Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The bass thudded through the mirrored walls, the kind of relentless rhythm that made sweat bead and muscles ache. Arnold lived for it.

“Five, six, seven, eight!” the choreographer called, and Arnold launched himself into the sequence with that effortless sharpness everyone in the room envied. His movements were clean, crisp but more than that, they had weight.

He wasn’t just hitting the beat. He was telling the music’s story.

When one of the younger dancers stumbled on a turn, Arnold caught it immediately, spinning the mistake into a joke by dramatically pretending to trip over his own foot and landing in an exaggerated bow. The whole room laughed, tension broken.

“Come on, you got it!” Arnold cheered, clapping loud enough to drown out the music for a second. His grin was blinding, his energy magnetic.

That was Arnold the booster, the sunshine, the one who carried everyone else when fatigue set in.

But later, when the class ended and the chatter scattered into the night, Arnold lingered alone in the practice room. He sat cross-legged on the floor, towel draped over his shoulders, watching his reflection blur in the mirrors as the sweat dried on his skin.

The silence after the music always pressed a little too heavy.

By the time he walked home, hoodie pulled tight against the night air, the streets were empty. His laughter didn’t echo here. His phone didn’t buzz. No one was waiting at his apartment just the hum of the fridge, the faint buzz of the streetlamp outside his window.

For all his noise, Arnold lived in quiet.

He first noticed Tua at the back of the studio one Thursday evening.

While Arnold spun and leapt across the floor, Tua sat in the corner, a sketchbook balanced on his knees. He wasn’t watching the mirrors like the other onlookers sometimes did. He wasn’t focused on faces, either. His eyes tracked the fabric, the way the loose training shirts shifted with each movement, how sweat darkened the edges of cotton. Every few minutes, he’d jot down a quick line, his pencil scratching steadily.

Arnold almost brushed it off. Costume designers dropped by sometimes, just to study how dancers moved in clothes. Nothing unusual.

But when the class emptied and Arnold stayed behind to stretch, Tua closed his sketchbook and approached.

“You ever think about acting?”

Arnold blinked up at him, halfway into a hamstring stretch. “Acting?” He laughed, quick and incredulous. “That’s… new.”

“You should,” Tua said simply.

Arnold dropped his leg and leaned back on his hands, raising an eyebrow. “Most people tell me I should model. Or just keep dancing.”

“Of course they do,” Tua replied, lips quirking faintly. “But when you move, it’s not just steps. You tell a story. You make people feel. That’s what acting is.”

For a beat, Arnold just stared. Compliments weren’t new to him, but they always circled the same orbit your smile, your body, your stage presence. This was different.

“You’re the first person to ever say that,” he admitted, voice quieter than usual, a little raw around the edges.

“Maybe I’m the first one paying attention,” Tua said. His tone was calm, matter-of-fact, but his eyes were steady, like he meant every word.

Arnold laughed softly, but it wasn’t his usual booming laugh. It was lighter, almost disbelieving. He grabbed his towel and slung it over his shoulder, grinning to mask the sudden warmth spreading in his chest.

“Well,” he said, “guess I’ll have to start paying attention to you too, then.”

That night, Arnold walked home under the same quiet streetlights, hoodie zipped against the chill.

But for the first time in a long time, the silence didn’t feel so heavy.

Someone had noticed him.

Really noticed him.

And he carried that thought all the way home.

Chapter Text

The costume workshop smelled faintly of fabric dye and freshly cut thread sharp, earthy, alive.

Arnold had never set foot in one before. He lingered just inside the doorway, gym bag still slung across his shoulder, eyes scanning the cluttered tables covered with swatches, sketches, and pins.

“You’re early,” Tua said without looking up. He was hunched over a mannequin, adjusting the fall of a half-finished jacket. His hands were quick, precise, tugging, pinning, smoothing.

Arnold grinned. “I didn’t know there was a dress code. Thought I’d drop in, see where the magic happens.”

“It’s not magic,” Tua murmured, stepping back to squint at the fabric. “It’s work.”

“Then you make it look like magic.”

That earned him the faintest smile not the wide, easy grin Arnold threw around like candy, but something small, tugging just at the corner of Tua’s mouth. Subtle, but enough.

Arnold set his bag down and wandered closer, fingertips brushing over the scattered sketches. “These are yours?”

“Yes.”

“They’re… wow.” He picked up one, a dancer mid-leap captured in bold strokes of pencil, fabric swirling around him like wind. “You drew this?”

Tua finally glanced up. “I don’t trace people’s faces,” he said. “I watch how they move. It tells me where the fabric should flow.”

Arnold studied the sketch again, his chest tightening just a little. It wasn’t his face but he recognized himself in the posture, in the weight of the leap. Somehow Tua had captured his rhythm on paper.

“You really don’t miss anything, do you?” Arnold said softly.

Tua only hummed in response, already turning back to his mannequin.

It became routine after that.

Dance classes ended, and instead of heading home, Arnold drifted to the workshop.

He sprawled on an old couch pushed against the wall, sometimes helping sort fabric scraps, more often just watching Tua work.

He’d fill the silence with stories about rehearsal, about the silly things other dancers did, about his own clumsy mistakes.

Tua didn’t talk much, but he listened. Really listened. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t laugh at the wrong spots, didn’t just wait for his turn to speak.

Sometimes his responses were a single line “That must’ve been hard” or “You handled it well.”

But somehow, those lines meant more than a whole chorus of praise from anyone else.

One night, Arnold caught himself staring too long. Tua’s hands were moving carefully, needle flashing as he stitched a hem.

The concentration on his face was quiet, focused, like nothing outside the thread and fabric existed.

“Do you ever get lonely in here?” Arnold asked before he could stop himself.

Tua paused only briefly. “Sometimes. But I don’t mind the quiet.”

Arnold shifted on the couch, pulling his hoodie tighter around himself. “I hate it. The quiet, I mean. Feels like it swallows me up.”

For a moment, the only sound was the steady pull of thread. Then Tua said, “That’s because you spend all day being loud for everyone else.”

Arnold froze, blinking at him. No one had ever said that out loud before.

He laughed quickly, a little too forced. “Guess I can’t hide much around you, huh?”

“You don’t need to hide,” Tua said simply.

Arnold opened his mouth, then closed it again. His chest felt tight, like someone had just knocked the wind out of him not from pain, but from the shock of being seen.

So he did what he always did when things got too heavy. He grinned, stretched out on the couch like a cat, and said, “Well, in that case, get used to me hanging around. You’re stuck with me now.”

Tua only shook his head faintly, but Arnold swore he saw that small smile again, tugging at the corner of his lips.

And that was enough.

That night, Arnold went home to the same empty apartment. But this time, when he flicked on the light, the silence didn’t feel so crushing.

Because somewhere in the quiet, he carried Tua’s words with him.

You don’t need to hide.

Chapter Text

Arnold was bouncing on the balls of his feet, the way he always did when he was trying not to look nervous. The paper in his hand had been folded and unfolded so many times that the edges were soft.

“It’s just a read,” he muttered, half to himself. “Just a read. Nothing scary.”

From the corner of the workshop, Tua didn’t even glance up from the shirt he was stitching. “You’ve been pacing for fifteen minutes. You’ll wear a hole in the floor.”

Arnold shot him a look. “Easy for you to say. You’re not about to embarrass yourself in front of an actual casting director.”

“You won’t embarrass yourself.”

“You don’t know that.”

Finally, Tua set the shirt aside and leaned back in his chair, giving Arnold his full attention. “I do. Because I’ve seen you. You don’t just dance you perform. You’ll do the same here.”

Arnold blinked, caught off guard by the calm certainty in Tua’s voice.

He flopped onto the couch with a dramatic groan, throwing the crumpled script onto the table. “Fine. Then help me. If I screw this up, it’s on you.”

Tua arched an eyebrow. “You want me to run lines with you?”

“Yes, please, before I combust.”

Tua sighed softly but reached for the script anyway. His voice was even, steady, as he read the other part. Arnold stumbled over his first few lines, too aware of himself, too aware of Tua watching. But after a while, something shifted. He started listening, reacting, being in the moment.

By the time they hit the last page, Arnold was breathless not from nerves anymore, but from that same rush he always felt after a good dance.

“See?” Tua said. “Told you.”

Arnold grinned, wide and a little sheepish. “Okay, fine. You might actually be a genius.”

The audition went better than Arnold could’ve imagined. When he came bounding back into the workshop that evening, still buzzing with adrenaline, Tua didn’t look surprised.

“You got a callback,” he said, as though it were fact, not a guess.

Arnold froze. “How did you—”

“You’re glowing,” Tua said simply.

Arnold laughed, collapsing onto the couch again. “You’re impossible. You know that, right?”

“Maybe.”

Dean showed up a week later.

Arnold was sprawled on the floor of the workshop, scrolling through his phone, when the door swung open and Dean strolled in like he owned the place.

“Arnold!” Dean grinned, swooping down to pull him into a hug. “Man, you disappeared. What’ve you been up to?”

Arnold laughed, sitting up. “You know, just… new stuff. Acting, apparently. Blame Tua.” He gestured toward the corner where Tua was bent over a rack of costumes.

Dean’s eyebrows shot up. “You? Acting? That’s new. Guess I shouldn’t be surprised you’ve always been a performer.”

Arnold puffed out his chest playfully. “What can I say? Multitalented.”

Dean chuckled, but his gaze flicked curiously to Tua. “Didn’t know you two were hanging out this much.”

Arnold opened his mouth to joke, but Tua spoke first, his tone even as ever. “He’s talented. He just needed someone to say it.”

Something in Arnold’s chest clenched at that. He looked away quickly, biting back the sudden warmth rising in his throat.

Dean raised his brows again, but didn’t press. He just clapped Arnold on the back and said, “Well, I’m glad someone’s keeping you busy.”

That night, alone in his apartment, Arnold lay awake longer than usual. The ceiling above him blurred in the dark, but his mind replayed the way Tua had said it steady, certain, like it wasn’t even up for debate.

He’s talented. He just needed someone to say it.

For the first time in weeks, the quiet didn’t feel lonely.

It felt full.

Chapter Text

The rehearsal hall was buzzing with noise shoes squeaking against the floor, the thump of bass, shouts of encouragement bouncing off mirrored walls. Arnold was in the middle of it all, laughing as he tried to teach a younger dancer a tricky spin.

“You’re turning the wrong way!” he called, grinning when the boy tripped and nearly fell. “Left, not right!”

When the kid managed to get it the next try, Arnold whooped loud enough to turn heads. His laughter rang bright, easy, contagious.

That was Arnold’s role. The booster. The sunshine.

But when rehearsal ended and the room emptied, the silence pressed in too fast, too hard. Arnold sat on the floor, stretching out his legs, watching his reflection in the mirror. His smile wavered, then slipped.

The truth was the adrenaline rush didn’t last. Not for him.

Not when he walked out into the night, his bag slung heavy over his shoulder, and remembered there was no one waiting at home.

The workshop light was still on when he pushed the door open.

Tua was at his table, measuring out fabric. He looked up briefly, acknowledging Arnold’s entrance with the faintest lift of his brows.

Arnold threw himself onto the couch with a dramatic sigh. “You’re lucky, you know that?”

Tua didn’t pause in his work. “Lucky?”

“You get to work here late at night. With the hum of the machine, all this creative stuff around you. Feels… I don’t know, alive.”

Tua pinned a piece of cloth, then set it aside. “You’re alive too, Arnold.”

Arnold blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“You fill a room the way most people never can. That’s why people notice you.”

The words should’ve felt like a compliment. Instead, something twisted in Arnold’s chest. Notice you. For his energy, his brightness, his looks. Always what was on the surface.

He covered it quickly with a grin. “Well, maybe I should just move in here, huh? Be your late-night mascot.”

Tua’s lips quirked faintly. “You’d be a distraction.”

“Exactly my job description!” Arnold shot back, but his laugh came out a little too sharp.

Dean showed up again the following week.

Arnold had been perched on the couch, half-dozing after a long rehearsal, when the sound of Dean’s voice jolted him awake.

“Man, you’ve practically taken over this place,” Dean teased, dropping into the seat beside him. “Tua, you feeding him or something?”

Arnold rubbed his eyes, smiling. “Guess I just like hanging out here.”

“Figures.” Dean nudged him. “You’ve always need an audience, even when it’s just one person.”

Arnold laughed, but it echoed strangely in his ears. An audience. That’s what he was. That’s what he’d always been.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Tua glance up, watching him in that steady, unreadable way. And for a heartbeat, Arnold wished desperately that Tua would say something anything to prove Dean wrong.

But Tua only lowered his gaze back to his work.

That night, Arnold lay awake again. He pressed his palms against his eyes, trying to block out the silence, trying to hold on to the pieces of brightness that always seemed to slip through his fingers when no one was around to see.

He told himself he was enough. That Tua’s words meant something real.

But the cracks were there, spreading quietly under the surface.

And Arnold, ever the performer, made sure no one saw them.

Chapter Text

Arnold had always been good at energy.

Big laughs. Bigger gestures. The kind of charm that drew people in like moths to light.

But lately, it was work.

At rehearsal, he turned the volume up so loud it nearly hurt. He cracked three jokes in a row before warm-ups, hollered encouragements even louder than usual, spun the younger dancers around until they were dizzy with laughter.

Everyone laughed with him. Everyone clapped him on the back.

And no one noticed that when his smile faltered in the mirror, he quickly smoothed it back into place.

Back at the workshop, he sprawled across the couch, talking fast, waving his hands.

“And then, I swear, the choreographer gave me this look, like he was two seconds from throwing his shoe at me. I mean, who throws a shoe? Right? But, hey, if it happens, I’ll catch it mid-air, make it part of the dance. Style points!”

Tua’s hands stilled on the fabric he was cutting. He looked at Arnold, quiet, unreadable.

Arnold grinned wider, waiting for the laugh.

It didn’t come.

“You’re forcing it,” Tua said finally.

The grin wavered. “Forcing what?”

“The jokes. The smile.”

Arnold barked a laugh, too sharp. “What? No way. This is me! Classic Arnold. Full power, 24/7. You should know that by now.”

But his voice cracked halfway through.

Tua set his scissors down, leaning his elbows on the table. “You don’t have to be full power all the time.”

For a heartbeat, Arnold froze. His throat felt tight.

He wanted to say something a quip, a brush-off, anything but the words tangled inside him.

So instead, he stretched out on the couch dramatically, throwing an arm over his eyes. “You wound me, Tua. I thought my comedy career was thriving.”

Tua didn’t argue. Didn’t push. But his gaze lingered, steady and heavy, until Arnold had to shift under it.

That weekend, Dean invited them both out after rehearsal. A few dancers had gathered at a café, buzzing with chatter and music.

Arnold slipped into his role easily, louder than everyone, pulling people into conversation, tossing jokes across the table.

“Man, Arnold, you’re unstoppable,” one of the dancers laughed. “Do you ever shut up?”

“Not if I can help it!” Arnold declared, raising his glass like it was a toast.

The laughter rolled over him like applause. But when he glanced sideways, Tua was watching him with that same unreadable expression, lips pressed in a line.

And Arnold hated just for a second how naked he felt under it.

Later that night, when the others had gone and Arnold walked home alone, the silence hit like it always did. Heavy. Too heavy.

He slowed his steps, hugging his jacket around himself, replaying the way Tua had looked at him. Like he’d seen something Arnold had been trying desperately to hide.

And for the first time, Arnold wasn’t sure if he wanted to be seen.

Chapter Text

The dance studio was loud, as always. Music pounding, sneakers squeaking, laughter bouncing off mirrors. Arnold was in the middle of it all the brightest spark in the room.

But when rehearsal ended and everyone packed up, Tua lingered near the doorway. He watched Arnold’s shoulders slope the moment the others left. The light dimmed out of him so fast it was like someone had flicked a switch.

Arnold stretched half-heartedly, then sat on the floor, phone in hand. He typed quickly, then stared at the screen. After a long moment, he slipped the phone into his bag without sending anything.

Tua said nothing, just took in the way Arnold lingered at the back until the room was nearly empty.

At the workshop that evening, Arnold was louder than usual, throwing himself onto the couch with exaggerated drama.

“Tuaaa,” he whined, dragging out the syllables. “Save me. I think rehearsal murdered me. I am now a ghost haunting your sewing table.”

Tua looked over. “You’re too loud to be a ghost.”

Arnold grinned. “Correction: a very cheerful ghost.”

The joke landed but not the way it usually did. Arnold’s smile hung there, waiting, a little too long.

When Tua didn’t laugh, just tilted his head, Arnold quickly flopped onto his back, hood tugged over his eyes. “Fine, fine, serious artist mode. Don’t mind me.”

Tua’s scissors snipped steadily through the cloth. But every few minutes, his gaze flicked toward the couch. Arnold lay very still, hoodie pulled low, but Tua noticed the way his hands fidgeted with the hem, tugging and untugging the fabric.

The restless quiet told more than the noise ever could.

Later, when Dean stopped by, Arnold lit up again. He practically leapt off the couch, draping an arm around Dean’s shoulders, filling the room with jokes until even Dean shook his head in mock exasperation.

But Tua noticed something Dean didn’t: how Arnold’s laugh faltered once Dean looked away. How his grip on Dean’s shoulder lingered a second too long, like he needed the contact more than the joke.

When Dean left, the room dropped into silence again. Arnold fiddled with the zipper of his hoodie, eyes darting anywhere but Tua’s.

“You don’t like silence, do you?” Tua said quietly.

Arnold blinked. “What? No, I’m fine with it.”

But his voice was quick, too quick, and he immediately shoved his earbuds in, music loud enough for Tua to hear from across the room.

That night, after Arnold finally dozed off on the couch, Tua set aside his work. He walked over, crouching quietly beside him.

Arnold’s face, half-hidden by his hood, looked younger, softer, but also… tired. There were shadows under his eyes, faint but there. His lips were parted like he’d fallen asleep mid-sentence.

Tua reached out, then stopped himself just short of brushing the hair off Arnold’s forehead. His hand hovered, then fell back to his side.

“Why do you look so lonely when you’re supposed to be the happiest in the room?” he murmured, knowing Arnold couldn’t hear.

The only answer was the soft sound of Arnold’s breathing.

Chapter Text

Arnold didn’t notice it happening at first.

One rehearsal bled into the next, one late night at the workshop rolled into another. His laughter started feeling heavier in his chest, like dragging something uphill. His smile ached at the corners of his mouth.

And slowly, people started catching on.

“Arnold, you okay? You’re not as loud as usual,” one of the dancers teased during a water break.

Arnold immediately puffed his chest out, throwing his arms wide. “Not loud? Please. This is me on half-battery! You want loud, I’ll give you surround sound!”

They laughed, shaking their heads. Arnold’s grin stayed fixed, but when he turned back toward the mirror, his reflection looked hollow.

That evening at the café, he overcompensated.

The table roared with laughter, half because Arnold was juggling salt shakers and sugar packets like a street performer, half because he’d made himself the butt of every joke.

“Careful,” Dean said between chuckles. “One of these days you’re going to fall flat on your face.”

“Then at least I’ll go out with applause!” Arnold quipped, bowing dramatically.

The laughter echoed, but inside, it didn’t land the same. By the time he sat back down, his hands shook faintly, hidden under the table.

Tua noticed.

From the other side of the booth, his gaze lingered too long, quiet and assessing.

Arnold felt it like a weight, and so he laughed louder.

Back in the dorms that night, Arnold sat on his bed with his phone glowing in his hand. His messages were blank, cursor blinking in an empty chat box.

He typed something “Wanna hang out?” then deleted it. Typed again “You free?” deleted it again.

He stared at the ceiling, fighting the heaviness in his chest.

He wanted to send it. To someone. Anyone.

But the silence on the other end scared him more than the loneliness itself.

So he tossed the phone aside, grabbed his headphones, and cranked the music loud enough to drown it out.

The spiral crept into rehearsal.

He missed a step in choreography unusual for him. Covered it up with a joke, bowing low as if he’d meant to. But the choreographer frowned, marking it down.

Later, during stretching, he sat with his arms wrapped around his knees, grinning at everyone else’s conversations but not joining in.

“Arnold,” Tua’s voice came quietly from behind him.

He looked up quickly, smile snapping back into place. “Costume god himself! Tell me, do I look good sweaty or is it a fashion crime?”

But Tua didn’t smile. He crouched slightly, meeting Arnold’s eyes.

“You don’t have to keep pretending, you know.”

The words hit too close. Too deep.

Arnold’s grin faltered just for a second before he forced it brighter. “Pretending? Me? Babe, this is premium, one-of-a-kind Arnold energy. Limited edition. No refunds.”

He clapped Tua on the shoulder, too fast, too light, and stood up before the silence could press in.

But when he walked away, Tua stayed kneeling there, gaze following him, expression unreadable but heavy.

That night, Arnold couldn’t sleep.

He lay in bed staring at the ceiling, chest tight, headphones buzzing faint music that no longer soothed. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like the spark in the room. He just felt… small.

And though he would never admit it, a part of him wondered if anyone would notice if the spark went out.

Chapter Text

Arnold had always been good at noise.

Noise filled up space, drowned out thoughts, blurred the sharp edges of silence. So he talked, he joked, he laughed louder than anyone else in the room.

But lately, even the noise wasn’t working.

In rehearsal, his body betrayed him. He missed a turn, stumbled over his own feet. Normally, he’d laugh it off, make it part of a gag. This time, his face burned hot and his chest tightened.

“Arnold, focus!” the choreographer snapped.

He forced a grin, throwing a salute. “Yes, boss! One hundred percent, sir!”

Everyone chuckled. But when they went back to the routine, his smile felt brittle, stretched too thin.

He caught his reflection in the mirror the curve of his lips didn’t match the dullness in his eyes.

And for the first time, he looked away from himself.

At the workshop, Dean tried to get him to join in on a round of jokes. Usually, Arnold would’ve been the first to pile on, but instead he sat with his knees tucked under him, chewing at his thumbnail.

When Dean nudged him, Arnold jolted like he’d been caught.

“Sorry, sorry, my brain’s on airplane mode,” he said with a laugh that didn’t reach his eyes.

Dean frowned. “You sure you’re okay?”

Arnold’s hand twitched in his lap. He wanted to say no. To admit that something felt wrong, that the hollow inside him was growing every day.

But instead, he turned the question into a joke. “Okay? Please, I’m fabulous. Ten out of ten, five stars, would recommend.”

Dean laughed, but softer this time. Not quite convinced.

Arnold felt it like a crack running through him.

That night, Arnold didn’t go straight home.

He wandered instead. Through quiet streets, past lit-up restaurants where groups of friends laughed around tables. Past couples walking close, shoulders brushing.

He kept his hood up, hands stuffed deep in his pockets. Every laugh he heard felt like a reminder of what he didn’t have.

When his phone buzzed a group chat lighting up with memes and banter he stared at it for a long time before shoving it back into his pocket.

He didn’t reply.

Back in his dorm, the silence was suffocating.

Arnold lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, headphones resting around his neck. His phone lay face down beside him, the screen lighting up every so often with messages he didn’t check.

He wanted to cry. The ache in his chest begged for release. But nothing came. No tears, just the hollow weight pressing heavier and heavier.

He pulled the blanket over his head, curling tight like he could make himself smaller, quieter, invisible.

For once, there was no laughter. No jokes. Just the silence he’d been running from, swallowing him whole.

And though Arnold didn’t know it, Tua had noticed him slipping away the way the spark dimmed, the laughter thinned. He saw the cracks widening with every day that passed.

And he was beginning to realize that if he didn’t step in soon, Arnold might not be able to find his way back on his own.

Chapter Text

Arnold showed up late.

Not dramatically late just enough that rehearsal was already underway when he slipped into the studio, hoodie pulled low over his face.

Normally, he’d bound in with some over-the-top entrance, demanding the spotlight even if he didn’t mean to.

This time, he tried to melt into the corner.

He moved like he was underwater, steps heavy, eyes shadowed. He smiled when someone cracked a joke across the room, but it was faint, delayed, like his brain had missed the punchline.

Tua noticed.

Of course he noticed.

From where he sat on the floor sketching costume adjustments, his pencil slowed until it stilled altogether. Arnold had been dimming for days now. Tonight, he looked like he was running on fumes.

After rehearsal ended, people spilled out in groups, chattering and laughing.

Arnold hung back, stuffing his things into his bag with too much focus, as though the zipper demanded his entire attention.

“Arnold.”

The voice was quiet, steady.

Arnold glanced up and found Tua standing a few feet away, messenger bag slung over one shoulder. His expression was calm, but there was something firm in his eyes.

“Hey, costume king,” Arnold said, forcing a grin. “Don’t tell me you’re here to critique my sweat stains. They’re avant-garde.”

Tua didn’t smile. He walked closer instead, stopping just beside him. “You don’t have to do that.”

Arnold blinked. “Do what?”

“Pretend you’re fine when you’re not.”

The words landed heavier than Arnold wanted them to. His throat tightened. He pulled his hood further over his face, chuckling like it was all a misunderstanding.

“You’ve been watching too many dramas, Tua. Me? Not fine? Please. I’m the definition of—”

“Arnold.”

Just his name, but spoken so gently it cut right through the act.

Arnold’s breath caught. He stared down at his hands, flexing them against the strap of his bag. He wanted to joke, to deflect, but his chest ached too much to find the words.

Tua lowered his voice, almost hesitant.

“You don’t have to carry everything alone. Not with me around.”

Arnold swallowed hard, the lump in his throat threatening to give him away. He could feel the mask slipping, and it terrified him.

So he forced another laugh softer, shakier this time. “Careful, Tua. Say things like that and I’ll start thinking you actually care.”

There was silence.

When Arnold finally glanced up, Tua’s expression was unreadable, but his eyes held steady warmth.

“I do.”

The words were so simple, so certain, Arnold didn’t know how to process them. His chest ached with the urge to believe him. To let himself lean into that steadiness.

But instead, he slung his bag over his shoulder and flashed one more fragile grin. “You’re too nice for your own good, you know that?”

He brushed past before his shaking hands gave him away.

Tua didn’t stop him. But as Arnold disappeared through the door, Tua’s gaze lingered, sharp with quiet determination.

Because no matter how many walls Arnold built, Tua wasn’t going to let him vanish behind them.

Chapter Text

Arnold didn’t mean to cry.

He didn’t even mean to stay late. But rehearsal had ended, the others had gone, and somehow he was still sitting on the studio floor with his knees pulled to his chest, staring at nothing.

The mirrors reflected him back a hundred times hoodie shadowing his face, hands trembling faintly. He looked like a stranger.

He pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes, willing the burning there to fade. Don’t. Not here. Not now.

But the harder he tried, the more the ache in his chest grew. Until suddenly, a sound escaped him sharp, broken, humiliating.

“Arnold?”

He froze. His heart lurched.

Tua’s voice.

When he lowered his hands, Tua was already crouching in front of him, messenger bag set aside. He looked calm, steady, but his eyes… his eyes were soft, searching, like he’d been expecting this all along.

Arnold panicked. Instinct kicked in.
“Wow, uh, didn’t realize I had an audience! Sorry you had to witness the great tragic meltdown of Arnold, star of—”

His voice cracked.

The mask crumbled.

And before he could stop it, a sob tore free from his throat. He curled forward, pressing his face into his knees, ashamed and shaking.

“I’m—” His voice was muffled, raw. “I’m so tired, Tua. I can’t… I can’t keep being… this all the time. Everyone thinks I’m fine but I’m not. I feel like I’m… disappearing.”

The confession hung heavy in the empty studio.

For a moment, he expected silence. Maybe pity. Maybe awkwardness.

Instead, there was movement.

And then warmth.

Tua’s arms wrapped around him carefully, slowly, as though giving him the choice to pull away. But Arnold didn’t. Couldn’t. He clung to him, fists twisting in the fabric of Tua’s shirt, tears soaking through.

Tua’s hand moved gently over his back, grounding, patient. “You don’t have to perform for me,” he said quietly. “Not here. Not ever.”

Arnold’s chest tightened. No one had ever said that to him before. No one had looked past the noise, the jokes, the endless grins.

“I don’t… I don’t want to be alone,” Arnold admitted, voice breaking like glass.

“You’re not.”

The words were steady. Certain. Like an anchor thrown into the storm.

Arnold squeezed his eyes shut, letting the sobs shake through him until they dulled into hiccuped breaths. Slowly, the weight in his chest eased not gone, not fixed, but lighter with someone else holding it too.

When he finally lifted his head, Tua didn’t look away. Didn’t flinch at the redness of his eyes or the mess of his tears.

He just held his gaze and said, simple as anything, “I see you, Arnold. Not the performance. You.”

Arnold swallowed hard, the ache in his throat turning sharp. And for the first time in weeks, he let himself believe it. Even if just for a moment.

Chapter Text

The next few days were… different.

Arnold still laughed too loud at the smallest things. He still cracked jokes during warmups and complimented everyone’s outfits, even when they were just sweatpants and old sneakers.

But there was a softness in the edges now.

Like he wasn’t sprinting full speed into the spotlight just to distract everyone. Like, for once, he didn’t have to.

Because every time he caught Tua’s eyes across the room sketchbook balanced on his knees, expression steady and quiet Arnold felt himself breathe easier.

On Wednesday, rehearsal ran late. By the time they finished, the sky outside was already bruised purple, the city glowing with neon. The others filed out in groups, chattering about food and after-practice plans.

Arnold hung back, stuffing his hoodie into his bag. His chest still ached sometimes loneliness, that sharp echo but it wasn’t unbearable anymore.

Not when Tua was walking beside him.

“Do you ever,” Arnold began, fiddling with his zipper, “get sick of people expecting you to be something? Like they’ve decided who you are, and you just… have to fit it?”

Tua glanced at him, brow furrowed slightly. “All the time.”

Arnold blinked. “Really?”

“You think designing costumes is just about clothes?” Tua’s lips tugged into the smallest smile. “People expect me to be invisible. Quiet. Just hands, no voice. Sometimes it feels like they only see what I make, not me.”

Arnold stopped walking for a second, stunned. He’d never thought of it like that.

“You’re not invisible,” he said quickly, almost defensively. “Not even close.”

Tua’s gaze lingered on him, something warm and unreadable flickering there. “…Neither are you.”

The words hit harder than Arnold expected. He ducked his head, hiding a too-wide smile behind his sleeve.

That night, when Arnold finally crawled into bed, he didn’t feel the same hollow ache that had followed him for weeks.

For the first time in what felt like forever, the silence wasn’t lonely.

It was full.

Full of Tua’s voice, low and steady. Full of the way his eyes softened when he looked at him.

Arnold fell asleep smiling, hoodie hood pulled over his head, dreaming of being seen.

Chapter Text

Friday night rehearsals always ended the same way: exhaustion, takeout boxes, and everyone scattering as quickly as possible to claim sleep.

Arnold lingered, as he always did. He told himself it was to stretch his legs or practice a turn “one more time,” but really it was just… easier than going home to silence.

This time, though, he wasn’t alone.

“Hungry?”

Arnold looked up, startled. Tua stood by the door, bag over his shoulder, sketchbook tucked under one arm. His expression was as unreadable as always, but his words caught Arnold off guard.

“…Hungry?”

Tua tilted his head, like it was obvious. “I was going to get noodles. Come with me.”

Arnold blinked, then laughed too quickly, too loud. “What, like, me? The great Arnold, blessing you with his presence at dinner?”

But Tua didn’t roll his eyes or shake his head like most people would. He just looked at him, calm and steady, until Arnold’s fake laugh fizzled out.

“…Yeah,” Arnold said softly. “Okay.”

They ended up in a small corner shop, the kind with chipped tables and broth that smelled like heaven.

Arnold talked about dance, about his old instructors, about some dumb video he saw earlier filling the air as he always did. But halfway through his second story, he noticed Tua hadn’t said much at all.

“You’re quiet,” Arnold pointed out, chopsticks waving. “Like, extra quiet. You hate this place?”

“No,” Tua said simply, taking a sip of his soup. “I’m listening.”

Arnold froze. No one ever said that to him. Usually people just nodded, smiled, waited for him to finish so they could move on.

But Tua wasn’t waiting. He was present.

Arnold’s throat went dry. He shifted in his seat, suddenly aware of how much space he took up, how loud his laugh echoed in the little shop.

“You don’t have to listen to me,” he muttered, eyes on his bowl. “I talk too much.”

“I like it,” Tua said. His voice was steady, almost casual but the words landed heavy, knocking the air from Arnold’s chest.

He looked up. Tua was watching him, not with amusement or pity, but something quieter. Warmer.

Arnold swallowed hard, cheeks burning. “…Then I’ll keep talking,” he said, voice small.

And for the first time in weeks, it didn’t feel like he was performing. It felt like he was sharing.

Later, walking back through the neon streets, Tua matched his steps without saying anything. Their shoulders brushed once, twice, and Arnold didn’t move away.

Chapter Text

Arnold had always been good at noise.

Noise filled the empty spaces laughter that rang too bright, words that tumbled out before he could stop them, constant movement that kept people from looking too closely. Noise kept the loneliness at bay.

But lately, when he sat with Tua, he didn’t feel like he had to fill the air.

Which was terrifying. And addicting.

They’d found themselves on the studio rooftop after rehearsal, a place most people ignored because the stairs squeaked and the door stuck. But Arnold liked it the city stretched out around them, lights glittering, the sky heavy with stars that fought against the glow.

He leaned back against the railing, hoodie sleeves tugged over his hands, trying to decide if he should crack another joke or launch into a story. His usual reflex.

But Tua beat him to it.

“You’re quieter these days,” he said, sketchbook resting against his knee.

Arnold blinked. “Quieter? Me?” He forced a grin. “No, no, you must be imagining things. I’m louder than life—”

“Arnold.”

The way Tua said his name not sharp, not teasing, just steady knocked the wind out of him.

Arnold faltered, looking away. His fingers tightened in his sleeves. “…Maybe a little quieter,” he admitted.

Tua didn’t say anything right away. He didn’t have to. His silence wasn’t heavy, wasn’t impatient. It was… waiting.

And somehow, that was worse.

Arnold’s throat worked. “I just… I get tired sometimes, you know? Of being the fun one. The one who’s always… on.”

The words tumbled out before he could stop them. His chest squeezed tight, as if the confession was ripping open seams he’d stitched long ago.

“I don’t want people to see me when I’m not smiling,” he whispered. “Feels like if I’m not bright enough, loud enough, they won’t want me around.”

The rooftop was quiet, save for the hum of the city below. Arnold felt his face burn, shame crawling up his neck. He shouldn’t have said that. Shouldn’t have let Tua see behind the mask.

But then

“I still want you around.”

Arnold’s head snapped up. Tua’s gaze met his, steady, unwavering. There wasn’t pity there. Just truth.

Arnold’s chest ached. He laughed, but it cracked on the edges. “You’re dangerous, you know that? Saying things like that.”

“Dangerous?”

“Yeah,” Arnold said, pressing his sleeves to his face to hide how warm it felt. “Because I might believe you.”

Tua didn’t look away. “…Then believe me.”

Arnold froze, breath caught in his throat.

For the first time in years, he didn’t feel like he had to be performing. Didn’t feel like he had to shout his existence into the world.

He just sat there, heart racing under the weight of being seen.

And for once, it didn’t feel terrifying.

It felt like relief.

Chapter Text

Rehearsals ran late. Again.

By the time the director finally dismissed everyone, Arnold’s body felt like it had been wrung out and left to dry. He was good at masking it still joking with the other dancers, still bouncing around to high-five crew as they packed up. But the moment the greenroom emptied, he sank onto the couch with a sigh that sounded too big for him.

He tugged his hoodie strings until they framed his face, closing his eyes just for a second.

Just one second.

“Arnold?”

His eyes cracked open. Tua stood in the doorway, bag slung over one shoulder, sketchbook tucked against his ribs. He looked the same as always calm, steady but there was something softer in his tone.

“You okay?”

Arnold’s first instinct was to grin, to brush it off with a loud, dramatic, Of course! Arnold never tires!

But his body betrayed him. Instead, his head lolled against the couch cushion, his smile coming out weak. “…Maybe not my best night.”

Tua crossed the room without hesitation, setting his things down. He didn’t ask permission before sitting beside him, close enough their knees brushed.

“Then don’t force it,” he said.

Arnold let out a short laugh, muffled by the hoodie. “If I stop forcing it, I might just collapse right here. Not exactly a flattering image.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” Tua replied.

The words were simple. Plain. But they made Arnold’s throat tighten, his chest warm.

He hesitated, then let his weight tip sideways, his head landing on Tua’s shoulder.

For a moment, silence. The hum of the vending machine. The distant shuffle of crew still clearing up. Arnold’s heart pounding way too loud in his own ears.

Then Tua adjusted,so Arnold fit more comfortably against him. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Arnold almost pulled back. Almost laughed it off, cracked a joke about how Tua was going to regret letting him drool on his jacket.

But instead… he stayed.

“Comfy,” he murmured, voice already drowsy.

Tua didn’t tease. Didn’t shift away. His hand rested lightly on Arnold’s arm, grounding.

Arnold closed his eyes. For the first time in longer than he could remember, he let himself lean. Not with noise, not with a grin, not with the big personality everyone expected but with quiet trust.

And as the room settled into stillness, Arnold felt the tiniest spark of something dangerous, something terrifying, blooming in his chest.

Hope.

Chapter Text

It was a rare free day. No rehearsals, no fittings, no long nights under the hot glare of stage lights.

Arnold didn’t quite know what to do with himself.

Usually, he filled empty hours with people lunches, arcade trips, silly videos on his feed. Anything to keep from sitting still long enough for loneliness to creep back in.

But somehow, when Tua messaged him “I’m working on designs at home today. Want to come by?” Arnold found himself saying yes.

Tua’s apartment was nothing like Arnold’s, which was cluttered with costumes from old performances, discarded water bottles, and posters peeling at the corners.

This space was neat. Plants on the windowsill. Fabric swatches neatly stacked on the table. A faint smell of tea in the air.

“Wow,” Arnold said, kicking off his shoes. “So this is where the magic happens.”

“It’s just work,” Tua replied, setting his sketchbook down.

“Just work? Excuse you, you’re like—” Arnold spread his arms wide. “The Michelangelo of stage fashion.”

That earned him the tiniest smile. Arnold grinned back, proud.

They ended up in the living room, Arnold sprawled sideways on the couch with his hoodie pulled up, Tua sitting cross-legged on the floor with fabric samples scattered around him.

For once, Arnold wasn’t buzzing with the need to perform.

He watched Tua work in comfortable silence, the scratch of pencil against paper mixing with the faint music humming from Tua’s speakers. Every so often, Tua would glance up and say something small asking Arnold’s opinion on a color, pointing out a stitching detail.

Arnold answered honestly. Softly.

Hours slipped by before he even noticed.

At some point, Arnold shifted, lying on his stomach across the couch, chin propped on folded arms. “Hey, Tua?”

Tua hummed in acknowledgment without looking up.

“You don’t mind me being here, do you?”

That got Tua’s attention. His pencil stilled, eyes flicking up to meet Arnold’s. “Why would I?”

Arnold shrugged, trying for casual. “I don’t know. I can be… a lot. People usually like me better in small doses.”

Tua didn’t even blink. “I don’t.”

Arnold’s chest squeezed. “…You don’t?”

Tua shook his head. “You’re easy to be around.”

For a moment, Arnold forgot how to breathe.

He ducked his face into his hoodie sleeves, muffling a laugh that cracked halfway into something else. “You keep saying things like that, and I’m gonna start thinking you actually like having me around.”

Tua’s voice was quiet, but steady. “I do.”

Arnold froze.

He stayed hidden in his sleeves, too afraid to let Tua see the way his eyes burned. But his heart pounded so hard he swore Tua could hear it.

Arnold didn’t fight it. He let the words sink in, curling up against the couch cushions, feeling just for a moment like he wasn’t too much.

Like maybe, he was exactly enough.

Chapter Text

The rain started in the late afternoon, steady against the windows, softening the edges of everything.

Arnold had stretched himself across the couch like he owned it, legs dangling over one armrest, hoodie tugged halfway over his head. He’d been watching Tua sketch for a while, humming under his breath, tapping little rhythms against the fabric of the cushion.

Then the rain lulled him. The quiet, the warmth, the faint smell of tea that clung to Tua’s apartment it all pressed against his usually restless body like a weighted blanket.

His movements slowed. His humming faded. His eyes blinked heavier.

Tua glanced up from his sketchbook just in time to see Arnold stifle a yawn behind his sleeve.

“You can sleep, you know,” Tua said.

Arnold peeked out from the hoodie hood, eyes bleary but still playful. “What, here? In your museum of neatness?”

“Yes. Here.”

Arnold laughed softly, then turned onto his side, tugging the hoodie tighter. He didn’t think he actually would not in someone else’s space. He always felt the need to keep up the energy, to fill the silence, to be the one carrying the room.

But then Tua set his sketchbook aside, got up, and draped a folded blanket over him without a word.

Arnold’s breath caught.

The gesture was so simple, so gentle, that it knocked the wind right out of him.

“And if I start snoring, you’re not allowed to hold it against me.”

“I won’t.”

Arnold peeked at him, expecting some kind of smirk, but Tua was just settling back onto the floor, as calm as always. Like Arnold sprawled out in his living room wasn’t a disruption, but just normal.

The tension slipped from Arnold’s shoulders.

Minutes later, his breathing evened out, lashes resting softly against his cheeks, one hand curled near his face.

Tua worked quietly at the table again, the scratch of his pencil the only sound besides the rain. Every so often, his eyes flicked to the couch to the boy who filled every space with light, now finally resting, unguarded.

And Arnold slept deeper than he had in weeks.

Because, he wasn’t afraid of being too much.
For once, he wasn’t afraid of being alone.

Chapter Text

Arnold woke up slowly.

Not with the jolt of alarms or the shuffle of roommates but to the smell of something warm, faintly sweet, drifting from the kitchen. The kind of smell that coaxed you awake rather than demanded it.

For a second, he forgot where he was. The blanket tucked under his chin wasn’t his. The couch wasn’t his. The gentle rhythm of rain still pattering against the window didn’t belong to his apartment.

Then memory settled. Tua’s apartment.

Arnold rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, blinking against the soft morning light filtering through the curtains.

He’d fallen asleep here.

And not only had Tua let him, he’d covered him with a blanket. Treated it like the most natural thing in the world.

Arnold’s chest squeezed at the thought.

Dragging himself upright, he shuffled toward the kitchen, hoodie hanging loose around him.

Tua was there, sleeves pushed up, quietly pouring tea into two cups. On the counter, plates with toast and fruit were neatly arranged.

Arnold leaned against the doorway, hair mussed, voice still rough from sleep. “Are you… domesticating me right now?”

Tua looked up, unfazed. “You were asleep. You skipped dinner. You’d be unbearable if I let you stay hungry.”

Arnold laughed, stumbling into the kitchen. “Wow. Brutal and caring. You’re dangerous, Tua.”

“Sit,” Tua said, nodding toward the table.

Arnold plopped down, folding one leg under him, still grinning. But the grin softened when Tua set a plate in front of him.

No one did things like this for him. People liked Arnold around because he was fun, because he lifted the mood, because he filled empty air with noise. Not because they wanted to quietly make sure he was fed.

He blinked hard, pushing the lump in his throat down with a laugh. “Careful. If you keep this up, I might start thinking you like having me around.”

Tua sat across from him, calm as always. “I told you already. I do.”

Arnold froze.

The words hung in the air, quiet but steady.

He ducked his head, hiding behind a mouthful of toast. His chest felt too full, too warm, and he didn’t know what to do with it.

But the truth was, he didn’t want to run from it either.

The morning passed in a kind of soft, unspoken rhythm. They ate. They sat by the window. Arnold talked about old dance rehearsals, mimicking exaggerated movements until Tua actually chuckled and the sound had Arnold swearing he’d do anything to hear it again.

Chapter Text

Arnold’s apartment wasn’t much.

The living room was a mess of plants he kept forgetting to water, books stacked sideways on the floor because he never bought shelves, and a couch that had seen better days. The walls were lined with taped-up Polaroids some blurry, some crooked but each one carrying laughter frozen in time.

It was chaotic, loud, and entirely him.

So when he let Tua in, he felt his throat tighten. No one got this version of him. Not really. Not when he wasn’t performing, not when the lights weren’t on.

“Welcome to the jungle,” Arnold joked weakly, tossing his keys onto a counter already cluttered with mugs.

Tua’s eyes swept the room, taking it in with that same steady calm. “It feels… alive.”

Arnold blinked. “Alive? That’s one word for it.”

“I like it,” Tua added simply.

Arnold had to turn away, suddenly busying himself with stacking cups in the sink. Compliments he could handle when they were about his dancing, his face, his energy. But this? His space? His life as it was, messy and unpolished? That felt like something else entirely.

“Want tea?” Arnold asked, mostly to cover the way his hands were trembling.

Tua nodded. “Tea’s good.”

They settled on the floor, mugs in hand, back against the couch. The city lights spilled in through the window, painting the room gold and silver.

Arnold sipped his tea, then set it down, fingers drumming nervously against his knee.

“Tua,” he said, and his own voice startled him with how small it sounded.

Tua glanced at him.

Arnold took a breath. “You know how people… like me because I’m loud? Or funny? Or because I make them feel good about themselves?”

Silence. Not the heavy kind the patient kind.

Arnold’s chest tightened. “That’s all I am to them. The mood booster. The entertainment. But when the room empties, when the music stops, I…” His throat closed, but he forced the words out. “I don’t know if anyone actually sees me. Like, really sees me.”

Tua didn’t speak. Didn’t interrupt. Just listened, gaze steady.

Arnold’s fingers curled into his hoodie sleeve. “I laugh the loudest because I don’t want people to hear the echo. And I keep moving, because if I stop, it gets too quiet.”

The words tumbled out faster, rawer. “And sometimes I wonder if I disappeared, if anyone would notice. Or if they’d just find another booster to fill the space.”

For the first time in months, Arnold’s smile broke. His eyes burned, his chest ached, and he couldn’t cover it with a joke.

He hated that Tua was seeing him like this. And yet, part of him a desperate, aching part wanted nothing more than to be seen.

When the silence stretched, Arnold risked a glance.

Tua had set his mug aside. His hand rested lightly against Arnold’s arm grounding, steady, without pressure.

“I see you,” Tua said quietly.

Arnold’s breath caught.

“You’re not just noise, Arnold. You’re not just what you give other people. You’re…” Tua hesitated, searching for words. “You’re a person worth staying for. Even in the quiet.”

Arnold’s throat closed. A laugh bubbled up shaky, broken, wet at the edges. He lifted a sleeve to his eyes, muttering, “You’re too good at this. Do you practice these lines in the mirror?”

Tua shook his head, lips twitching at the corners. “No. I just meant it.”

Arnold’s laugh crumbled into a sob, and before he could stop himself, he leaned sideways burying his face against Tua’s shoulder.

Tua didn’t flinch. Didn’t stiffen. He just stayed, letting Arnold’s shaking breath steady against him, letting the silence stretch and settle like a blanket.

And for the first time in a long time, Arnold didn’t feel like he was too much, or not enough, or anything in between.

He simply felt… held.

Chapter Text

Arnold couldn’t remember the last time someone had stayed this late in his apartment without the thrum of music or the buzz of a crowd. Usually, people came and went, laughing, loud, filling the space with energy until the moment it was gone and the silence dropped heavy on him again.

But Tua hadn’t left.

It was almost midnight now, the city outside their window humming low and steady, the occasional horn drifting up from the street. They’d migrated from the floor to the couch, tea mugs long forgotten on the table, the blanket Arnold usually saved for movie nights now draped across both of them.

Arnold sat curled up in one corner, knees hugged to his chest, head tilted toward Tua. The conversation had long slowed into comfortable silences, the kind where Arnold didn’t feel the need to fill the air with jokes or stories.

That was new.

That was terrifying.

And yet, sitting here with Tua’s steady presence beside him, it felt… safe.

“Your place feels like you,” Tua said eventually, voice quiet but certain.

Arnold blinked, startled out of his thoughts. “Messy?” he teased, though his smile was softer than usual.

Tua shook his head. “Warm.”

The word landed heavy in Arnold’s chest. His instinct was to laugh it off, make a quip about the broken heater in winter but the sincerity in Tua’s tone stopped him.

Instead, he swallowed hard and whispered, “I don’t think anyone’s ever said that to me.”

Tua turned his head, gaze steady. “Then they weren’t looking closely enough.”

Arnold’s heart lurched. He hugged his knees tighter, trying to ground himself. Every time Tua spoke like that quietly, without flourish it felt like the ground under him shifted.

“Why are you like this?” Arnold asked before he could stop himself.

“Like what?”

“Just—” Arnold gestured vaguely, words tumbling faster than his brain. “You say these things like you mean them. And you don’t laugh after, or pull them back, or… I don’t know. You make it too easy to believe you.”

“Because I mean them,” Tua said simply.

Arnold pressed his face into his knees, muffling a groan. “You’re going to kill me.”

Tua didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to. Arnold could feel the faint shift of the couch when he leaned closer, the quiet patience that filled the space between them.

When Arnold finally lifted his head again, they were closer than he expected. Close enough that he could see the faint shadows under Tua’s eyes from long hours at work, close enough that he could count the tiny flecks of brown in his otherwise dark irises.

Close enough that the joke on Arnold’s tongue dissolved before it reached his lips.

The silence stretched. The city hummed outside. Arnold’s pulse thundered in his ears.

And then Tua moved first. Not much just the faintest tilt forward, enough to let Arnold know, enough to give him the choice.

Arnold’s breath hitched. For once, he didn’t deflect. Didn’t play it off. He just leaned in, slowly, carefully, until the space between them disappeared.

The kiss was tentative, brief not the kind of kiss that set the world on fire, but the kind that stitched something soft and fragile into place.

When they pulled apart, Arnold’s cheeks were warm, his lips tingling, his heart a wild mess in his chest.

“…Well,” he whispered, voice shaky. “Guess we’re not just roommates for the night, huh?”

Tua’s lips twitched, not quite a smile but close. “Guess not.”

Arnold laughed a real, unguarded laugh that startled even him. He tucked his face against Tua’s shoulder, hiding the sudden tears burning behind his eyes.

Because in that moment, for the first time in years, he didn’t feel like a stand-in or a distraction. He didn’t feel like he had to earn his place in someone’s life.

He just felt wanted.

And that was dangerous.

Because it meant he had something to lose.

Chapter Text

Three weeks later, Arnold almost forgot what life felt like before Tua.

It wasn’t dramatic, not a sweep-you-off-your-feet kind of change. More like the slow, steady shift of light as the seasons turn. You don’t notice it at first, but then one day you realize the shadows fall differently, the mornings are softer, the nights aren’t as long.

That was what Tua had become: the steady hand reshaping Arnold’s days.

They weren’t “together” not officially. There had been no declarations, no defining moment where the word boyfriend had been said aloud. But Arnold knew, in the quiet spaces, that it was real.

The toothbrush Tua left at Arnold’s apartment. The way Arnold automatically grabbed Tua’s favorite snacks on grocery runs. The late nights where they fell asleep on the couch, still in their work clothes, half-drained mugs of tea forgotten on the table.

It was in the looks, too. The ones Tua gave him across rehearsals, subtle but grounding, the kind that steadied Arnold’s breathing when the pressure built. Or the ones Arnold snuck at Tua when he was sketching costume notes, his brow furrowed, pencil tapping against the page the kind of looks that made Arnold’s chest ache in ways he didn’t want to name.

It was the in-between. The soft space before labels.

And Arnold — who once thrived on being loud, center of attention, always moving found himself craving that quiet more than anything.

One evening, they ended up on Arnold’s balcony. The city stretched below, glittering, restless. Arnold leaned against the railing, hoodie sleeves tugged over his hands, while Tua sat on the step, sketchbook balanced on his knee.

“You’re ridiculous, you know,” Arnold said, half-smiling as he sipped his soda.

“Why?” Tua didn’t look up, pencil moving.

Arnold gestured vaguely. “You. Sitting there, drawing, looking like you walked out of some broody indie movie. Meanwhile, I’m here, waiting for someone to notice me being dramatic against the skyline.”

Tua glanced up. “You don’t need the skyline.”

Arnold blinked. “Huh?”

“You don’t need anything extra for people to notice you,” Tua said simply, turning back to his sketchbook.

Arnold stared at him, pulse stuttering.

Sometimes Tua said things like that unprompted, unflinching, like he didn’t even realize the weight of his words. And every time, Arnold felt his carefully constructed self crack open just a little more.

He laughed it off, tipping his head back toward the stars. “Careful. Keep talking like that and I’ll think you like me.”

Tua didn’t answer right away. He finished a line in his sketch, then closed the book, finally meeting Arnold’s gaze.

“What if I do?”

Arnold’s heart stopped.

The city noise blurred, the world narrowing to the quiet steadiness in Tua’s eyes.

Arnold wanted to joke. Wanted to deflect. But for once, he couldn’t.

Instead, he whispered, “Then I think I’d be in trouble.”

Tua tilted his head. “Why trouble?”

“Because,” Arnold said, voice shaky, “I think I like you back.”

The silence stretched, thick with something new, something fragile and dangerous. And then for the first time Tua smiled. Not the faint twitch of lips Arnold had seen before, but a real smile, small but full, softening his whole face.

Arnold’s breath caught.

“Then we’re both in trouble,” Tua murmured.

And just like that, Arnold laughed real, unguarded, head tipping back against the night sky.

For once, trouble didn’t feel so bad.

Later, when Arnold fell asleep against Tua’s shoulder on the couch, the city still glowing outside, Tua didn’t move.

And Arnold somewhere in that drifting half-dream thought, If this is trouble, I don’t ever want to be safe.

Chapter Text

Arnold had always been a machine.

That’s what people said about him in the dance studio. How he could rehearse for hours without slowing, how he smiled even when his legs shook, how he threw himself into every movement like stopping wasn’t an option.

And usually, he liked the compliment. Machine meant reliable. It meant strong. Unstoppable.

But machines weren’t supposed to get tired.

Tonight, Arnold was tired.

They had just wrapped a marathon rehearsal for a complicated sequence. Arnold had kept the energy high, cracking jokes, pumping the room with encouragement even as his voice wavered. But by the time he got back to his apartment, the adrenaline had drained. His body ached in a way he couldn’t stretch out, and his head throbbed faintly at the edges.

He’d meant to shower. To eat something. Instead, he collapsed onto the couch, hoodie still on, phone slipping from his hand as he pressed the heel of his palm against his eyes.

He didn’t even hear the knock at first.

By the third one, muffled and steady, Arnold forced himself upright and shuffled to the door.

Tua stood there. A grocery bag in one hand, his ever-present sketchbook under the other arm. He blinked at Arnold, taking in his disheveled state.

“You look worse than usual,” Tua said flatly.

Arnold snorted, stepping aside to let him in. “Thanks. Just what every guy wants to hear.”

“You haven’t eaten,” Tua replied, already moving into the kitchen like it was his own.

Arnold blinked. “Did you—wait, how do you even know that?”

“You always eat after rehearsal. Your texts were slow. You didn’t send a food picture. Obvious.”

Arnold leaned against the wall, both baffled and a little… warm. “You… notice things like that?”

Tua didn’t answer directly. Instead, he began unpacking the bag: soup, rice, cut fruit. Everything simple, comforting. Everything Arnold hadn’t realized he wanted until he smelled it.

“Sit,” Tua instructed.

Arnold laughed weakly but obeyed, collapsing at the kitchen table. He watched as Tua moved around with quiet efficiency, heating soup, plating fruit, setting out utensils.

No one had done this for him in years.

By the time the food was in front of him, Arnold’s throat felt tight.

“You didn’t have to…” His voice cracked more than he meant it to.

Tua finally looked at him, calm but not unkind. “You take care of everyone else. Let someone take care of you.”

Arnold stared at him. And before he could stop himself, he whispered, “You really mean that, don’t you?”

Tua didn’t flinch. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

Something in Arnold crumbled.

He ate slowly, the warmth settling in his stomach, easing the edge of his headache. Tua sat across from him, sketchbook open, occasionally glancing up as if to check Arnold was still eating. It was quiet, comfortable.

When Arnold finished, he slumped back in his chair, hoodie slipping off his shoulder. He was exhausted, but not in the hollow way from before. This was… softer.

“You’ll burn yourself out if you keep pushing like this,” Tua said without looking up from his pencil.

Arnold laughed faintly. “It’s kind of my brand, you know. The unstoppable Arnold.”

Tua’s pencil paused. Then, softly: “You don’t have to be unstoppable. Not with me.”

Arnold’s chest tightened so suddenly it almost hurt.

For a second, he couldn’t breathe. The words hit harder than any compliment ever had. He wanted to joke, to deflect, but he couldn’t.

Instead, he whispered, “You’re going to ruin me, Tua.”

Tua finally met his eyes, steady as ever. “Then I’ll be here to put you back together.”

Arnold’s throat closed. He dropped his face into his hands, shoulders shaking not from laughter this time, but from something far more dangerous.

And when he finally looked up, eyes damp, Tua was still there. Still steady. Still looking at him like he wasn’t too much.

Like he was enough.

That night, Arnold didn’t fight when Tua tugged the blanket over him on the couch. Didn’t hide when Tua’s hand rested lightly against his hair.

For the first time in years, Arnold let himself sleep without the weight of pretending.

Because someone saw him.

Chapter Text

Arnold knew the choreography backwards.

He’d drilled it until the counts were stitched into his bones. But when adrenaline ran high, when music pulsed loud and the mirror blurred with movement, his body had a way of chasing perfection a step too far.

Which was how his ankle gave out.

The slip wasn’t dramatic no crash to the floor, no shouting. Just a sharp misstep on the turn, a twist that jolted up his leg.

Arnold caught himself quickly, kept going for another eight counts, pretending nothing had happened.

But the pain flared, sharp and wrong, and by the time the music cut, he was breathing unevenly, one hand braced on his knee.

“Arnold?” one of the other dancers asked.

He waved them off with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m good! Just need water.”

Classic Arnold. Smile first, collapse later.

By the time rehearsal wrapped, he was limping more than walking, though he did his best to hide it under exaggerated jokes and chatter.

But when the studio emptied, a quiet voice cut through the room:

“You can drop the act now.”

Arnold froze.

Tua stood near the doorway, arms crossed loosely, expression unreadable but sharp. He’d been sketching costume notes all rehearsal, silent as usual. Arnold hadn’t even noticed he was still there.

“Tua—hey.” Arnold straightened, forcing another grin. “You stalking me now?”

“Sit down.”

Arnold blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Sit.” The word wasn’t raised, but it left no room for argument.

Arnold let out a laugh, partly amused, partly nervous. But something in Tua’s tone made his legs move before his brain caught up. He sank onto the edge of the stage, hoodie damp with sweat.

Tua crouched in front of him without hesitation, eyes flicking down to his ankle. “Show me.”

Arnold hesitated. “It’s nothing. Just—”

“Arnold.”

The firmness in his voice cracked through Arnold’s defenses like nothing else could. With a sigh, he tugged off his sneaker. His ankle was already swelling, faint bruising visible at the bone.

Arnold winced. “Okay, maybe it’s a little something.”

Tua’s gaze darkened. He stood, disappeared into the back room, and returned with a first aid kit Arnold hadn’t even known the studio had.

Without a word, he knelt again, wrapping ice in a towel before pressing it gently to the joint.

Arnold hissed. “Ow—cold!”

“Good,” Tua muttered. “Means it’s working.”

Arnold stared at him, half-amused, half… undone. Tua’s hands were steady, precise, but careful in a way that made Arnold’s chest ache.

“No hesitation, huh?” Arnold said softly. “Just… taking over.”

“You don’t take care of yourself,” Tua replied simply, adjusting the wrap. “So someone has to.”

The words shouldn’t have hit as hard as they did. But they did.

When the ankle was wrapped, Tua sat back on his heels, finally meeting Arnold’s eyes.

“You need to rest it,” he said. “No rehearsals tomorrow.”

Arnold blinked at him. “You’re… giving me orders now?”

“Call it advice.”

Arnold chuckled, but his throat was tight. He didn’t want to admit how much it meant, how much it scared him that Tua had seen through the act he put on for everyone else.

So instead, he whispered, “You’re kind of bossy, you know that?”

Tua didn’t flinch. “Only when I care.”

Arnold’s breath caught.

He looked away quickly, pretending to adjust his hoodie sleeve, but his heart was thudding too fast, too loud.

And when Tua helped him to his feet, one steady hand under his arm, Arnold didn’t pull away.

He let himself lean.

Chapter Text

The studio had emptied completely by the time Arnold managed to lace his sneaker back on. The lights hummed low, mirrors reflecting only the two of them.

Arnold tried to stand without wincing, but Tua noticed anyway. He was beside him in an instant, arm sliding firmly under Arnold’s.

“I can walk,” Arnold said, trying for lightness.

“I didn’t say you couldn’t.” Tua adjusted his hold, steady and unshakable. “But you don’t have to prove it.”

Arnold swallowed the lump in his throat. It would have been so easy to lean into the touch, to admit how much it hurt, how tired he was of being the loud, invincible one.

Instead, he muttered, “You’re… annoyingly good at making me feel cared about, you know that?”

Tua didn’t answer. He just guided him carefully out into the night.

The walk to Arnold’s apartment was slow, the city buzzing faintly around them. Arnold kept cracking half-jokes, mostly to distract from the ache in his ankle but Tua answered only when he needed to, quiet and steady.

It made Arnold hyper-aware of the way their shoulders brushed. Of how Tua never once loosened his grip, even when Arnold insisted he was fine.

By the time they reached his building, Arnold’s bravado had worn thin. He fumbled with his keys, muttering under his breath, “Glamorous, right? The great Arnold, limping home like a grandpa.”

Tua’s voice came quiet, firm: “You don’t have to perform for me.”

Arnold froze. Keys clinked softly against the door.

He turned slowly, meeting Tua’s gaze. And there it was again that unflinching steadiness, like Tua could see through every mask he wore.

Arnold’s chest ached.

Inside, the apartment was dark except for the city glow through the window. Arnold sank onto the couch, exhaling as the throbbing in his ankle pulsed sharp.

Tua didn’t ask. He moved with quiet purpose dropping Arnold’s bag by the door, fetching water from the kitchen, finding the extra blanket folded on a chair and draping it gently across Arnold’s lap.

“You don’t have to—” Arnold started.

“I want to.”

The words silenced him. Completely.

Arnold stared at him, mouth half open, breath caught somewhere between laughter and something dangerously close to tears.

Tua crouched in front of him again, checking the wrap. “You’ll need proper rest. Elevate it. Ice every hour.”

Arnold swallowed hard. “Since when did you become my personal medic?”

“Since you’re terrible at looking after yourself.”

Arnold laughed a shaky, quiet sound. He tipped his head back against the couch, watching Tua’s hands linger just a fraction longer than necessary on his ankle.

And then, softly, before he could stop himself, he whispered:

“You make it hard to feel alone.”

The room stilled.

Tua’s head lifted, eyes locking on his. No teasing. No grin to hide behind. Just truth.

For a long beat, neither of them spoke. Rain tapped gently against the glass. The city hummed below.

Finally, Tua said, low and certain: “Good. You don’t deserve to be.”

Arnold’s chest clenched so tightly it hurt. He wanted to say more to spill every ache, every lonely night, every way Tua had already broken down walls he thought were permanent.

But instead, he let himself lean sideways, resting his head against Tua’s shoulder.

Tua didn’t move away.

And in the quiet of that moment ankle throbbing, heart racing Arnold realized he was in more danger than he’d ever been onstage.

Because this wasn’t a performance. This was real.

And it was terrifyingly, beautifully safe.

Chapter Text

Arnold drifted in and out of half-sleep on the couch, his ankle elevated on a pillow, the blanket tucked around him.

The pain had dulled into a steady throb, softened by Tua’s insistence on keeping ice rotated and water in his hand.

But it wasn’t the ankle that kept him awake.

It was the way Tua stayed.

Not just hovering like someone fulfilling a duty, but sitting close, quiet, present. Sometimes adjusting the blanket when it slipped, sometimes just watching the rain streak the glass with a patience Arnold didn’t know how to match.

The silence wasn’t empty. It was full.

And Arnold, who had lived years filling silences with laughter and chatter, found himself drowning in it.

Finally, he let out a low laugh. “You’re… really something, you know that?”

Tua turned his head. “Something good, I hope.”

Arnold huffed, shaking his head. “Good doesn’t cover it.” His fingers twisted in the blanket, nervous energy spilling out. “You make me feel… like I don’t have to be the bright one all the time. Like it’s fine if I just… exist.”

He hated how raw his voice sounded. Too soft. Too honest.

But Tua didn’t flinch. His eyes softened, and for the first time Arnold saw them without the guarded reserve, without the sharpness. Just open, steady warmth.

“That’s all I want,” Tua said. “For you to feel like yourself. With me.”

Arnold’s chest tightened, every smart remark evaporating. His heart beat so loud it nearly drowned out the storm outside.

“Don’t say things like that,” he whispered. “Not unless you mean them.”

Tua leaned forward, slow and deliberate, until Arnold could feel the warmth of his breath. “I’ve never meant anything more.”

The blanket slipped from Arnold’s lap as his hand reached out, curling lightly around the fabric of Tua’s sleeve. He didn’t pull just held on, as if anchoring himself.

“Tua…” His voice broke. “Are you—are we—”

The rest was cut off when Tua closed the distance.

The kiss was gentle, steady not a rush of fire, but the grounding warmth of something certain. Tua’s hand slid to cradle the side of Arnold’s face, thumb brushing the faint tremor of nerves there.

Arnold melted, breath catching as he let himself lean in, lean on, lean into.

When they finally pulled apart, Arnold laughed a small, helpless sound.

Tua’s lips curved.

Arnold’s eyes glistened, though he tried to blink it away with a grin. “So… we’re official, then?”

Tua squeezed his hand, firm, unshakable. “We’re us.”

Arnold sank back against him, head on his shoulder, heart pounding but light for the first time in what felt like years.

And as the storm outside finally softened into a drizzle, Arnold realized he wasn’t afraid of the silence anymore.

Because Tua had filled it.

And he wasn’t going anywhere.

Chapter Text

The rehearsal room felt different from the studio.

No mirrors stretching wall to wall, no steady rhythm of music to push him forward. Just a circle of chairs, scripts in hand, and the low murmur of actors warming up their voices.

Arnold sat stiffly, the weight of the script in his lap heavier than expected. Dancing had always been second nature: body moving before brain, muscle memory carrying him across a floor. But acting this was exposing, words catching in his throat, eyes on him in a way he couldn’t dance out of.

He rubbed at his temple, muttering, “I’m going to make a fool of myself.”

“You won’t.”

Arnold glanced up. Tua stood over him, a tape measure looped casually around his neck, sketchbook tucked under one arm. His calm presence cut through the nervous buzz like it always did.

“You’re biased,” Arnold said, trying for a grin.

“I’m observant.” Tua tipped his head toward the script. “And I’ve seen you memorize entire choreographies in one night. You can handle a few pages of dialogue.”

Arnold snorted, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him with a twitch of a smile.

The measuring came first. Tua led him off to the side of the rehearsal room where a small makeshift fitting corner had been set up: fabric swatches, a folding table, a standing mirror.

“Arms up,” Tua instructed.

Arnold obeyed, stretching his arms while Tua wrapped the tape around his shoulders. The brush of fingers against his collarbone made him shiver, and he shifted with a nervous laugh.

“You’re dangerously professional right now. Almost makes me forget you kissed me on my couch last night.”

Tua’s lips curved, but he didn’t look up from his notes. “Professional doesn’t mean I forgot either.”

Arnold’s chest tightened at the subtlety of it, the way Tua could thread intimacy through the most mundane of moments.

The tape slid around his waist, then lower along his hips. Arnold’s grin returned, sly this time. “Careful. If you keep touching me like this, I might forget we’re in public.”

This time, Tua did glance up eyes sharp but amused. “Behave.”

Arnold laughed, louder than he meant to, drawing a curious look from one of the actors across the room. He quickly ducked his head, cheeks warm.

Later, during the acting exercises, Arnold found himself floundering. He could dance through hours of rehearsal without breaking, but speaking scripted words in front of strangers twisted his tongue. His delivery was flat, his timing off. A few actors exchanged small, polite smiles, and Arnold’s stomach dropped.

They can tell I don’t belong here.

But then, during a break, he caught Tua’s gaze from the corner seated at his costume table, sketchbook open, watching him. Not with pity. Not with criticism. Just steady, quiet faith.

It anchored him.

When rehearsal resumed, Arnold forced himself to breathe slower. To imagine the words as steps in choreography.

He still stumbled, but when he caught Tua’s approving nod after one particularly emotional line, something loosened in his chest.

He could do this. Maybe not perfectly. But he could try.

That evening, as the rehearsal wrapped, Arnold dropped into a chair with a dramatic groan. “I’m terrible.”

“You’re learning,” Tua corrected, stacking his measuring tape and sketches back into his bag.

Arnold peeked at him, lips curling into a faint grin. “You’re always so… sure of me. It’s kind of unfair.”

Tua walked over, leaning lightly against the chair. “Would you prefer I doubt you?”

“No,” Arnold admitted, voice dropping softer. “Don’t stop.”

Tua reached out, brushing a stray curl from Arnold’s forehead before anyone else could notice. His touch lingered for the briefest second.

“Then I won’t,” he said simply.

Arnold’s throat tightened, his exhaustion eclipsed by warmth. Maybe the day hadn’t been so terrible after all.

Because for the first time, he wasn’t facing it alone.

Chapter Text

The rehearsal room emptied faster than Arnold expected. Scripts closed, bags slung over shoulders, the air buzzing with chatter as the cast filtered out into the night.

Arnold stayed behind, still seated in his chair with his script half-open. His fingers drummed nervously on the page.

He hadn’t been bad today not like the first day, anyway but he hadn’t been great either. His voice felt stuck, caught somewhere between his head and chest.

He didn’t notice Tua until he felt a light tap on his shoulder.

“You’re frowning,” Tua observed softly.

Arnold glanced up. “Was I?”

“Like you were trying to solve a puzzle that won’t fit.”

Arnold laughed faintly, rubbing his neck. “That’s kind of what this feels like. I can dance for hours, but put a line in front of me and I freeze.”

Tua glanced around the empty room before setting his bag down. “Then don’t leave yet.”

Arnold blinked. “What?”

“Stay. Practice with me.”

Arnold’s first instinct was to joke, to laugh it off, but something in Tua’s eyes stopped him. Steady, gentle, certain.

“…Okay,” he said quietly.

They stood near the center of the room, the floor echoing slightly under their steps. Tua held a copy of the script, flipping to a scene Arnold had stumbled on earlier.

“Page twenty-three,” Tua said. “Read it again. Don’t think about how it sounds. Just… imagine you’re telling me.”

Arnold swallowed, nerves fluttering in his chest. He lifted the script, started reading stumbled halfway, words tripping on his tongue.

“I sound ridiculous,” he muttered.

“No,” Tua corrected, stepping closer. “You sound nervous.”

Arnold’s laugh cracked. “That’s accurate.”

“Then don’t think about acting. Just talk to me.”

Tua’s voice was calm, low, pulling the weight off the words. Arnold closed his eyes for a second, then tried again.

This time, he imagined it was just the two of them in his apartment, late at night, with no audience but Tua’s patient gaze.

And somehow, the words came smoother. Not perfect, but real.

When he finished, Tua’s lips curved into the smallest smile. “Better.”

Arnold let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Better?”

“Better,” Tua confirmed. “Not because it was perfect. Because it was you.”

Arnold’s chest tightened. He stared at Tua, the warmth of his gaze, the certainty in his voice. “You always know what to say.”

Tua shrugged lightly, though his eyes didn’t waver. “I only say what I mean.”

Arnold swallowed hard, his throat thick. He wanted to laugh, to throw up a joke, to lighten the moment.

But instead, his hand reached out, brushing against Tua’s wrist. Just enough contact to ground himself.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

Tua’s hand turned, fingers brushing back, answering the touch without hesitation.

“You don’t have to thank me,” Tua said. “Just keep going.”

Arnold’s heart lifted, heavy and light at once. Maybe acting wouldn’t feel natural right away. But with Tua beside him guiding, steady, unshakable he wasn’t as afraid of failing anymore.

By the time they finally packed up to leave, the rehearsal room was dark except for one overhead light. Arnold grabbed his bag, still grinning faintly as they walked out side by side.

For the first time since stepping into this new world, he felt like maybe he belonged.

And the reason was simple.

Tua believed he did.

Chapter Text

The rehearsal week had been brutal.

Not physically not like dance practice, where sweat dripped down Arnold’s spine until he could barely breathe but mentally.

The pressure of remembering lines, of projecting emotions he wasn’t sure he fully believed he could convey, had left him wired and drained at the same time.

By the time Friday rolled around, Arnold practically collapsed into his apartment. He didn’t expect Tua to follow him inside.

But he did.

Tua set Arnold’s bag down gently by the door, slipping out of his shoes with the quiet efficiency Arnold had come to expect. He didn’t ask for permission, didn’t act like a guest.

He just moved through the small apartment like he belonged there and Arnold realized, with a little twist of his chest, that maybe he did.

“You need to eat,” Tua said simply.

Arnold groaned, flopping face-first onto the couch. “You sound like my mom.”

“Your mom is right, then,” Tua answered without missing a beat. He was already in the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves, opening cupboards like he’d been there a hundred times.

“What do you want? Something light?”

Arnold peeked up over the arm of the couch, hair falling in his eyes. “Wait—are you… cooking?”

“Yes.”

Arnold laughed, the sound muffled in the couch cushion. “This is so unfair. You’re good at literally everything.”

“I’m good at taking care of you,” Tua corrected softly.

Arnold froze, warmth flooding his chest. He wanted to joke, to spin it into something lighthearted, but the sincerity in Tua’s voice held him in place.

So instead, he buried his face again and whispered, “You’re too much.”

Tua cooked. Simple, comforting food rice, stir-fried vegetables, egg. Nothing fancy, but the apartment smelled warm, like home.

By the time he set the plates on the table, Arnold was half-dozing on the couch.

“Up,” Tua said gently, tapping Arnold’s shoulder.

Arnold sat up, rubbing his eyes like a child. “Fine, fine.” He shuffled over, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, and dropped into the chair. “This is domestic, you know. Like… couple vibes.”

Tua raised an eyebrow. “Is that bad?”

Arnold froze with a spoon halfway to his mouth. “…No.” His voice came out small. “Not bad at all.”

They ate together, quiet but comfortable, the kind of silence Arnold never thought he’d like but was beginning to crave.

After dinner, they ended up on the couch again. Arnold sprawled sideways, head propped against the armrest, while Tua sat upright beside him, flipping through a magazine he’d brought from work.

Arnold watched him for a long time. The way his brow furrowed in concentration, the way his fingers traced absent-mindedly along the page.

“You know,” Arnold murmured, “I used to think silence was the worst thing in the world. Like… if I wasn’t talking, laughing, keeping everyone entertained, they’d forget I was even there.”

Tua glanced down at him. Arnold stared at the ceiling, words spilling easier than he expected.

“But with you,” he continued softly, “I don’t feel like I’m disappearing. Even if I don’t say anything.”

The magazine slipped closed. Tua turned fully toward him. “You don’t have to perform for me.”

Arnold’s throat tightened. He tried to smile, but it wobbled. “I know. That’s the scary part.”

Tua’s hand moved before Arnold could pull away gentle fingers brushing hair from his forehead, resting briefly against his temple. A grounding touch.

“Then let it be scary,” Tua said. “I’ll still be here.”

Arnold blinked hard, fighting the sting in his eyes. He reached out impulsively, catching Tua’s wrist, holding it against his forehead like a lifeline.

His voice cracked on a laugh. “God, you’re making me soft.”

“You already are,” Tua murmured, smiling faintly.

Arnold let out a shaky exhale, finally closing his eyes. His head tilted, finding Tua’s shoulder naturally, as though his body knew the way without asking permission.

The room was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the faint city noise outside the window. But for Arnold, the quiet wasn’t empty anymore.

It was full.

For the first time in a long time, loneliness felt like something that belonged to someone else not him.

Because Tua was there.

And he wasn’t leaving.

Chapter Text

It didn’t happen with a grand confession.
No fireworks, no dramatic kiss in the rain.

It just… happened.

One morning, Arnold walked into rehearsal with Tua at his side, both carrying coffee. One cup was clearly Arnold’s loaded with sugar, whipped cream piled high like a dessert. The other was Tua’s, plain and black.

Arnold plopped into his chair, chattering away, and then casually switched the cups so Tua ended up with the sweet one. “Don’t roll your eyes. You need sugar today, I can tell.”

Tua didn’t argue. He just sipped it like this was routine.

People noticed.

By the second week, it was impossible not to.

Arnold gravitated toward Tua like gravity itself pulled him. Between takes, he’d hover near the costume racks, hands shoved into his hoodie pockets, waiting for Tua to finish pinning adjustments. Sometimes he’d hum softly, sometimes he’d sneak one of Tua’s pencils to twirl between his fingers.

And Tua let him. Always.

He’d adjust Arnold’s sleeve, murmuring, “Hold still,” while Arnold grinned down at him like he’d just been handed the sun. He’d smooth a wrinkle, tighten a belt, then glance up only to find Arnold already watching him, shamelessly, like no one else existed.

“You’re staring,” Tua said once, tone flat.

Arnold only shrugged, smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah. What about it?”

At lunch breaks, Arnold stopped sitting with the noisy crowd. He sat with Tua.

Sometimes across from him, sometimes right beside him, shoulder brushing shoulder. He’d steal bites of Tua’s food, whining when Tua didn’t look impressed, then grin when Tua pushed the plate closer anyway.

“See?” Arnold teased one afternoon, chopsticks in hand. “You pretend to be annoyed, but you actually like sharing with me.”

Tua gave him a long, unreadable look. “I don’t like sharing. I like you.”

Arnold nearly choked on his rice. The entire table went quiet.

But Tua just kept eating. Calm, steady, as though he hadn’t just said the most disarming thing in the world.

Arnold couldn’t stop grinning the rest of the day.

At night, things were softer.

Arnold had gotten used to sleeping at Tua’s apartment after long rehearsals. His own place was still his, but somehow Tua’s couch or more often now, Tua’s bed felt more like home.

One night, Arnold sprawled across the mattress, hair damp from a shower, scrolling lazily on his phone. Tua came out of the bathroom, toweling his hands, and Arnold immediately scooted over, patting the space beside him.

“Bed’s cold without you.”

Tua raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been in it less than ten minutes.”

“Exactly,” Arnold replied, smug, tugging at his sleeve until he sat down.

They lay side by side, quiet, the city lights filtering through the blinds. Arnold curled closer, head resting against Tua’s chest. He could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, grounding in a way words couldn’t describe.

“You know…” Arnold murmured, voice soft in the dark, “I used to think I wasn’t enough. Like, I was just a distraction people liked to have around until they got tired of me.”

Tua’s hand stilled where it had been resting against his back. Then, carefully, he pressed a kiss into Arnold’s hair.

“You’re not a distraction,” he said quietly. “You’re… everything.”

Arnold squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing hard. For once, he didn’t joke. Didn’t cover it up. He just curled tighter into the warmth, letting the words sink into all the cracks he’d been hiding.

The next morning, they walked into rehearsal late. Arnold’s hoodie was unmistakably not his it hung differently, smelled faintly of Tua’s cologne.

People whispered.

Arnold heard every word and just grinned wider.

Because for the first time in his life, he wasn’t afraid of being seen.

He wanted the world to know.

And from the small smile on Tua’s lips, the way his hand brushed lightly against Arnold’s as they passed through the studio door, he knew Tua didn’t mind either.

Not one bit.

Chapter Text

Arnold wasn’t supposed to be in the costume room.

At least, not like this.

Usually, he only passed through when Tua needed to do a quick fitting or adjust a seam after a long day of rehearsals. Arnold would joke around, try on random costume pieces, strike dramatic poses in the mirror until Tua told him to “stop moving.”

But today was different.

Arnold had finished his dance drills early. Instead of heading home or lingering with the cast, he wandered toward the back room where he knew Tua would be and sure enough, there he was, bent over a table, pins in his sleeve, brow furrowed in concentration.

The sight tugged at something in Arnold’s chest. Everyone else saw Tua as this calm, almost intimidating presence. But here, in his space, focused and quiet, he just looked… soft. Steady. Someone who built things carefully, stitch by stitch.

Arnold leaned against the doorway for a beat, watching, before breaking the silence.

“You know, if you don’t let me help, I’m going to assume you don’t trust me.”

Tua didn’t even look up. “I don’t.”

Arnold gasped dramatically, hand to his chest. “Cruel. Wounded. Betrayed.”

Finally, Tua raised his head, one brow arched. “You’d stab yourself with a pin in under five minutes.”

“Then teach me,” Arnold shot back, pushing off the doorway and striding into the room. “I’m a fast learner. Besides, you’re always taking care of me. It’s only fair I return the favour.”

That was how Arnold ended up perched beside him at the worktable, tongue sticking out slightly in concentration as he tried to thread a needle.

Tua sat back, arms crossed, watching the battle unfold. “You’re holding it wrong.”

“I know,” Arnold groaned, squinting as the thread frayed. “It’s like the eye of the needle is mocking me.”

“Here.” Without ceremony, Tua leaned in, taking Arnold’s hand in his. Their fingers brushed, warm and steady, guiding the thread through in one smooth motion. “Like that.”

Arnold blinked down at their joined hands, a grin blooming across his face. “Wow. You make even threading a needle look heroic.”

Tua rolled his eyes, but there was the faintest curve of a smile tugging at his lips.

Arnold tried sewing a hem. It was crooked, messy, and more like a zig-zag pattern than a straight line. But he was absurdly proud of it.

“Look!” he held it up to Tua like a child presenting artwork. “It’s modern art. Fashion-forward. A statement.”

Tua took it from him, inspecting the uneven stitches. “It’s terrible.”

“Hey!”

“But…” Tua set the fabric down carefully. “You tried. That’s what makes it good.”

Arnold stilled. The words were so simple, but the weight behind them made his chest ache. For so long, Arnold had felt like he wasn’t enough unless he was flawless, dazzling, always “on.” Hearing Tua say that even his messy attempts were good felt like a balm he hadn’t known he needed.

Without thinking, Arnold leaned over and kissed Tua’s cheek. Quick, light, impulsive.

Tua froze. His eyes flicked to Arnold’s, something unreadable flickering across his usually composed face.

Arnold, of course, covered it with a grin. “Payment for your patience. Don’t worry, I don’t charge interest.”

But inside, his heart was racing.

Later, when the room was tidied up and Tua packed away the supplies, Arnold sprawled across the sofa in the corner, humming softly. Tua sat beside him, reaching absentmindedly to fix the way Arnold’s hoodie had bunched at the collar.

“You really don’t have to help me,” Tua murmured.

“I know.” Arnold tilted his head, watching him. “But I want to. You take care of me so much, Tua… sometimes I feel like I’ll explode if I don’t find ways to take care of you back.”

Tua’s hand paused. His eyes softened, just for a moment. “…You already do.”

Arnold blinked, thrown. “What? How?”

Tua turned slightly, meeting his gaze head-on. “By being you.”

Arnold’s throat went tight. No quip, no joke came to cover it. He just leaned in, closing the small gap until his forehead rested against Tua’s shoulder.

And for the first time that day, the usually talkative Arnold went quiet.

Chapter Text

The set was chaos.

It always was, on days when the full cast had to be in costume. Fabric swished, zippers jammed, hems caught under shoes. And at the center of it all was Tua calm, steady, but surrounded by noise. He crouched on the floor, pinning a seam while one actor babbled about being late, another called his name from across the room.

Arnold stood in the doorway, watching. He hadn’t been needed on set yet, so he’d wandered back here, curious. The sight of Tua in the middle of the storm tugged at him not just admiration, but a kind of ache. Everyone leaned on Tua. Everyone pulled at him.

And Arnold wanted to help.

He slipped in, dodging racks of half-finished costumes until he reached Tua.

“Reporting for duty,” he announced, dropping into a crouch beside him.

Tua glanced up, startled. “You should be warming up.”

“Already did. Thoroughly.” Arnold stretched his arms dramatically, grinning when Tua’s brow twitched in disbelief. “Now, boss, what’s my task?”

Tua opened his mouth to object, but then one of the assistants dropped a stack of garments nearby with a frazzled, “We still need tags for all of these!”

Arnold pounced. “Tags? Easy.” He snatched the pile and scooted onto the floor, cross-legged, grabbing the labeling pen.

Tua blinked at him, then went back to pinning the hem.

For the next fifteen minutes, Arnold worked with an intensity that shocked everyone who passed by. He carefully checked the names, sorted pieces into neat piles, even cracked little jokes to calm the anxious actors who stopped by.

“Relax, it’s not the clothes that make you shine, it’s your dazzling personality,” he told one castmate, handing over a pressed jacket. “Though, okay, this jacket helps too. Ten out of ten.”

Laughter spread. The tension lightened, just a little.

By the time Tua finally straightened, rolling his shoulders, he noticed the pile of tagged costumes neatly arranged on the table. Arnold sat nearby, twirling the pen like a drumstick, looking absurdly proud of himself.

“All labeled. Alphabetical order, too,” Arnold reported. “I’d like to request a gold star sticker for effort.”

Tua blinked at the organized stack, then at Arnold. “You actually—”

“Told you. I can be useful.” Arnold grinned, but there was something softer under it. Something like please believe me.

Tua’s lips twitched. “Not bad.”

“Not bad?” Arnold clutched his chest. “I practically saved the day. The costumes would have been lost, chaos reigning, actors rioting in the streets—”

“Arnold.”

He quieted at the sound of his name, Tua’s voice low but steady.

“Thank you,” Tua said.

The room bustled around them zippers zipped, fabric rustled but for a moment, it felt like the noise faded, like there was only Tua’s gaze steady on his.

Arnold’s grin softened into something real. “Anytime.”

Later, as the actors filed out in their properly tagged costumes, one of them clapped Arnold on the shoulder. “Didn’t think you had it in you, man. You might put us all to shame.”

Arnold laughed, scratching the back of his neck. “Don’t worry. I’m just the sidekick today.”

But when he turned, Tua was looking at him with a warmth that said otherwise.

Not a sidekick. Not just “useful.”

Someone who made the storm easier to bear.

Chapter Text

The costume room was quiet for once. Most of the racks were in order, the frantic pinning and hemming done for the day. Tua scribbled something in his notebook, then shut it with a snap.

Arnold, perched on the edge of a worktable swinging his legs, tilted his head. “That’s your ‘I have errands to run’ face.”

Tua raised a brow. “You can read my face now?”

“Like a book,” Arnold replied, smug. “What’s on the agenda? Thread shopping? Magical quest for more buttons?”

“Fabric.” Tua tugged his satchel onto his shoulder. “We’re short for the upcoming costumes. I’ll need to get enough for at least three fittings this week.”

Arnold hopped down immediately. “I’m coming.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Don’t try to stop me,” Arnold said, grinning. “Besides, you’ll need someone to carry your treasures. I’ve got strong arms.” He flexed dramatically, earning the faintest roll of Tua’s eyes which only encouraged him further.

The fabric store was nearly overwhelming: bolts of every color stacked to the ceiling, textures spilling from shelves like waterfalls. Arnold gawked like a tourist.

“Whoa. This is like—like Narnia for clothes.”

Tua, already running his fingers over a line of silks, didn’t look up. “Focus.”

But Arnold followed anyway, trailing after him with wide eyes. He listened as Tua muttered about weave density and drape, occasionally nodding even if he didn’t understand half of it. What mattered was the way Tua’s voice softened when he talked about fabric the quiet passion that made him glow in a way Arnold adored.

And when Tua paused, considering two bolts of linen, Arnold reached past him and lifted both effortlessly.

“I vote for this one,” Arnold said, holding the softer shade closer. “Matches your eyes.”

Tua shot him a look, but his ears pinked as he turned back to the shelf. “We’ll take both.”

Arnold grinned, victorious.

By the time they reached the counter, Arnold was buried under half a mountain of fabric. He balanced the rolls against his shoulder, arms straining but still exaggerating his ease.

“See?” he puffed, staggering slightly as they walked back toward the car. “Pack mule. Reliable. Strong. Very stylish pack mule.”

“You’re going to drop everything.”

“I would never betray your art like that.” Arnold’s grin widened even as one bolt slipped and nearly toppled. Tua caught it smoothly, his hand brushing Arnold’s arm in the process.

“Idiot,” Tua muttered, but his tone was fond. He adjusted the stack, walking close so the load was easier to balance.

Arnold glanced sideways at him, eyes bright. “Admit it. You like having me around for this.”

Tua didn’t answer right away, just opened the car and helped stow the fabric carefully. But as Arnold closed the trunk and brushed his hair out of his eyes, Tua finally said, “I do.”

Soft. Simple. No hesitation.

Arnold froze for a heartbeat, then broke into a smile so big it made his cheeks hurt.

“Guess I’ll keep tagging along, then,” he said lightly, though his chest was buzzing with warmth.

Tua shook his head, but there was a faint smile tugging at his lips too.

And as they headed back, Arnold carried nothing but the weightless feeling of being wanted.

Chapter Text

The rehearsal space buzzed with energy. Actors stretched in the corners, scripts rustled, and the director’s sharp voice cut across the room every so often, redirecting, correcting.

Arnold sat at one of the folding chairs with his script in his lap, bouncing his leg hard enough to shake the page.

Dance rehearsals? Easy. Stage blocking? He could memorize steps and hit his marks. But this acting, real lines, an audience of his peers it felt like being dropped into cold water.

He skimmed the page again, mouthing the words. His throat tightened.

Then a chair scraped beside him.

“You’re going to wear a hole in the floor if you keep that up,” Tua murmured.

Arnold startled, looking up. Tua had slipped into the seat next to him, notebook tucked under his arm, as if he’d been meant to be there all along.

“I’m fine,” Arnold lied quickly. Too quickly.

Tua arched a brow. “Fine looks a lot like panicking.”

Arnold laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m not panicking. Just… maybe thinking about faking a fever so I don’t embarrass myself in front of everyone.”

“Arnold.” Tua’s voice softened, but it carried enough weight to make him stop fidgeting. “You’ll be fine. You don’t have to be perfect today. You just have to try.”

Arnold’s lips parted, then closed again. He looked down at the script. “What if I’m no good?”

Tua leaned closer, lowering his voice so no one else could hear. “You’re better than you think. I’ve seen it.”

Arnold blinked at him. “When?”

Tua’s gaze held steady. “Every time you dance. Every time you tell a story and everyone listens. Acting is just… another way of letting people see you.”

The words hit deeper than Arnold expected. His throat tightened again, but this time for a different reason.

“…Okay,” he whispered.

Tua’s hand brushed against his under the table just a fleeting touch, a secret grounding.

When it came time to read, Arnold’s pulse raced so hard he thought everyone could hear it. He stumbled over the first line, heat creeping up his neck, but then his eyes flicked toward the side of the room.

Tua was there, leaning against the wall, watching him with quiet intensity. Not judgment, not expectation just belief.

Arnold took a breath. Tried again.

And this time, the words came easier.

Later, when rehearsal broke for water, Arnold collapsed onto the floor with a groan. “That was awful.”

Tua crouched beside him, offering a bottle. “That was progress.”

Arnold squinted at him, then accepted the water with a sigh. “…You’re just saying that because you’re biased.”

“Maybe.” Tua’s lips curved, almost a smile. “But I’d still be right.”

Arnold tipped his head back against the wall, a laugh bubbling out despite himself. “You’re impossible.”

“And you,” Tua said quietly, “are better than you think.”

Arnold felt the warmth bloom in his chest again, chasing away the last of his nerves.

Maybe, just maybe, he could believe it too.

Chapter Text

Arnold had walked into the studio with his chest held high, sneakers squeaking against the polished floor, ready to prove himself. He’d rehearsed the piece until his body ached, every turn drilled, every jump sharpened.

But auditions had a way of cutting you down before you even realized it.

The panel of judges barely glanced up when his name was called. He started the routine anyway, throwing himself into the rhythm, muscles burning in a way that usually felt like freedom. He landed the last step, breathless, sweat dripping down the side of his face waiting. Hoping.

Silence.

Then:

“You’re strong,” one of them said, his tone clipped, “but too heavy for the kind of precision we want.”

Another shook her head. “You don’t have the lines for it. Built more for football than ballet.”

Arnold’s stomach dropped.

They dismissed him with a curt thank-you, eyes already moving on to the next dancer.

And just like that, the audition was over.

By the time Arnold got back to his apartment, the adrenaline had drained into something heavier, sticking in his chest like wet concrete. He kicked his bag down by the door and sank onto the couch, hoodie pulled tight over his head.

Their words echoed in his skull: too heavy, wrong build, not enough.

He’d always been loud, the mood-lifter, the one who smiled and joked and refused to let anyone else feel small. But right now, he didn’t feel like any of those things.

Right now, he felt like exactly what they said: too much, in the wrong ways.

His phone buzzed. Tua.

Arnold stared at the screen but didn’t pick up. Not yet. He didn’t know how to explain the ache in his chest without sounding pathetic.

An hour later, a knock sounded at the door.

Arnold blinked. Dragged himself up. When he opened it, Tua was there, carrying a small paper bag and wearing his usual calm expression.

“You didn’t answer,” Tua said simply.

Arnold swallowed hard. “…Didn’t feel like talking.”

Tua studied him for a beat, then stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. He set the bag on the counter, pulled out a container of food, and placed it down like it was the most ordinary thing in the world.

Arnold leaned against the wall, arms folded, trying to keep his face neutral. But the quiet cracked something open. “…They said I wasn’t built for it. That I’m too heavy. Wrong lines.”

Tua looked at him. Really looked. “They’re wrong.”

Arnold’s laugh came out sharp, almost bitter. “You didn’t hear them. They sounded pretty sure.”

“I don’t care how sure they sounded.” Tua’s voice was steady, unflinching. “I’ve seen you dance, Arnold. No one moves like you do. They couldn’t see past their own idea of what a dancer ‘should’ look like.”

Arnold blinked hard, throat tight. “Maybe I should stop. Stick to acting. Or just… stop trying.”

Tua stepped closer, the space between them shrinking until Arnold could feel the warmth radiating off him. “Don’t say that. Don’t let their blindness erase what you’ve worked for.”

Arnold’s breath caught. He hadn’t expected Tua to sound so fierce, so protective.

For a moment, he couldn’t say anything. The wall he’d pulled up around himself cracked under the weight of Tua’s gaze.

Then Tua’s hand found his arm, grounding. “You’re enough. Exactly as you are.”

Arnold let out a shaky breath, shoulders slumping. The words didn’t erase the sting completely, but they landed somewhere deeper, somewhere the criticism couldn’t quite reach.

“…Stay?” Arnold whispered before he could stop himself.

Tua nodded without hesitation. “Always.”