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.”