaker, “I really—don’t know.” 

Their eyes meet. For a moment, it buzzes between them—like the air before lightning.

Nagi watches Reo’s expression soften even further, watches the wine bleed into his cheeks, down his neck. His collarbones look sharp in the low light, shadowed and exposed where his shirt hangs open. 

Nagi’s voice drops. “I think about kissing you more than I think about anything else.”

Reo’s breath catches, subtle. His eyes flash with something unguarded, startled. His lips part, just slightly, and a wet, pink tongue flicks behind his teeth. His lashes lower just a fraction, like he’s trying to hide, and it feels like growth. Like getting closer, within arm’s reach.

Nagi memorizes it all.

Reo turns his face away after a moment, trying to collect himself. “You’re such a fucking menace.”

Nagi hums, content. “You’ll live.”

They lie like that for a long time.

And then, Reo speaks again, toned like it’s not meant to be heard. “You scare me, but then you make me forget I’m scared. How fucked up is that?”

Wordlessly, Nagi moves just a little closer. Stays.

Chapter Text

They step out into the gold-blue dusk just as the wind changes. The air still smells like sweet cream and roast espresso, but it’s quieter now—slower. A breeze lifts the corners of Reo’s shirt as he shoulders the door open, two iced drinks in hand, stepping into the courtyard like he owns it.

Nagi’s behind him, expression unreadable, hands sunk in his hoodie pocket. He hadn’t said much inside. Didn’t need to. Just watched Reo flirt with the barista over cold brew and oat milk, eyes half-lidded but sharp.

And then—

“Reo?”

The voice cuts in clean from the left.

Nagi turns before Reo does. He clocks him instantly.

Slim. Clean-cut. Polished loafers. Neatly pressed blue shirt with a discreet prep school crest on the breast. White, gelled hair. Narrow smile.

Reo’s voice is bright. “Kira? Well, shit.”

Kira grins back. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Reo shrugs, too loose-limbed to be apologetic. “I go where the coffee’s good.”

“Still slumming it, I see.”

Reo laughs like he doesn’t hear the edge in it. “Still a snob, I see.”

Kira’s gaze shifts, sharp and appraising, to Nagi. He pauses. Something flickers. Curiosity? Confusion?

“Sorry, I—” He gestures politely. “I don’t think we’ve met?”

Nagi doesn’t answer.

Reo grins and bumps his shoulder lightly. “This is Nagi. We go to school together.”

Kira’s mouth flattens just slightly. “Oh. You mean that, uh—”

“The reform school,” Reo supplies, casual.

Kira’s smile reappears. Polished. Tense. “Right. Of course.”

There’s a silence.

Kira recovers. “You’ve always been full of surprises. I figured you’d transfer out by now.”

Reo tilts his head. “Why would I?”

Kira blinks. “I mean,” he chuckles, carefully. “Come on, Reo. You don’t belong there.”

“Says who? You?.”

Kira falters. “You’re—You could do more.”

Reo sips his drink. “Maybe I don’t want to.”

There’s another beat. A small breeze rustles past, tugging the hem of Reo’s shirt.

Nagi watches Kira’s gaze drop. Linger. The prep boy’s mouth twitches—like he wants to say something and thinks better of it.

“I just mean,” Kira tries again, voice gentler now, “you always stood out. You could’ve come to Saint Sebastian’s. Or anywhere, really. I still remember when your dad took that meeting with mine—he said you were too sharp to waste your time with, ah, troublemakers.”

Nagi doesn’t move. But something in his shoulders tightens.

Kira adds, too quickly: “No offense.”

Reo hums, vaguely amused. “To who?”

Kira glances again at Nagi. “To whoever.”

The look Reo shoots Kira is playful, but there’s an edge in it now.

Kira switches tactics. “Anyway, I’ve missed you at events. You used to come to the summer parties. The New Year’s mixers. The ski thing. Remember when we got stuck in the pantry at the Iwasakis’ place?”

Reo lets out a short laugh. “I remember you trying to kiss me next to a box of Perrier.”

Kira flushes but grins. “You let me.”

“I was bored.”

Kira’s smile doesn’t waver, but Nagi sees the flick of nerves in it. A little too hopeful. A little too familiar.

He steps closer to Reo. Just enough that their arms brush.

Kira notices.

Reo, still grinning, doesn’t move away. “We’re heading out.”

“Of course,” Kira says, tone a little tight now. “I’m actually meeting my sister inside. We’re getting macarons.”

Reo lifts his drink. “Enjoy.”

Kira nods. Then, to Reo alone: “You should come to the Nakamura charity dinner next week. Your parents are on the list. It’d be good to catch up. You always clean up nice.”

Reo smirks. “I do a lot of things nice.”

Kira breathes a laugh, then steps around them, opening the café door.

He looks at Nagi, just once more, unreadable. Then slips inside.

The door swings closed behind him.

They leave the café in silence.

The streets are cooling now, late sun bleeding across concrete in gold streaks. Reo walks a little ahead, sipping the last of his drink, swaying with that careless, easy rhythm he always has. He’s not in a hurry. Never is.

Nagi trails behind him.

Watching the way Reo’s shoulder blades shift under his shirt.

Watching the curve of his neck when he tilts his head back to drink.

He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like it at all.

“You and him were close, it looks like,” Nagi remarks finally, voice low.

Reo glances back, one brow raised. “What?”

“In the café.” Nagi doesn’t look at him. “He was talking pretty casually with you, all things considered.”

Reo blinks once, then huffs a small, amused sound. “What, that? Please. You think I even noticed?”

“You didn’t say anything.”

“I didn’t need to. I wasn’t gonna start a scene over that idiot trying to posture.”

Nagi’s jaw tightens. “He wasn’t posturing. He was eyeing you.”

Reo slows to a stop at the mouth of a narrow alley, turns with a look—mock surprise, a faint smirk on the edge. “Are you jealous or something?”

Nagi meets his eyes. “Would it matter?”

Reo shrugs. “Probably not.”

He steps into the alley like it’s a game. Like he knows Nagi will follow.

(He’s right.)

Nagi follows.

The space is narrow and dim, lit only by the fading spill of sunlight catching on brick. It smells faintly of warm metal and the last stretch of summer. Reo leans lazily against the wall and sucks on his straw like this is a joke he’s enjoying more than he should.

“Didn’t realize you were watching that closely,” he says, grin slow and sharp. “Kinda flattering.”

“I always watch.” You know that, Nagi wants to add. You’ve always known that.

That makes Reo pause, just for a moment. Then the smirk returns. “Figures.”

Reo’s a few steps ahead now, backlit by the alley’s fading light. He moves with that same irritating, hypnotic confidence—hands in his pockets, a faint skip to his step, like he didn’t just tear something out of Nagi and walk away with it.

Nagi follows.

He doesn’t want to follow, but he does. Because Reo’s always been like this.

All bright eyes and teeth, soft skin and sharp edges. Tugging Nagi close and pushing him away. Letting him in, but only partway—always partway—never far enough to touch the place where Reo feels. Never enough to—when Reo had so casually mentioned him and Kira—

Nagi’s stomach turns inside out at the thought.

He walks faster. Catches up.

“Why him?” He asks, voice pushed into flatness but fighting his brain’s control.

Reo doesn’t slow down, or spare him another look. “Why not him?”

This isn’t cutting it. Nagi’s hand darts out, catches Reo’s arm, pulls him to a stop.

Reo turns, brows raised. “Seriously?”

“I don’t get it,” Nagi says.

“That makes two of us.”

“I’m serious.”

Reo stares at him for a beat, then tilts his head with a smirk. “Okay. You want a breakdown? Kira was prissy, and his voice is fucking infuriating, but when you’re drunk, I guess he was a bit cute. Socialites’ kids get to drink at New Years parties. He went to hide in the garage because someone spilled a drink on his suit. He didn’t know what he was doing. I was bored. It wasn’t complicated.”

“It was enough for you to,” Nagi can’t even finish the fucking sentence. He doesn’t know if it’s because he’s afraid he’ll scream or burst into tears. Maybe both. Pathetic.

“Yeah,” Reo replies, not blinking. “It was.”

The words hit harder than they should.

Nagi clenches his jaw, grip tightening on Reo’s arm. But not to the point of discomfort—even now, he wouldn’t hurt Reo. He can’t.

He can see it—Kira’s mouth on Reo’s throat, Kira’s hands dragging him close, Kira’s hands on him, making Reo gasp. The image burns. It brands itself behind his eyelids. Nagi wants to claw it out of his brain.

“Why him,” he beseeches once again. “Why not me.”

Reo blinks once, slowly. Then, lazily, “Because you’re different.”

“How?”

Reo smiles, teeth glinting. “You don’t get to know that part.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” Reo says, soft and venomous, “if I gave you that, you’d stop chasing.”

Nagi’s stomach lurches. “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” Reo hums, twisting free from his grip—easy, fluid, like it costs him nothing. “You like games, Nagi. You always have. You like the almost.”

“That’s not what this is.”

Reo steps back, out of reach. “Then what is it?”

“I want you.”

“I know,” Reo says, a little cruelly. “I’ve always known.”

Nagi’s breath catches in his throat.

Reo keeps walking. Like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just rip the floor out from under Nagi’s feet again.

And Nagi just stands there.

He wants to scream. Wants to punch something. Wants to grab Reo and make him look, make him see what he’s doing, what he’s making Nagi feel.

Why the fuck did Kira get to touch what he isn’t allowed to?

What the fuck makes Reo think he can dangle it in front of Nagi like bait and then pull away the second Nagi reaches out?

Why won’t he let Nagi in?

Why is he always just out of reach?

He steps forward again, pace faster now. Closes the distance.

“Tell me what he did that I haven’t,” Nagi says, breathing hard.

Reo glances back, grinning over his shoulder. “Kissed me, probably.”

Nagi’s hands curl into fists.

He grabs Reo again—more firmly this time, dragging him back by the wrist and shoving him gently, too gently against the brick wall. He’s careful. He’s always careful.

“Why him?” Nagi says again, practically begging now. “Why not me?”

Reo stares up at him, eyes half-lidded. Not scared. Not surprised.

Almost—curious. Nagi realizes this is probably another game. Another test. Maybe to see how far he’ll go, what he’ll do. But Nagi’s beyond the point of caring.

Reo just watches, calm, controlled, infuriating.

“I’ve been patient,” Nagi says, voice rough. “I’ve been so fucking good. I wait, I play along, I keep my hands to myself, I—I—”

“Poor thing,” Reo interrupts, fake sympathy coloring his voice. “Want a gold star?”

Nagi presses closer. Barely restraining himself.

“You think this is a game,” he says.

Reo shrugs. “Isn’t it?”

“You’re driving me insane.”

“You already were insane.”

Nagi exhales, jaw clenching. “I’d treat you better.”

A pause. “I know.”

“I’d never let you leave my bed.”

“I know,” Reo says, a little breathless this time.

Nagi stares at him—at that smug, taunting mouth. That soft throat. Those half-lidded eyes that have never once looked afraid of him. Only amused. Maybe a bit fond. And in Nagi's darkest, wildest, stupidest fantasies—

“I’d ruin you,” Nagi murmurs.

Reo’s smile falters. Just slightly.

And then—so fast it almost slips past—he blushes.

Nagi sees it.

And that—that—almost breaks him.

But Reo catches it just in time. Pulls away again. That stupid fucking grin back in place. Trots down the alley with a light step, calling over his shoulder: “You coming or what?”

Nagi stays where he is. Barely breathing.

His fingers are trembling. His mouth is dry. His chest feels like it’s going to cave in.

And still—

He follows.

He doesn’t know how to stop wanting. He doesn’t know how to stop waiting. He only knows how to stay. (But maybe, maybe that's exactly what Reo needs.) 

—

The classroom is too bright.

That’s Nagi’s first thought as he pushes open the door and steps inside, the overhead lights humming a little too loudly, the rows of desks filled with the usual noise of morning chatter and the scrape of chairs. Someone’s laughing near the window. Someone else is half-asleep on their desk, a hoodie pulled up over their face.

But Reo’s seat is empty.

It’s a small thing. A subtle absence. But Nagi notices it the way his body notices imbalance—an off step, a loose board, a missed breath. His gaze lingers on the chair. The pristine desktop. The bag that isn’t there. No Reo slumped sideways in his seat with his legs kicked out and one hand idly spinning a pen. No Reo voice chirping, half-annoyed, half-fond: You’re late again, Nagi.

He blinks slowly.

Then turns around and walks right back out.

He doesn’t explain himself to the teacher already calling his name. Doesn’t acknowledge the other students watching him drift out like a ghost. It’s not dramatic. It’s just automatic. His feet know where to go.

Upstairs.

Yukkimiya’s class is on the third floor—sunny and quieter, filled with the teacher’s pets who rarely picked fights and preferred peace and quiet to drama. Nagi slips down the hall, ignoring the weird looks he gets from the students passing him on the stairs. He’s not supposed to be up here. But he doesn’t care.

He pushes into the room without knocking.

Heads turn. A guy squeaks. Someone whispers is that Nagi?

But Nagi’s already walking up to Yukkimiya’s desk, pale hair falling into his eyes, hands in his pockets like he’s too tired to deal with the air.

Yukkimiya blinks at him from over the top of his tablet. “You are not in this class.”

“Where’s Reo?” Nagi asks.

Yukkimiya tilts his head. He’s too well-dressed for a morning class—collar sharp, scarf looped neatly, brown hair shiny sleek. 

His tone is dry. “Good morning to you too.”

Nagi stares. His expression doesn’t change. “He wasn’t in class.”

“Your powers of deduction are truly a marvel,” Yukkimiya sighs, then glances toward the teacher at the front of the room—who’s also staring, baffled—and slowly stands. “Give me one second before you start tearing your clothes off and beating your chest like a wild gorilla missing its mate.”

He slides out of his seat with a practiced grace and gestures Nagi toward the hallway. The door closes behind them with a soft click.

Yukkimiya leans a shoulder against the wall and crosses his arms. “Your phone dead again?”

Nagi doesn’t answer. Just shifts on his feet. “Where is he?”

“He had to fly home this morning,” Yukkimiya says, and it’s softer now, almost kind. “There was a funeral. Some uncle—family thing. He called me before school started. Said it was last minute.”

Nagi frowns. “He didn’t tell me.”

Yukkimiya raises a brow. “Your phone was off, genius.”

Nagi’s hands twitch in the pocket of his jacket. Right. He’d fallen asleep with it under his pillow and the battery had been low. He hadn’t noticed this morning. Hadn’t thought he needed to check.

Reo would have told him. If he could have.

“He’s okay?” Nagi asks, quietly.

Yukkimiya exhales through his nose. “He’s fine. Bored. Irritated. You know how he gets around family stuff.” He eyes Nagi for a long second. “He’ll probably be back by tomorrow.”

Nagi nods once. The coil of tension that had been winding beneath his ribs eases, loosens like steam slowly releasing from a pressure valve.

Yukkimiya watches him for another moment, then mutters, amused, “You really are ridiculous.”

Nagi doesn’t reply. He just turns and starts walking down the hall again, slouching a little, hands stuffed back into his pockets. He doesn’t go back to class. Instead, he drifts toward the stairwell, where the windows let in more light than anyone needs.

He sits on the top step, plugs in his phone, and waits for it to turn on.

A few seconds later, Reo’s name lights up at the top of the screen—two missed calls, three voice messages that comprise mostly of you stupid fuck, you better not throw a tantrum because I ‘didn’t tell you’ or some shit, and a barrage of texts.

Nagi doesn’t read them right away. He just stares at the name, at the small pink heart Reo had used when he set his own contact photo in Nagi’s phone.

Then he sighs and leans back against the wall, the cold concrete grounding against his spine.

He knows Reo will come back.

But he still misses him, anyway.

—

The hallway smells like floor wax and dust and something faintly chemical—cheap soap, maybe, or the lingering bite of bleach from a mop bucket dragged past too early that morning. The lights overhead hum faintly, soft and dull in the early afternoon lull between classes.

Nagi drifts through it like a ghost.

His bag hangs low on one shoulder, his sweatshirt sleeves pulled past his knuckles. He’s not really paying attention to anything—just letting his feet carry him from the vending machines outside the cafeteria, where the sandwich he’d bought tasted like cardboard, back toward the classroom wing where his next lecture will start in maybe ten minutes.

Or maybe not. He doesn’t really care.

There’s been a low ache in him for the past two days. Dull and shapeless and awful. The kind that sits just under the ribs and makes everything feel heavy and too quiet.

Reo’s absence lives there.

He hadn’t said goodbye. Hadn’t messaged Nagi at all, and Nagi’s phone had been dead when he woke up that morning, so he hadn’t even known Reo was gone until he got to school and his seat was empty.

Like someone had scooped out the center of everything.

It was only later—after dragging Yukimiya out of class with all the grace of a tranquilized bear—that Nagi had found out what happened: Reo had gone back home for a funeral. Some rich uncle. Some will. Something about family politics and “being seen.” Yukimiya had looked both exasperated and fond, like Nagi was some kind of wet cat tugging at a door it didn’t know how to open.

“He’ll be back by the end of the week,” Yukimiya had promised while Shidou and Karasu laughed at him until they were doubled over on the floor upon hearing the story. “It’s not like he disappeared forever.”

But it felt like it. To Nagi, a few days without Reo was a kind of quiet that bordered on unbearable.

And now—

Now, he sees him.

Not from far away. Not in a dream. Not as some half-formed blur in the corner of his tired vision. But here, turning the corner at the far end of the hallway, real and sharp and radiant in a way that knocks the breath out of Nagi’s lungs.

Reo is back.

He looks—different, not a lot, but just a little. His uniform is neat, but the top buttons of his shirt are undone. There’s a crease in his collar that he probably didn’t notice. His hair’s styled, but messier than usual, like he’d run his fingers through it too many times in the car. His mouth is tight. His expression sharper than normal—eyes skimming the corridor like he’s already halfway out of it.

He doesn’t see Nagi.

Nagi doesn’t call out. Doesn’t wave. Doesn’t say a word.

He just walks.

Deliberate, fast, silent. Drops his bag somewhere near the wall and crosses the tile floor in a straight line, cutting through the space between them like it doesn’t exist.

Reo looks up at the last second—eyes widening, just slightly—before Nagi’s hand curls around his wrist, not rough, but firm. Reo makes a confused sound, low in his throat.

“Puppy—?”

There’s a janitor’s closet just behind them—an old one, half-forgotten, barely used except for storage. Nagi tugs him toward it without a word. Doesn’t check to see if Reo protests. For once, just this once, he doesn’t. And Reo, albeit startled, just follows, half bewildered, half curious, like maybe he already knows.

The door clicks shut behind them. The air inside is stale, faintly scented of pine cleaner and mothballs. A broken mop leans against the wall, and there’s a box of paper towels stacked precariously in one corner.

None of that matters.

Nagi turns to him and wraps his arms around Reo’s waist, pressing in like gravity’s been pulling him here the whole time.

He buries his face in the warm crook between Reo’s neck and shoulder. Reo stiffens—just for a second—and then breathes out, soft and puzzled.

“What the hell,” Reo says, more amused than upset. His hand comes up, hesitant, ghosting over Nagi’s spine. “You good?”

Nagi doesn’t answer.

His fingers curl into the fabric of Reo’s shirt. He feels the tense press of muscle underneath. The hitch of breath when Reo shifts his weight. The hum of his heartbeat.

You were gone, Nagi thinks. You were gone and I didn’t know where you were and I thought it was fine, because I’m supposed to be fine without you, but it wasn’t. It wasn’t.

He doesn’t say that, either.

He just clings.

Reo’s hand settles more firmly on his back. The other drifts into his hair, raking through the strands like he’s smoothing out the pieces of something cracked.

“Okay,” Reo murmurs, softening a little. “Okay, alright. I’m here.”

Nagi hums, muffled into the line of Reo’s throat.

There’s warmth now. Not just in the closet, but in his chest. The ache still exists, but it’s softer. Sharpened not by absence, but by relief. It’s strange, how badly he missed him. How real it feels now, standing here, touching him.

“Next time,” Nagi mumbles, finally, “just tell me.”

“I did tell you, you absolute loser. It’s not my fault you didn’t charge your phone,” Reo chuckles quietly. “I didn’t think my absence would cause a national crisis.”

“It did,” Nagi says, hiding his pout.

Reo breathes out. An exasperated yet fond huff. “You’re such a weirdo.”

Nagi shrugs against him. “Missed you.”

Reo goes quiet at that. The silence stretches, but this one’s not uncomfortable. It’s full. Nagi holds on tighter.

—

Nagi wakes to the rare quiet of someone else’s bed.

The light through the half-drawn blinds is a soft, silver blur, pale morning draped over everything in thin streaks. The sheets are warm against his skin, the scent of Reo's shampoo clinging faintly to the pillow beneath his cheek—something expensive and subtle, citrusy beneath the clean. For a moment, Nagi doesn’t move. His body feels boneless, slack with sleep, limbs heavy and tangled in the comforter.

He shifts slightly, and beside him, Reo doesn’t stir.

Nagi turns his head.

Reo is sprawled on his stomach, shirtless, hair an absolute wreck across the pillow and his cheek. There’s a smear of dried sleep at the corner of his mouth, one arm slung over the edge of the bed, the other tucked under the pillow. He’s breathing deep and even, lashes low against his skin. Peaceful. Messy.

So different from the version of him everyone else sees.

Nagi watches him.

His chest squeezes in that soft, uncomfortable way it always does when he looks at Reo too long. It’s so rare—being allowed here. Like this. He hadn’t planned to stay the night, and Reo hadn’t asked him to. But neither of them had said anything when it got late, and somehow Nagi just… stayed. Like it was obvious.

He wants to memorize this. The curve of Reo’s shoulder, the way the morning light bleeds across his back, the slow rise and fall of his breath.

And then someone knocks. Loudly.

Nagi startles slightly, blinking toward the door, groggy and uncoordinated. The knocking comes again—firmer, more impatient.

Nagi groans, dragging himself upright. He nearly stumbles off the mattress, his sweatshirt riding up as he gets his feet under him. He pads across the room, legs stiff, and opens the door without checking the peephole.

Three faces greet him. Grinning. Too awake for this hour.

Karasu, smug as always, leans against the doorframe like he owns it. Yukkimiya has his arms folded, scarf wrapped dramatically around his neck despite it being mild out. Chigiri’s the last to peek around them, lips already twitching into a smirk.

There’s a pause.

Then, three sets of eyes sweep over him in slow, exaggerated detail.

Karasu grins wide and wolfish. “Well, well, well.”

Chigiri tilts his head, ponytail swaying. “Is this what I think it is?”

Yukkimiya adjusts his sunglasses, even though they’re inside. “It absolutely is.”

Nagi blinks at them, bleary and unimpressed. “What.”

“You slept here,” Karasu says, leaning on the doorframe like he’s settling in for a show.

“Obviously,” Chigiri smirks. “Look at you. Bedhead, inside out shirt, no socks.”

“You’re glowing,” Yukkimiya adds, in a tone of faux-sincerity.

“I’m not glowing,” Nagi mutters, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his palm.

“Oh, you’re glowing,” Karasu insists. “Radiant. Positively post-coital.”

Nagi frowns. “We didn’t—”

“Believe me, we know,” Chigiri says, cutting him off, voice dry. “Unfortunately.”

“Nothing happened,” Nagi mutters again, but that just makes them all smile wider.

Karasu leans in. “So you’re telling me you just crawled into his bed and stayed there all night like a little loyal dog? My god, you’re not even dating.”

Nagi doesn’t answer. There’s a thump behind him—bed sheets shifting. Reo.

“Who is it?” Reo’s voice is rough with sleep, scratchy. When Nagi glances back, Reo’s pushed himself upright, shirt twisted at the collar, hair flattened in one direction and sticking up in the other. He squints toward the open door, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Jesus,” he mumbles, crawling toward the edge of the bed on his knees, “Why are you yelling? What time is it?”

The three outside peer past Nagi to get a look at him, and then Yukkimiya lets out a soft, delighted oh my god under his breath.

Chigiri’s already whispering something gleeful to Karasu. Nagi hears the words domestic and Reo’s bed in rapid succession.

Nagi sighs, leans his entire weight against the doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. His hoodie sleeves are half shoved up, the inside of his wrist warm where it brushed against Reo’s skin while they were sleeping.

Karasu, ever the menace, clears his throat loudly. “Just wanted to see if Reo was free to hang out. But now we’re seeing so much more.”

Reo, still blinking at them, mutters, “Nagi, you fucking idiot, why’d you open the door?”

“I thought they’d leave if I did.”

“I never leave,” Karasu says brightly. “I’m like mold.”

Reo drops his head into his hands. “God.”

Yukkimiya smirks. “Well, if you’re done cuddling, maybe we can all get breakfast?”

Chigiri adds, “Unless you two need more time.”

“Out,” Nagi says, pushing the door closed. 

Karasu sticks his foot in the crack to stop it for a moment, sing-song, “We’ll see you guys in the lobby in twenty! We’re getting pancakes.”

Nagi slams the door again, forcing Karasu to pull his foot out of the way to salvage the fragile bones. He locks it for good measure.

When he turns around, Reo’s sitting on the edge of the bed now, looking up at him with narrowed, sleep-heavy eyes. 

“They saw, didn’t they?”

Nagi shrugs and returns to the mattress, flopping down. “They were smug about it.”

Reo groans, flopping backward dramatically. “They’re never gonna let it go.”

Nagi doesn’t say anything.

He just lies there beside him, close but not touching. The bed smells like Reo’s shampoo. The room still buzzes faintly with the laughter from outside, muffled now, distant.

Nagi closes his eyes.

He doesn’t need them to let it go.

He just wants Reo to want him enough not to care.

—

The party is too loud. Too many people, too much smoke in the air, and Aryu’s playlist—some painful mix of glittery hyperpop and late 2000s runway synth—grates at Reo’s nerves enough that he abandons the living room entirely. The hallway closet is barely wide enough for two people. Reo climbs in anyway.

He shuts the door behind him, knees knocking against coats and a mop bucket, and collapses against the drywall with a sigh like it’s the only real sound he’s allowed all night.

He’s sitting there with a drink still in his hand, legs stretched out, his head tipped back. There's half a smile on his face, all annoyance and self-amusement, like he can’t believe he actually went through with this.

It takes less than a minute for Nagi to find him.

Of course it does.

Nagi’s never far. Not when it comes to Reo.

He doesn’t knock—just nudges the door open like he belongs there, which, he figures, he does. Everyone else is too drunk or distracted to notice the way he slides inside and closes the door behind them both. He sits without ceremony, then slowly lowers himself, heavy and loose with alcohol, until he’s draped across Reo’s lap like a blanket pulled over him. Like he was meant to be there all along.

Reo doesn’t push him away.

"Music sucks," Nagi murmurs into Reo’s neck, words slurred just a little. He noses at his throat, breath warm and heavy. "Hate Aryu’s playlist."

Reo snorts. “No shit.”

The closet is tight and dark and humid from the heat of two bodies and the proximity of coats overhead. Nagi can hear the party muffled through the wall, the throb of bass and someone laughing too loudly. None of it matters.

Only Reo does.

He smells like too much cologne and the fruit-heavy cocktail Yukkimiya handed him earlier. There’s a smudge of glitter near the corner of his jaw—probably someone’s makeup from earlier—and Nagi wants to lick it off.

Instead, he buries his face in the crook of Reo’s neck.

Pressed into the corner of the narrow closet with his back against the wall, one leg bent up close to his chest, drink long forgotten at his side. Nagi’s half on top of him, draped heavy with the slow, syrupy weight of alcohol, cheek resting against the slope of Reo’s shoulder.

Reo’s here. And Reo’s soft—at least in body, if not in mouth. Reo, who dragged him to the party and then made him sit through forty minutes of Aryu’s playlist and too many rounds of strip something-or-other. Reo, who has a sharp tongue and too-pretty hands, who kisses Yukimiya and Shidou during party games and still won’t—

Still won’t let Nagi.

Nagi's nose presses to the underside of Reo's jaw, breath huffing out slow and shallow. He doesn’t move. Just lies there for a moment, feeling it. Reo’s pulse, fast and steady. The clean heat of his skin. The faintest tremor in the muscle of his jaw when Nagi shifts and presses his mouth to the line of Reo’s neck.

Reo doesn’t stop him. Not when his lips linger, soft and open-mouthed. Not when Nagi’s teeth graze lightly, not biting—yet.

Nagi breathes him in. His cologne’s faded, worn away by heat and sweat and time. What’s left is just Reo. Warm and human and painfully real. And Nagi feels himself going under.

He lifts his head just a little. Enough to look at Reo’s face in the dark. His lashes throw faint shadows across his cheeks, lips parted slightly with the slow rise and fall of his breathing. Nagi stares. Drunk on it. His fingers twitch where they rest on Reo’s thigh.

"You always run away," he mumbles, more into skin than words. "Right when I think you might let me. But you still won’t let me kiss you."

Reo hums, lifting his drink to his lips without looking down. “You’re drunk.”

"Not that drunk," Nagi says.

“You followed me into a closet.”

"You crawled in first."

"Because I wanted peace. Not to be mauled.”

He presses a kiss to Reo’s collarbone. Just one, light and reverent. Then another, lower. Then he opens his mouth and bites.

Reo jerks. His hand grips Nagi’s wrist.

“Oi,” he says, warning, breath tight.

But he doesn’t push him off.

Nagi bites again, harder this time. Sucks the skin into a dark bloom just beneath the curve of Reo’s throat. He feels Reo swallow. Feels the tremor that rolls through him. Feels the way his hand twitches around his cup.

"Still won’t let me," Nagi breathes. He sounds almost sad. "Even now."

Reo doesn't answer. His silence isn’t disapproval—it’s the kind of silence he always has when he's trying not to give something away. When he's fighting the urge to hand himself over.

So Nagi doubles down. Shifts up a little so he can run his mouth lower, dragging his teeth gently over the edge of Reo’s collarbone, then sucking a mark into the space just beneath the fabric of his shirt. He lingers there—again and again—until he’s left a constellation of bruised circles, blooming like violets against perfect skin.

"This is real," Nagi whispers to himself, almost awed.

Reo swallows. Doesn’t move. Doesn't stop him.

Nagi mouths his way higher—pausing at Reo’s jaw, then brushing against the corner of his lips but never kissing him. He won’t take what isn’t freely given. But his hands are curled in Reo’s shirt now, gripping the hem like he might fall apart if he doesn’t hold on.

"You feel real to me," Nagi says, and his voice cracks on the last word.

Reo finally looks at him. There’s heat in his gaze, yes—but panic too. Fear. Not fear of Nagi. Fear of what letting Nagi in would mean.

“You’re a mess,” Reo says, a little too soft.

Nagi only nods. “Yeah.”

“You’re pathetic.”

"I know."

“You’re obsessed with me.”

“I am.”

Reo leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes like he’s exhausted. “You’re like a dog.”

Nagi presses a kiss to the underside of his jaw in response, smiling a little. “Your dog.”

“Jesus,” Reo breathes. But he doesn't move. His voice is tight. “You’re insane.”

Nagi’s fingers trail under the hem of Reo’s shirt, just lightly—nothing lewd, just touch. Reverent. Worshipful. Like Reo is something divine.

“It’s your fault. You kissed them," Nagi says again. His voice is hoarse, low, quiet. Dangerous in its calm.

Reo shifts. Doesn’t answer.

Nagi says, "You let them."

"It was a game."

Pathetically, Nagi pleads, "Let me be a game, then."

Reo’s eyes cut toward him, sharp even in the dark. “Is that what you want? To be something I throw away when I get bored?”

“No,” Nagi replies earnestly, and the word scrapes his throat raw. “But I’d take it anyway. If that’s all you’ll give me.”

The silence that follows is unbearable.

He mouths along Reo’s throat, slow, open-mouthed, kisses so gentle they tremble with restraint. He trails his lips down, leaving behind nothing but heat, a growing constellation of flushed, dark bruises that mark Reo’s skin like devotion.

Reo’s breath hitches. His hand is still on Nagi’s wrist, but the grip’s gone slack. His other hand curls into Nagi’s hair. Not pulling. Not guiding. Just—there.

"You let them," Nagi repeats, like the words hurt (because they do, fuck, they do ). “But not me.”

“Because you’re not them.”

Nagi freezes.

Reo exhales. Shaky. Frustrated—but with himself. “Fuck. Fuck. You’re—you weren’t supposed to—you’re not supposed to matter this much.”

—

The party’s over.

Laughter fades behind them, swallowed by the night. Their shoes scrape against concrete as they cross the empty campus, the air cool and damp, moonlight cutting soft shadows over Reo’s face.

He looks beautiful like this—hair mussed from dancing, cheeks still faintly flushed, jacket slung half-off one shoulder. He’s humming something under his breath. One hand swings by his side. The other holds a lollipop he picked up from a bowl at the door on the way out—absently twirling the stick between his fingers, like he’s still performing for an audience only he can see.

Nagi walks beside him. Silently. Burning.

He’d watched Reo laugh tonight. He’d watched Reo press close to people who weren’t him—smiling, teasing, dancing like his body was music, like everyone else deserved a piece.

He’d watched Reo tip his head back to whisper in someone’s ear. Watched Reo’s fingers curl around a stranger’s wrist just long enough to sting.

Nagi doesn’t remember what song was playing. He just remembers Reo turning to look at him from across the room, grin flashing like a knife. Daring him to say something. Daring him to feel something.

And Nagi does.

He feels everything.

He’s been so good. So patient. He’s kept his hands to himself, watched Reo flit from person to person like a light no one can catch. He hasn’t asked for more.

But tonight?

Tonight he follows.

He doesn’t go to his own dorm.

He trails behind Reo’s lovely silhouette all the way up the path, up the stairs, down the long, quiet hall. Reo doesn’t say anything. Not until they’re inside, door shut behind them, the air tight and quiet, just the two of them again.

And then Reo finally turns.

He leans back against the door, eyes half-lidded, voice low. “You’re still following me?”

Nagi stares.

His voice is low, hoarse. “Yeah.”

Reo quirks a brow. “You’re in the wrong building.”

“I know.”

They watch each other in the low light.

Reo waits.

Nagi steps closer, slow.

“Why can’t I have you?” he asks. His voice cracks at the edge. “Why can’t I just—have you. Even a little.”

Reo exhales, quiet.

Nagi moves closer again. Stops just short of touching. His breath comes heavier now, chest rising and falling. “I’ve been so fucking good, Reo. So patient. I haven’t touched you. I’ve let you pull away. I haven’t asked. Even when I wanted to rip his fucking hands off you.”

Reo doesn’t need him to say the name. He rolls his eyes, soft and mocking. “Still on about Kira?”

“He got what I didn’t,” Nagi says, almost a whisper. “He got to see you. Touch you. Have you.”

“He didn’t have jackshit,” Reo shrugs, too cool, too easy (Nagi hates how the clarification unravels something ugly and choking in his chest). “And even if he did—it wouldn't make a single fucking difference," Reo's voice turns mocking, bitter, testing, in a way that makes the distance feel larger than ever, like Nagi couldn't be further from him, "if that's really—it that's all you want, I'll let you fuck me right now. Sex isn’t vulnerability, naive puppy.”

Nagi flinches. Both at the turn and the words—he wants Reo, but not like that, never like that. Like he's a toy to use. “Then what is?”

Reo holds his gaze for a long moment. Then finally—he sighs.

“It’s a role,” he says quietly. “It’s just another scene I can perform. I can keep the lights on upstairs and let my body go through the motions. That’s not real. That’s never real. I stay in control.”

“And with me?” Nagi whispers.

Reo looks away. He doesn’t answer.

Nagi steps in, closes the last of the space between them. His hand brushes Reo’s wrist. “Why not me?”

Reo swallows.

His voice, when it comes, is soft. Raw. He laughs, as if to take the edge off, self-deprecating. “Because if I gave in to you, I wouldn’t be in control. I’d lose. Everything. The whole game. It would be over. You win.”

Nagi’s breath catches.

Reo goes on, not meeting his eyes. “You don’t get it. If it was just anyone else—I could shrug it off. I could win. But with you,” he trails off. Then finishes, barely audible, “If I let you have me, even a little—I wouldn’t be able to pretend it didn’t matter.”

Silence.

Nagi reaches up slowly, cupping Reo’s jaw. Reo doesn’t pull away.

“I’d never leave,” Nagi says.

Reo lets out a weak breath. “That’s what everyone says. Cheesy ass rom-com line.”

“I’m not everyone.”

Reo’s voice shakes, just a little. “But what if you get what you want, and then you stop caring? What if I’m just the last level of a game you beat, and then it’s over?”

Nagi’s thumb brushes his cheekbone. “Reo, I’ve already lost. I’ve already given you everything. I’m not chasing you for the ending. I’m stuck here because I can’t move on. I don’t want to.”

Reo still doesn’t look up.

So Nagi leans in, desperate, whispering: “I’d never use you. I’d never leave you. I want all of you. I won’t hurt you.” 

That triggers something wrong, because Reo wrenches away with a poisonous hiss and a scoff, almost too fast.

“Hurt me?” He echoes, curling his mouth into a sharp little grin. “Please. You’re not capable of hurting me.”

But Nagi doesn’t flinch. Because it’s not true—and they both know it.

Reo says it like a joke. Like it’s armor. But his voice is a little too brittle, and his eyes are a little too glassy. And Nagi can see it now, clearer than ever: Reo is scared. Not of Nagi himself—never that—but of something else. Of feeling. Of being laid bare.

Nagi steps in again. Doesn’t touch. Just blocks. Quiet and huge and unwavering. A wall Reo can’t get around.

“You can’t keep doing this,” Reo mutters, voice a notch lower now, more tense. “You think just because I let you hang around me, because you want, that I’m supposed to roll over for you?”

“I don’t want you to roll over,” Nagi says quietly, growing impatient with Reo purposely being obstinate. “I want you to want me back.”

Reo exhales hard through his nose. “You’re already mine,” he mutters. “You follow me like a dog. My own personal watchdog.”

“I am yours,” Nagi says, and it’s not even shameful, the way he admits it. “You know that.”

Reo turns his back to him—just for a second—but Nagi’s there again, moving with him, blocking every path. Every escape.

Reo finally spins, exasperated. “God—what are you gonna do if I don’t give it to you, huh?” His eyes flash. “You just gonna take it ?”

The words hang in the air.

Reo must realize what he’s said the moment they’re out. Because Nagi doesn’t react with anger. He makes a sound—small, wounded, like someone just kicked a dog that trusted them.

Reo’s face crumples.

“No—shit. I’m sorry,” he says quickly, voice cracking with guilt. “I didn’t mean that. You wouldn’t—I know you wouldn’t. You’re—fuck, Nagi, you’re so good.”

His hands lift, fluttering uselessly in the space between them, like he wants to undo it, take it back, fix it somehow.

“You’re a good boy,” Reo murmurs. “Too good for someone like me.”

Nagi’s chest aches.

He can see Reo splintering now. Not just the performance, not just the cocky mask, but something beneath it. Fragile and angry and raw.

So he moves gently.

Hands barely touching, just enough to guide.

He presses forward until the backs of Reo’s knees brush the edge of the bed.

Reo looks startled for a moment—but he doesn’t stop him.

He sits.

Not collapsed. Not defeated. Just—waiting.

Nagi stands in front of him, jaw clenched, breath shallow. His fingers twitch with the urge to touch—his hair, his face, anything. But he doesn’t—not yet.

He just looks at Reo like he’s holy and breakable and his.

Nagi’s legs fold beneath him like prayer.

Slow. Controlled. Intentional.

He drops to his knees between Reo’s parted thighs—like surrender, like worship, like he was made to crawl for Reo and only Reo. He doesn't want to tower over him. Doesn’t want to feel bigger than Reo—not here, not like this. Not when Reo is already shaken up with the weight of being seen, being real.

Reo stares down at him like he doesn't know what to do with the pathetic thing kneeling before him. Like he’s not sure whether to command him or push him away. His breath is shallow. His fingers twitch at his sides.

And then—hesitantly, like muscle memory—he reaches for Nagi’s hair. That soft, tired pet. Something he's done a hundred times, like feeding a stray he never meant to keep.

Nagi closes his eyes and leans into it. Nuzzles the side of Reo’s knee like it soothes something deep and intrinsic in him, something wordless and aching. His nose brushes warm skin, his lips dragging in a reverent path just under the hem of Reo’s uniform shorts.

Reo flinches—not away. Inward. Like it hits him somewhere tender he didn’t expect.

Reo breathes, barely audible.

Nagi’s hands rest lightly on his thighs now, thumbs stroking slow, mindless patterns. Like calming a trembling animal. Like anchoring himself to this body—this boy who commands him like he doesn’t know he already owns him.

Nagi presses his lips to the inside of Reo’s knee. Just a kiss. Soft. Almost chaste.

Reo makes a sound low in his throat. The kind you let out when you feel too much but don’t know where to put it.

Nagi kisses him again, higher this time. Warmer. 

Open-mouthed, slow drag of lips against expensive cloth, just above the knee. The way you touch something precious. The way you taste something you’ve been starving for, but are too afraid to devour whole.

Reo’s hand tightens in his hair—fingers twisting—not pulling, not quite. Just there.

“You always do what I say,” Reo says, voice shaking. “You’d let me hurt you if I wanted to.”

Nagi lifts his head, looks up through half-lidded eyes. “You already do.”

Reo stares at him like he’s looking down the barrel of something too honest. His throat bobs, eyes wide and pained. 

“I didn’t mean to,” he whispers.

“I know,” Nagi assures, leaning in again. Another kiss, even slower this time, pressed on the fabric atop the soft skin of his upper thigh. Reo’s breath stutters.

Nagi stays still between Reo’s thighs, hands resting on his own legs, kneeling like something reverent. He doesn’t speak right away. Just breathes, shallow and quiet, like any sudden movement might scare Reo off again.

Reo’s fingers in his hair are soft, trembling just slightly now.

“I am scared,” Reo says again, like he has to say it twice for it to be real. “You scare me.”

Nagi's lashes lower. He’s quiet. He doesn’t look away.

“I’m scared of what could happen if I finally drop your leash,” Reo whispers. “You don’t even realize how easy you make it for people to fall for you. You just—wait, and look at them like they’re the only thing in the room. You make it so easy. But you don’t say what you want. You just wait. Like a test. Like I’m supposed to figure it out.”

“I don’t need you to figure it out,” Nagi says softly, lifting his gaze. “I just want you to let me stay.”

Reo exhales through his nose. Smiles a little—sad, crooked. “I’m afraid of you leaving after you made me get used to you. I’m afraid I won’t be enough to keep your interest.”

“You already are,” Nagi says, voice rough with feeling. “You always were.”

“I’m not going to remember this tomorrow.”

“That’s fine. I might not either.” It’s a lie. He knows he will. He knows it the way he knows the sky is blue and he loves Reo.

“Even if I do, I’m going to pretend like I don’t.”

“That’s okay. I can wait a bit longer.”

When Nagi wakes up, there’s a cold, empty space beside him, the sheets pooled into the shape of a person, the pillowcases tinged with remnants of citrus. Nagi wakes up alone, but it’s okay. Intrinsically, instinctually, like a second pulse, he already knows where to find him.

If Reo needs space to think, that’s fine. But Nagi’s not going anywhere. He doesn’t know how to. 

—

The wind is sharp at this height. It lifts the edges of Nagi’s hair, catches on the folds of his hoodie, runs cold along the sweat-damp nape of his neck. The rooftop hasn’t changed—it’s still peeling paint and sagging fencing and the weak scent of rust and asphalt.

But Reo’s already here, and that changes everything.

He’s standing near the railing, framed by the gray-blue stretch of sky and the low hum of the city beyond the school walls. His arms are crossed, posture defensive, jaw set. Nagi takes him in slowly—his too-thin shirt, the elegant slant of his wrists, the faint dark smudge under one eye. The tension rolling off of him in waves.

He hasn’t looked at Nagi yet.

“I know you’re there,” Reo says. His voice is flat. Tired. “Go away.”

Nagi doesn’t move. Just lets the door swing shut behind him with a soft clack.

Reo turns a fraction, enough to glance over his shoulder.

“I’m serious.”

“I know,” Nagi says.

It’s the truth. He does know. Reo’s been serious for weeks. Has been avoiding him with precision, like a scalpel—skipping lunch when Nagi’s there, lingering in hallways just long enough to avoid crossing paths, pulling away every time Nagi gets too close.

But Nagi’s never been good at leaving. Never been good at pretending he doesn’t want something.

Reo exhales sharply. “You don’t even know what you want.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No, you think you do. That’s different.”

Nagi steps forward. His movements are slow. Careful. He doesn’t want to startle Reo—like he’s some wounded, cornered thing with fangs bared, ready to bolt or bite.

But he’s here, and that has to count for something.

“I wanted to see you.”

Reo laughs under his breath. “Why? So you can keep chasing something you can’t have?”

Nagi blinks. “I don’t care if I can have it. I just want it.”

Reo turns fully now, arms still crossed tight over his chest like armor. “That’s worse.”

Nagi looks at him. Just looks. There’s a fine tremble at the edges of Reo’s mouth. His eyes are tired. Distant. But behind the fatigue, there’s something sharper—something caught and burning low.

Nagi steps closer.

He’s so patient about it. Every move is like he’s testing the ground, trying not to spook him. It’s been months like this. Months of being good. Of waiting. Of playing his part. Of licking Reo’s wounds when he lets him and sitting still when he doesn’t. Of watching Reo kiss other people like it means nothing—like he won’t let Nagi touch his mouth, but he’ll let Shidou do it on a dare. Like he can pretend this is nothing. Pretend Nagi is nothing.

“You’re so fucking stupid,” Reo snaps.

Nagi nods. “I know.”

“Why don’t you ever stop?”

“Because I don’t want to.”

“That’s not a reason.”

“It’s the only one I have.”

He’s in front of him now, close enough to feel the heat of Reo’s body, the sharp hitch of his breath.

Reo’s gaze flicks to his mouth and away again, fast. “What do you want from me?”

Nagi’s voice softens, resisting the urge to move closer, come closer, touch. “Everything.”

“You can’t have it.”

“Why not?”

Reo’s eyes flash. “Because I don’t give it away.”

“I’m not asking for it. I’m asking for you.”

“That’s the same thing.”

“No,” Nagi murmurs. “It’s not.”

He raises a hand. Doesn’t touch him yet. Just lets it hover near Reo’s face, like a question. Reo doesn’t flinch away. Doesn’t move at all.

“You’ve been good,” Reo mutters, bitter. “Haven’t you? Like a dog.”

Nagi nods again. “I was good.”

“For what? You think being patient means I owe you something?”

“No,” Nagi says. “You don’t owe me. I just—”

He exhales. Drags his knuckles lightly along the curve of Reo’s cheekbone. Feather-light. Reverent.

“I wanted to be good. I thought maybe if I waited long enough, you’d stop being scared.”

Reo’s breath stutters.

“I’m not scared.”

“You are. You’re terrified.” You admitted it, Nagi thinks. When you were drunk and wearing a ring of my hickeys around your neck, you admitted it.

Reo pushes at his chest with one hand, half-hearted. “You’re projecting.”

“Maybe.”

Another step closer, and Reo’s back hits the railing with a soft metallic clink.

Nagi doesn’t take his eyes off him. His hand trails down to Reo’s jaw, his thumb ghosting along the sharp edge of it.

Reo shudders.

“Don’t—” he starts, desperate, terrified. He snaps his head to the side with his eyes squeezed shut. When he peeks them open again, they’re glassy, and the revelation falls on Nagi like an anvil—Reo’s about to cry.

Nagi drops his hand. He doesn’t kiss him. Doesn’t touch his mouth. Doesn’t take. How could he? When Reo's glaring at him with all the terror of a red fox who's already trusted a hunter once, and been shot for his blind faith.

Reo deserves kindness, gentleness, and softness. The world. The world should belong to him. And he should belong to Nagi. Not in an ownership way—but in a way that Nagi can live inside his walls, have free range to the crumbling castle inside, and lay at the feet of his throne like a servant, a loyal dog.

Reo looks confused as he tries to rapidly blink away the small reservoirs of water that just keep coming and refilling as he drains them away. Angry. “So what? You’re giving up now?”

“No,” Nagi says quietly. “I’m waiting.”

“For what?”

“For you to let me.”

Reo's expression twitches and flickers like a computer glitch, or an overloaded code. Like he can't believe it, like he doesn't know why Nagi would put this much desperation, this much effort into wanting Reo on Reo's terms. Reo’s hands fist in the hem of Nagi's shirt. One grabs his tie and pulls, like he wants Nagi to choke. He looks like he wants to scream. 

“This isn’t fair.”

“I know.”

“You make me feel—”

“I know.”

Reo shakes his head, furious, he slams the side of a clenched fist into Nagi’s chest, holding nothing back, Nagi winces but doesn’t move as his ribs creak. “No. No—you don't know—who the fuck do you think you are, trying to pry into how I fucking feel?”

“No one. I’m no one,” Nagi says. “So, tell me. Tell me to leave. Say you’ll never want me. Tell me to fuck off and that you never want to see me again.”

Reo opens his mouth. Closes it again.

Nagi leans in, mouth at the shell of his ear. “I’ll stop. If you say it. I swear.”

Reo’s silence is louder than the wind.

“I’m not going to take anything,” Nagi murmurs. “Not unless you want me to.”

Reo’s fingers curl into Nagi’s tie. Tight. The knot tightens around Nagi's throat, and he bites down a cough as vignette appears at the corners of his vision.

Nagi noses along his throat, smiling. Light. Slow. Not kissing, just touching. A whisper of breath. A promise.

“You make me crazy,” he breathes. “I think about you every second. I want to rip you open and crawl inside. I want your name in my mouth forever. Please.”

Reo’s whole body is trembling.

“I want to kiss you so bad it hurts,” Nagi whispers. “But I won’t. Not unless you tell me. Because I fucking love you, Reo. And I won’t—I can’t let go unless you tell me to.”

"You're out of your mind."

"Please."

The silence stretches. Breaks.

“I’m not a good person, Nagi,” his voice is hoarse, weaker, more honest and strangled than Nagi has ever seen. His eyes shine, reflecting the sun. They flash like swords colliding, like behind that bright gaze, he's fighting a war within himself. But he's beautiful. He’s the closest thing to divine Nagi’s ever believed in. “I don't know how to be kind. I don't know how to treat people—I’m angry, I’m cruel, I lash out, I’m really turbulent, I know I am, and I'm scared you’re going to regret this a while down the line when you realize I’m not the person you think I am—I'm a hassle, a huge pain, unbearable and abrasive and draining, I'll suck the life out of you.”

“No. You’re exactly the person I know you are,” Nagi smiles, tender. “Why do you think I want you so bad?”

Small steps. Small, incremental steps. One day, one day, Nagi will whisper against Reo's lips, you're so soft, so wonderfully crazy, so lovely, and Reo will believe him.

Reo’s eyes go wide like saucers, as if he’s finally, finally starting to believe Nagi. And Nagi has never felt closer. His skin prickles. His entire body sings with Reo this close. Reo could put a dagger through his throat right now, and he’d die the happiest he’s ever been. Even the pain Reo inflicts has always been euphoric. A natural disaster—and Nagi will run after him like a stormchaser, a daredevil with a deathwish.

“Do it,” Reo says, barely audible.

Nagi freezes. “What?”

Reo lifts his eyes. Blazing. Fragile. “Kiss me,” says his mouth, prove it, his eyes demand. 

Nagi does.

He kisses Reo like he’s spent lifetimes waiting.