Chapter Text
Reo loves college. It means so many things—freedom from his father looming ominously over his shoulder, it means relaxing in his apartment just a ten minute walk from campus. It means—well, he’s listed the only good things, the rest are just simply—yeah. The joys of academia.
He doesn’t mind it, though—he’s landed himself incidentally with pretty soft and easy professors this semester, so he’s probably guaranteed an A whether he tries or not. So, that takes away the intense, hair-falling-out stress. It’s an easy breeze, easy breezy.
On their last phone call, Reo’s sweet mother had told him that he looks Vitamin D deficient. Reo doesn’t know what that means, but he entirely blames the long working hours and complete lack of sleep he endured all summer at his corporate internship in summer.
Reo assured his mom he was fine, but she seems to believe he’s dying, or his “joy” is dying, and he’s going to end up bitter, pale, and boring like his father.
Okay, so the latter part did actually succeed at scaring Reo, so here he is, trying to assuage that worry.
He’s balancing an iced coffee in one hand and scanning the open lawn for somewhere to sit—the ideal patch of grassy sunshine, of course—when he sees him. It’s from a distance, so Reo brushes it off at first, thinking he’s seeing things.
But then he gets closer, and he continues seeing things, and actually wonders—hold on, is it?
Double take.
Triple take.
Reo huffs to himself. There’s no way. That can't be—
No, it is. It is, right?
He’d know that posture anywhere, that absentminded slouch, the paper-white hair, the way he sits slightly sideways like he's still used to being smaller than everyone else.
Except—he's not.
Reo freezes, halfway to the quad bench (well? more like a stove) that’s currently being cooked under the blazing sun. He stares—toward the tree line, blinking against the sharp rays.
The figure is seated in the green, leaning against the tree, arms draped over his knees.
A light blue short-sleeved polo, broad neck too accommodated by the askew collar that droops a little too wide, top buttons left carelessly open.
There’s a phone held horizontally in one big hand.
Reo jolts as the figure’s head lifts slowly, as if feeling Reo’s eyes on him.
Their eyes meet. Reo’s heart jumps into his throat with shock, not expecting to be caught so quickly. And then, he’s shocked for a whole other reason.
“Nagi?” He blurts, voice pitching higher than expected.
Nagi’s phone lowers into his lap.
Yep, that’s definitely Nagi. But taller now—by a lot. Reo can already tell without Nagi even standing up—there’s no way; wide, broad shoulders, angular, like he’s grown into his features. He still wears his shirts two sizes too large, but now they sit right on him, snug at the chest, just shy of tight at his biceps.
The snowy, pale hair has been trimmed, just a little, and it shifts a little with the breeze. His eyes are still half-lidded and sleepy, but there’s a weight behind them now. Maturity, maybe.
After all, it has been years.
“Reo.”
But still, those stupid gigantic gray eyes and that soft, airy voice are unmistakable. Reo stumbles and almost drops his coffee.
“You—holy shit,” he says, stopping a few feet away. “Nagi. Hi. You’ve—you got—huge.”
Nagi just blinks. “Yeah.”
There’s a pause. The sun is too bright. Reo regrets listening to his mother. He misses the air conditioner in the library. Reo licks his lips and—oh, he doesn’t know why his palms feel sticky all of a sudden.
It’s the heat, obviously, did you trip into a bad concussion?
The point at hand, the topic at hand—Reo knows this guy. Nagi Seishirou.
How could Reo forget? Hakuho Middle School, over half a decade ago, second term—September—Reo picked Nagi Seishirou out of a grubby sandbox and declared them friends for life.
Everyone else gave the kid a wide berth, like he was radioactive or something. Rumors were weird even back then.
Either way, Reo didn’t care. Nagi kept snacks in his backpack and had weird looking eyes, which was basically all that was important in Reo’s book.
Yeah, Nagi was just a scrappy, gloomy-looking kid, but Reo didn’t care. He sat down next to him, kicked sand at his feet, and said, “I’m bored. Wanna ditch class and come play video games at my house?”
From that day on, Nagi Seishirou became his shadow. Trailing behind him, barely speaking, messy hair tangled in his face. Reo had gotten used to the weight of him—literally. Nagi got tired easily. Liked to be carried, like to be spoiled. Hated things that required effort.
Reo indulged him. And enjoyed doing it, too. It made him feel special. He liked having someone steady, who kept secrets, who made him feel at ease.
Back then, Reo used to joke that Nagi was like a stray that only liked him. Nagi would just grunt and pull Reo’s hand to his hair.
Reo had practically dragged him out of his shell back then, sharing lunch with him on the stairwell, walking him home to make sure no one messed with him.
But now—Nagi's gaze lingers too long on Reo’s mouth. Then his throat. Then back to his eyes. Reo shivers, skin prickling. He blames it on the heat. And the chill from the condensation on the cup of his iced coffee trickling over his knuckles as the sun melts the ice cubes.
“I—uh, wow, I almost didn’t recognize you,” Reo says, trying to laugh, but it comes out disbelieving rather than humorous.
They’ve both grown—Reo had moved towns and ended up at a different high school, and eventually, their text exchanges trickled down to nothing. They lost touch.
New phone, maybe. Or maybe Nagi just got bored. Reo didn’t blame him. Nagi had probably found new friends, moved on.
They were just kids, after all.
Reo had eventually also moved on, and hadn’t thought about it much as the years passed.
Just a soft memory, blurred around the edges.
But now, that scrawny kid from Reo’s memories hardly resembles the now older boy in front of him.
Broad-shouldered, long-legged, and sharp-eyed in a way that makes Reo feel weirdly unbalanced. The soft parts of him are still there—sleepy eyes, slouched posture, voice like soft and wrapped in smooth silver velvet—but he’s changed.
“You look—different.” Reo comments lamely.
“You look the same,” Nagi murmurs.
Reo blinks, stunned (and maybe a bit offended? He isn’t sure, he doesn’t know what Nagi’s implying yet). “That’s not true.”
Nagi tilts his head. “You’re just older. But you’re the same. Still pretty.”
Reo chokes on air, cheeks flushing. “I—What?”
“I missed you,” Nagi says simply, as if it's just weather. “Was hoping I’d see you again.”
Reo stares at him, gaping, dumbfounded. Is he short-circuiting? To add insult to injury, an unhelpful voice in his head notices how Nagi’s voice is deeper, still maintaining its pillowy and smooth quality.
Maybe Reo has heatstroke. Because it feels like he’s in the middle of a fever dream where everything is off-kilter and too bright, and for the first time in years, he’s the one flustered and out of his depth.
“I—yeah,” he says, tripping over his tongue. “I missed you too.”
Nagi smiles, slow and devastating. Reo feels his breath catch halfway up his throat. His heart speeds up, just a bit. He still feels flushed—maybe it’s really the heat. The sun, the UV rays. Maybe he’s overdosing on Vitamin D. Maybe he should go back inside before he ends up like the last guy who died from a Vitamin D overdose (Icarus).
No, stop it—this is ridiculous. Nostalgia is just messing with his head.
And he must be imagining things—thinking too deeply about the way Nagi’s looking at him, with that weighty gaze—hidden intent—like it can press down on Reo’s skin and sink in through the dry cracks.
Reo stands there for a beat too long, unsure what to do with himself.
Nagi gestures to the grass beside him with a tilt of his head. “Wanna sit?”
Reo hesitates only a second before sinking down beside him, crossing his legs.
He swears his ears are on fire. And he can’t help but feel—almost—almost like—like he’s walked directly into a trap.
—
REO
anything in particular?
NAGI
nah i was just gonna chill
come if u want to
REO
i get out at like 5ish
oh uh
do you want me to come
NAGI
yea
REO
right ok
see you then
“Dude—fix your face, what the fuck,” Chigiri raps his knuckles on the table to get Reo’s attention, leveling him with an expectant yet judgmental stare. “Who are you even texting?”
Reo jolts, pressing his phone against his chest, involuntary defense. “God—don’t fucking do that!”
Chigiri remains unimpressed, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair.
Normally, they would catch angry glares from other students at the study tables in the vicinity, but it happens to be a dead hour (lunch), so the few people here are spread out enough to talk comfortably.
Reo sighs, puts his phone face-down on the table and gingerly opens the reference book he was looking at before he got the first text. “I thought we were working on the IL mock proposal.”
“I thought so too, but you’ve been staring at your phone for the last fifteen minutes.”
Reo frowns, then flips his phone over to glance at his lock screen.
Sure enough—it’s been seventeen minutes.
He flips it back over and clears his throat as if that would help him maintain some semblance of reliability (wishful thinking; it does not). “Sorry. Let’s get—”
“—Nuh uh, not so fast, chameleon.”
Reo groans, the stubby wooden pieces of the back of his chair digging uncomfortably into his shoulder blades as he stretches. He already knows Chigiri won’t let this go.
“Spill—who is it, what happened.”
“Fine—I just, I ran into an old friend from middle school the other day.”
“Shit, small world,” both of Chigiri’s eyebrows lift, expression genuine. “But hang on—that sounds like a nice thing.”
“It was. Nice.”
“Then why do you look like you’re on the verge of shitting yourself?”
“Fuck you?” Reo furtively looks down and tries to fix his expression.
He glances around to make sure their increasing volumes haven’t caught unwanted attention. Luckily, the seats around them are still vacated, and a line of two thick bookshelves and aisles separated them from the next set of study tables.
“It’s—it’s complicated. Kinda.”
“Ah, yes, ‘it’s complicated,’ he says,” Chigiri puts it in air quotes, a shit-eating smile beginning to form on his face. “See, where I’m from, that either means you had a crush and they rejected you, or you guys committed a felony together and can’t speak of it.”
Reo tries to feign irritation to hopefully get out of this conversation. “Okay, first of all, you’re from fucking Kagoshima, second of all, it’s neither of those things.”
“Oh?”
“I’m serious—it’s just been a long time. We lost touch years ago. I haven’t heard from him in years.”
Somehow, Chigiri’s face softens microscopically at that, arms folding across the graphite-damaged tabletop. “Well, you’re happy to see him again, aren’t you?”
“I am,” Reo answers, honest. “I am, it’s just that—he’s changed a lot. And I have too, obviously, but it’s—different.”
The shit-eating grin comes back like it never left. Actually, it’s even wider than before. Reo realizes he misspoke.
“Ohhhh, I get it now,” Chigiri’s eyes sharpen into slits. “I know what’s going on. Oh, no, Reo—he’s hot now, isn’t he? He’s hot and he’s your type now and you don’t know how to handle it.”
Reo’s face goes hot. “This conversation is over.”
“Oh my god, I’m right ?” Chigiri practically screams. Several tables turn to shush them, and they get dirty looks from everyone by the banister on the upper floor.
“No!” Reo slaps the table, voice somehow managing to not go shrill. “You’re not ‘right,’ you’re nosy! I said this conversation is over! Go back to work.”
—
The light’s so pretty in the late afternoons—the sun is about three-quarters through the sky when Reo finally makes it to the outdoor botanical gardens in the campus’s east wing. Everything looks dipped in honey, even the ivy-covered old stone walls of the courtyard.
Reo doesn’t come here often—too out of the way, all of his classes happen in the campus square or west wing—but Nagi told him to come hang out here, so here he is.
It’s strange—the Nagi that Reo knew hated the hassle of the outdoors—humidity and mosquitos and general discomfort.
He finds Nagi tucked under the gazebo of the garden’s small corner cafe, a steaming cup of tea on the quaint circular table he’s seated at. He’s wearing a sweatshirt today, half-zipped, revealing the black straps of a tank top underneath. A snack wrapper crumpled beside his cup.
Reo swallows. Takes a deep breath, and approaches.
“Hey, stranger,” he says, trying for casualness as he slides into the small vintage dark wood chair across from Nagi. He doesn’t know if he succeeds. “Hope you weren’t waiting too long.”
Nagi shakes his head. “Just a few minutes.”
“Good,” Reo smiles. (Internally, he really is wondering—how big of a growth spurt can someone have? Is it possible to grow that much in half a decade? It must’ve hurt like hell. And what happened to the puppy demeanor and eagerness for praise that Reo adored in middle school ?)
It’s quiet for a while. Not awkward—just full. The way quiet gets when there’s too much history sitting between them. Not dense, not oppressive, but there.
Reo orders a tea and fidgets with a packet of sweetener until it comes. He takes a sip and watches Nagi from over the rim.
He doesn’t mean to keep glancing at Nagi’s hands, or the low cut of the tank top, or the pale curve of his throat when he leans his head back and closes his eyes. But he does.
Reo remembers a tangle of sleeves, hair that covered his face, a soft mumble of a voice. Blurry.
Nagi keeps catching him, and it—it pins Reo to the spot. Not harsh, but focused, like Reo’s the only thing in the world worth paying attention to.
Finally, “You’re staring,” Nagi says.
Reo nearly chokes on his tea. “No, I’m not.”
“You are.” Nagi blinks, slow. “It’s fine.”
“Well, I was just remembering—when we were in school,” when Reo finally grasps an acceptable excuse, what else is he resigned to do but ramble? “You remember? You used to be tiny.”
Nagi shifts a little closer. Their knees bump underneath the table. Reo tries not to react, but it’s like his skin is listening, suddenly attuned to every point of contact.
Nagi hums, affirmative. “I’m not tiny now,” he says, gaze pacific but unreadable. “Is that bad?”
Reo’s heart does a swoop.
Woah. Hang on.
“Well, no,” Reo replies. “It’s not. It’s just,” he cuts himself off there. He doesn’t have the right words. Or maybe he does, but they feel too big in his mouth.
Nagi leans forward slightly. “You used to call me cute.”
Reo’s ears feel hot. “Well, you were.”
“Am I not anymore?” It’s not teasing. He’s genuinely asking. Calm and serious. Something in Reo’s heart kicks and tightens and backflips.
This is Nagi, his childhood friend, the same kid he used to buy extra melon bread for at lunch because it was one of the few things that wasn’t a hassle to eat but now that little shadow is older and not-so-little anymore and won’t stop looking at Reo with those eyes, like he’s—
Reo shifts, suddenly warm all over. “You’re still—um. You look good. You’ve always looked good.”
Nagi tilts his head. “But not cute?”
“Oh my god, shut up.” Reo actually laughs, bright and surprised and endlessly amused—I found him, Reo thinks, he’s still the Nagi I remember.
Nagi huffs at the non-answer, but the lines of his mouth read as amusement in Nagi face-language.
Reo clears his throat, relaxing now that the previous tension is almost completely gone. “So. What do you do now? Other than going to class and doing homework and sleeping?”
Nagi’s mouth quirks at the corner.
“I play games. Go to the movies. Think about stuff.”
Reo gives him a look. “That’s the worst answer I’ve ever heard.”
Nagi rests his chin in his hand, each movement slow and sloth-like. His eyes don’t leave Reo’s face.
“I think about you,” he says, calm as low tide.
Reo’s heart fucking seizes in his chest, blood rushing to his head so fast he feels dizzy. “What?”
Nagi doesn’t repeat it. Just continues looking at him.
And Reo—Reo has no idea what to do with that. So he laughs it off, too quick, too airy.
“You’re weird,” he says, like that’s enough to explain it.
Nagi shrugs. “Yeah, well,” and he smiles, barely. Just for a second, but it leaves Reo oddly breathless. It’s not that it was cocky or practiced, the kind Reo sees too often in the glint of someone’s grin across a party.
This is soft. Offhand. Just for him. And it settles somewhere low in Reo’s stomach and carves a space there.
He busies himself with his cup again. It’s cold now, but he sips it anyway.
Across the table, Nagi doesn’t move. Still leaning in, still watching him.
With that heavy, quiet gaze. Reo can feel it, even with his head ducked—can feel it trailing across his cheek, down the line of his jaw.
It shouldn’t make him nervous. He’s used to attention. He likes it. But this—this is different.
Nagi’s always been different.
Reo sets his cup down too fast, sloshing the liquid around, nearly spilling.
“So,” he says, forcing the words out like casual conversation, “what’re you majoring in?”
Nagi doesn’t answer right away. Reo chances a glance up, and sure enough, Nagi’s still staring at him.
“Stop doing that,” Reo mumbles, pink evening heat spreading down his neck.
“Doing what?”
“Looking at me like that.”
Nagi lifts his head a little. “Like what?”
Reo opens his mouth and then closes it. He doesn’t have a good answer. He doesn’t know what to call it—only that it makes him feel like he’s being pried open and held in place in a way he’s not used to.
“Like—like that,” he says weakly, toying with his sleeve. “All weird.”
Nagi moves slightly but doesn’t take his eyes away. “You used to like it when I looked at you.”
Reo’s breath catches audibly. Fuck. He tries to cover it, “I mean—yeah, I mean, we were kids, obviously, that’s—that’s not the same—”
“—Why not?” Nagi asks. No challenge.
Just a question. Soft, curious, so utterly Nagi that it makes Reo want to die.
He’s surprised his ears haven’t combusted into flames on either side of his head yet.
“Because you’re—like—tall now,” he mutters, mostly to distract from the—something—rising in his throat.
Nagi’s eyes narrow, like he’s trying not to laugh. “I don’t think that’s how it works.”
“Well, it is,” Reo insists, scrambling for control. “You—now. You—you can’t just stare at people like that with your whole face.”
Nagi tilts his head to the side again, stupidly cute. “My whole face?”
“You know what I mean.”
Another pause. Nagi rests his forearms flat on the table. Slides. His torso stretches across the surface until they’re close enough that their elbows touch.
“You’re still funny, Reo,” he murmurs, like it’s something he’s remembering in real time. “I missed that.”
Reo swallows. Hard. He might have heart palpitations if this keeps up.
He can’t tell if he’s imagining the heat in Nagi’s voice or the hungry weight of the look he’s giving him. It’s been days. Barely any time at all. And yet—
Damn. And Reo thinks: Oh, I’m in trouble, aren’t I?
—
NAGI
hey
do u have class
REO
hmm not today
why?
NAGI
let me come over
REO
oh u want to fr?
sure
NAGI
give ur address
REO
you mean right now????
NAGI
send
REO
bossy much?
god u haven’t changed at all
fine
[ xxxxx xxxxx suite x ]
NAGI
thx
Ten minutes later, there’s a knock at the door.
Casual but impatient. Typical.
Reo checks the peephole even though he already knows. Reo opens it to find Nagi standing there with his hood up, hands in his jacket pockets, looking like he’d simply wandered here out of instinct.
His bag’s slung across one shoulder, and his gaze slides over Reo once, from head to toe, before settling into stillness.
“You’re early,” Reo says.
“You said okay.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean right now,” but his voice softens halfway through.
Nagi shrugs, unrepentant.
Instead, he steps across the threshold, toeing off his shoes without waiting for an invitation, as if this isn’t the first time he’s been here.
“‘Let me come over,’ huh,” Reo teases, smiling unconsciously. “Not even a question.”
Nagi shrugs again. “Would’ve come either way.”
Reo laughs a little under his breath, locking the door behind him.
The apartment is quiet, wide, and filled with soft blue light filtering in through the tall windows—the drizzle outside has turned into a light shower.
Nagi is quiet as he takes it all in.
He doesn’t say much—he rarely does—but his gray eyes track the edges of the space like he’s studying it. Memorizing it.
“You want tea or something?” Reo asks, turning and padding toward the kitchen. “I’ve got that lemon oolong you used to like.”
Nagi follows without answering.
He barely makes a sound when he walks. But Reo still feels him.
“I didn’t think you’d still remember that,” Nagi murmurs.
Reo glances over his shoulder, grinning, bright and proud. “I remember a lot of things.”
He grabs two mugs from the upper white cabinets.
After setting them on the counter, he moves to go fill the kettle in the sink. The familiar rhythm of brewing something helps ease the strange hum in his chest.
They’ve only really been meeting up again for a week—bumping into each other, hanging out once or twice, texting more than he thought they would. Reo hadn’t expected Nagi to be the one to reach out so quickly. To be this direct with what he wants.
(To actually want to see him, to spend time with him.)
Back then, it used to be up to Reo to read his mind. Not that Reo minded that. Reo leans his hip against the counter as he waits for the water to boil. “Oh, right—you eaten?”
Nagi stands still on the other side of the island. “Mhm. You?”
“Protein bar. I was gonna cook,” Reo snickers. “But I got lazy.”
Nagi makes a face. “That’s not food.”
“Says the guy who lived off vending machines in middle school.”
“Grew out of it.”
Reo looks him up and down melodramatically. “Yeah, I can tell.”
The conversation meanders—classes, the guy in Reo’s economics seminar who won’t stop talking, the kid Nagi beat at some RPG last week who he found out is in his 3D modeling glass and still hasn’t made eye contact with him since.
“You’re such a menace,” Reo says, laughing, the warmth in his stomach familiar.
“He shouldn’t have talked shit.”
“You’re both terrible.”
Reo ends up moving to set the mugs down on the low table in the living room before dropping onto the couch with a sigh. Nagi sits beside him, watching as Reo leans back into the cushions.
“So,” he says, stretching his legs out. “You didn’t say what we’re doing.”
“Hanging out.”
“That’s it?”
“You said yes,” Nagi frowns, but it looks more like a petulant pout. A pause. Then he adds, “You used to invite me over all the time.”
Reo turns his head to look at him. “Yeah,” smiles, soft and honest. “You were always welcome. You still are.”
Nagi nods. “Good.”
Reo doesn’t mean for the words to sound so—warm. And weird. But they are. Because it’s Nagi. And Reo is happy he’s here. Happy Nagi still wants to be around him, even after all this time.
There’s a slow, pleasant stretch of quiet between them. Not awkward. Familiar. Easy.
Nagi shifts, knee bumping Reo’s, deliberate.
Reo doesn’t register the intent, just hums and says, “You’re all limbs now. What happened to the tiny gremlin I dragged around?”
“I’m still me.”
“But you’re like—me-sized now. It’s weird.”
“Bigger,” Nagi says under his breath.
Reo misses it.
“Do you remember,” he starts, grinning wide, “that time in second year when you got stuck on the roof during class and I had to find the janitor to unlock the door—”
“—You always knew where I would be,” Nagi comments.
Reo blinks. “Huh?”
“You knew where I was.”
The memory rearranges in his head. It’s true—he had just found Nagi there without thinking. Instinctively. Of course he had. Nagi never told anyone where he went. He didn’t have to. Reo always knew.
Of course he did, Nagi was his favorite person in the world.
Reo gives a half-laugh, nudging him lightly with his shoulder. “I guess I did, huh?”
Nagi doesn’t chuckle back. He’s still watching him, and now Reo is very aware of how close they’re sitting. How easily they’ve slipped into old rhythms, like clockwork. No space between. Shoulders brushing. Like they’re fourteen again, like they’ve never been apart.
Reo breathes out. “I’m glad you’re here, you know?”
Nagi doesn’t answer right away. He scoots closer, enough that Reo feels the warmth of his thigh pressing along his.
It makes Reo glance at him, startled and a bit flustered. But Nagi is incomprehensible, something Reo still hasn’t gotten used to—that usual soft, blank expression. Nagi used to be so easy to read.
Reo swallows and looks away, scratching the back of his neck.
He coughs to break whatever tension is scratching at his skin like a phantom burn, “I mean—I didn’t think you’d actually wanna hang out. After all this time.”
Nagi hums. “You thought I wouldn’t?”
“I dunno,” Reo mutters, suddenly self-conscious. “You’ve changed. I’ve changed.”
Nagi shakes his head, slow and sure. “No. You’re still the same.”
Now see, what does that mean? Reo hates the weirdly poetic vagueness. Because he wants to know what Nagi means.
Reo turns on the TV and sips his tea. Nagi’s remains untouched. They lapse into silence.
A dumb murder mystery show murmurs in the background—Nagi doesn’t even pretend to watch.
It’s both familiar and new, because Reo is used to Nagi’s reluctant attention but he’s absolutely not used to the butterflies batting their wings against his rib cage right now.
Eventually, he leans over to grab a blanket from the couch arm and throws it over their laps. His knee bumps Nagi’s thigh.
“Are you cold?” Nagi asks.
“No,” Reo yawns, settling back in. “I just like blankets.”
Nagi’s eyes drop for a second. Reo suppresses a shiver.
There’s something thicker in the air now. Not awkwardness—something smoother and heavier. The hum of a silver wire drawn tight, electrified. Reo fidgets with the edge of the blanket, pretending not to notice the way Nagi’s gaze lingers too long.
Reo tries to focus on the screen.
He fails. Eventually, he can’t help it. Some part of his brain screams don’t, but he does anyway, “You’re staring again.”
“Mm.”
“Why?”
“You’re mine.”
What? Reo turns to him, wide-eyed and stupefied. His heart begins to play a game of hopscotch. Words are hard. “I—What?”
Nagi doesn’t flinch. “You used to say that. When you called me your best friend. You used to say I belonged to you. Back then.”
“Oh.” A giant whoosh of air exits his lungs as his heart stabilizes, and Reo wills his face to finally cool down now.
Oh, god. It feels like he just ran a marathon.
“Well—yeah, I picked you. You were this scraggly little thing. I had to.”
“I still belong to you,” Nagi murmurs, quiet, subdued.
Reo stares at him for a beat, flustered, confused. Then, he lets out a shaky laugh. “You’re weird.”
Nagi shrugs. “It was one of the things you liked about me back then.”
The TV keeps playing. Something laugh-tracked and forgettable. Neither of them are watching.
Reo shifts under the blanket, acutely aware of the overwhelming heat radiating from Nagi. The weight of that stare.
He doesn’t get why it’s making his skin feel tight, his throat dry. He’s used to attention, all kinds, any kind.
But this isn’t that.
Nagi hasn’t moved in ten minutes. But somehow it feels like he’s taking up more and more space. Like he’s surrounding Reo without touching him.
“You’re still staring,” Reo states, more whispery than he intends.
“I know.” Nagi exhales, slow. “I’ve been waiting to.”
Reo’s lips part, dumbfounded. He grips the edge of the blanket. Doesn’t know what he means. Doesn’t ask. Doesn’t move. Looks away. A new movie is starting.
—
Reo hears the door creak open behind him, but he doesn’t turn around.
The court is nearly empty this late—just a few overhead lights left on, casting a wide circle of dusty haze over the half-court line. The rest of the gym is all shadow and echo, cavernous and cool.
Reo dribbles the ball lazily, lets it bounce back into his hand, spins it in his palm.
“You actually came,” he says without looking.
The soft pad of sneakers on the floor answers before Nagi’s voice does. “You sent me the pin.”
Reo smiles faintly, still facing the hoop.
Nagi stands just outside the light, unassuming, unbothered, pale hair catching the dimness like snow under a streetlight. He’s wearing a hoodie, sleeves rolled to his forearms.
Suddenly, the buzz of overhead lights faded, distant.
Moths flicker around the bulbs.
“Didn’t mean you had to show up.”
“You knew I would.”
Reo can’t help the way that makes a clap of thunder go off in his chest.
“You gonna stand there all night?” He asks, not addressing Nagi’s response.
Nagi doesn’t answer at first.
Just tilts his head back slightly, eyes half-lidded where they peak out from under his bangs.
“It’s late,” he says.
Reo dribbles the ball, lets it spin under his fingers. “So? We used to do this all the time. If you say ‘it’s a hassle,’ I’m chucking this ball at your head.”
“You’re the one who brought me out here.”
Reo rolls the ball toward him. “Yeah? You’re the one who came.”
Nagi sighs, steps forward, slowly, like gravity clings harder to him than anyone else.
They meet at the center of the court, and Reo tosses him the ball. “First to five?”
He doesn’t wait for Nagi’s response, already backpedaling, bouncing on the balls of his feet like he’s thirteen again and itching for a challenge. There’s a sheen of sweat at his temple, hair sticking to his cheek.
Nagi rolls his eyes but accepts it, easy and loose-limbed.
To be honest, Reo didn’t actually expect Nagi to give in so easily.
But then, “What do I get if I win?”
“Uh,” Reo blanks. “Bragging rights. Eternal glory. My respect.”
“I already have those.”
Reo laughs. “Fine, stingy. I’ll owe you dinner or something.”
Nagi pauses. “Fine.”
Reo doesn’t know what’s gotten into Nagi, really—or if it’s just a byproduct of them growing up. Either way, it’s saved Reo a lot of energy not having to drag and plead Nagi with every little thing.
But it’s also strange to see his lazy, stubborn Nagi follow along so simply.
They start leisurely, playing around, no real exertion.
Their sneakers scrape loud against the squeaky floor, shadows shifting under the dim lights. Reo pushes forward, fast, testing. Nagi blocks without looking like he’s trying.
They trade points. No real fouls, no real words.
The air in the court is deceptively quiet, but Reo can sense something louder beneath it. Not in the game, but in the way Nagi watches him, follows him.
His eyes don’t leave Reo’s body—track the slope of his neck, the curve of his spine when he reaches for a rebound.
He’s always been watching him, Reo thinks, but not like this. Not with those eyes.
Reo’s sweating. Breathless. Laughing when Nagi fakes him out, stumbling on a quick pivot.
They’re evenly matched, like they’ve always been, but Reo feels like he’s pushing more, and Nagi’s only meeting him halfway.
And then suddenly—he isn’t.
They’ve been at it for a while. Reo’s flushed, breathing hard, driving toward the basket again with single-minded focus.
He feints right. Nagi bites. Or—Reo thinks he does. He spins, cuts left.
Nagi cuts him off. Close.
Reo fakes, sidesteps, overshoots, he’s right under the basket. Too close. Reo pivots—
And walks straight into him.
Their bodies collide solidly. Reo's foot catches—maybe on his own, maybe Nagi’s; it doesn’t matter, or it does, but—he stumbles, momentum yanking him backward.
Somewhere, Reo registers the ball skidding across the floor as it rolls away.
Reo hits the ground hard, flat on his back, wind knocked from his chest—but it’s not the floor he registers first.
It’s heat, the weight.
Nagi’s above him, hands braced on either side of his head.
One knee between Reo’s legs, the other planted to the side, steadying himself from crashing onto the floor either direction. They’re close, now. Reo’s heart bathunks embarrassingly.
Reo blinks up, dazed. He laughs—quiet, trying for lighthearted, breathless. “That’s a foul.”
Nagi doesn’t smile. He’s not looking at the ball anymore. He’s looking at Reo. Not intense. Not even surprised. Just—something, something Reo doesn’t know, something he can’t name. Like he’s thinking something through, or trying not to act on something he already knows too well.
Reo swallows. His heart’s racing too loud in his chest—he doesn’t know why, and he begs it to stop, lest Nagi hear it and inquire about his cardiac health (of which he really should go check after this).
“You okay?” Reo says, the joke catching awkwardly in his throat.
Nagi’s gaze drops.
First to Reo’s lips. Then to the dip of his throat. Then lower, to where his shirt sticks faintly with sweat at the collarbone. Reo isn’t—no, just—the way Nagi looks at him—it makes his skin feel too hot, too obvious.
He’s suddenly acutely aware of his body—of every inch where Nagi isn’t touching, and every inch where he almost could.
“You’re flushed,” Nagi comments, clouded, voice barely carrying in the space between them.
“What? Obviously, it’s,” Reo tries to laugh, but it comes out breathy, uneven. “It’s hot in here.”
He’s not lying—Reo feels like he’s touched a livewire, or like he’s about to be struck by lightning, all the hairs on his body suddenly standing on end in preparation for the surge of electricity.
Shit, he really should stop panting—what if his breath is bad right now?
Nagi still doesn’t respond. His hand shifts slightly on the floor beside Reo’s head. In his peripherals, Reo watches Nagi’s entire arm tense, muscles going taut as he steels himself. Nagi stays a beat, hovering.
Then, slowly, like he’s forcing himself, Nagi pushes up and away. He rises in one clean motion, without looking down again.
Reo stays on the floor, stunned, until he hears the faint sound of the ball being picked up again. When he sits up, Nagi’s already walking to the other side of the court. Not far. Just enough to put space between them.
Just enough for air to rush between them again. Just enough for Reo to feel the absence.
His heart is still thudding. His mouth feels too dry.
Long after they stop playing, Reo still feels the air linger, like the silhouette of something that Reo still just—can’t make out.
—
It’s nearly afternoon when Reo settles at one of the courtyard picnic tables with Chigiri, a patch of filtered sunlight warming the wood beneath their elbows.
A breeze carries the faint scent of flowers from somewhere near the environmental science greenhouse.
The campus hums around them, steady and drowsy—students crossing lawns, getting coffee between classes.
Reo’s half-finished sandwich sits untouched beside him as he talks, one knee drawn up on the bench, elbow resting on it.
Chigiri’s across from him, arms folded loosely, sipping on an iced tea, studying Reo with the kind of expression that means he’s biding time before saying something pointed and judgmental and annoying enough that Reo is absolutely going to want to bonk him in the head after.
“—and then he just walked off. Didn’t even say anything. Like halfway through the game,” Reo’s gesticulating, animated. “I thought he’d at least finish the round.”
“That poor boy,” Chigiri says, but his tone is dry. “You keep pulling him around like he’s a stray dog.”
Reo shrugs, unbothered. “He could say no.”
“Could he? Really?”
Chigiri has yet to meet Nagi, and most of his background on Nagi comes from Reo directly, so Reo doesn’t know if Chigiri is just messing with him or making up stories to stir up drama. Both seem plausible.
Before Reo can answer, he catches a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye.
Wait—familiar—he glances up—and Nagi’s there, crossing the courtyard with his usual long, unhurried strides, one hand in his hoodie pocket, the other tucked into the strap of his bag.
Reo’s smile is instant. “Nagi!”
Nagi looks up the moment he hears his name, and his posture about him shifts—his gaze lands on Reo and stays there, unwavering, like the rest of the world dissolves into background noise.
His pace doesn’t change, but his attention is singular.
Reo turns on the bench to face him more fully. “You done with class?”
“Yeah,” Nagi says, stopping in front of the table. He doesn’t even glance at Chigiri.
Chigiri offers a polite smile. “Hey, Nagi, right? I’ve heard a lot, I’m Chigiri—”
Nagi gives him a nod, barely a glance. His eyes go back to Reo like it was a mistake to look away at all. Huh. Weird. Nagi’s always been kinda unintentionally rude though, so.
Reo gestures between them. “We were at the same high school for our final year.”
“Mm,” Nagi hums, gaze still on him.
There’s a beat of silence. It isn’t awkward exactly, but it hums with something—quiet insistence. The kind of stillness that draws the air taut.
Reo scratches his neck. “Are you heading back?”
Nagi nods. Then, after a pause, asks, “You gonna be around later?”
Reo nods. “Probably. I’ll text you.”
“Okay.”
Still, Nagi doesn’t move immediately. Just stands for a moment longer, eyes trailing thoughtfully over Reo’s face in that way that makes Reo’s chest all fuzzy and bashful in a way that feels both unnatural and uncontrollable.
It’s only when a pair of students pass close by that he steps back, mutters a soft, “Later,” and turns.
Reo watches him disappear past the hedges with a fond little huff before turning back to Chigiri and his sandwich.
When he looks, Chigiri is staring at him, incredulous.
“What?” Reo inquires, eyebrows raised.
Chigiri sets down his drink with a pointed clink. “Do you seriously not see it?”
“See what?”
“The way he looked at you like you’re the only thing that matters.”
Reo scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous. That’s just what his face looks like.”
Chigiri leans back, folding his arms. “Uh-huh. And I suppose I imagined the way he completely ignored my existence when I introduced myself.”
“He nodded,” Reo defends, internally cursing Nagi’s manners.
“Barely. I’ve met rocks who have given me more acknowledgment than that.”
“You’re being so dramatic.” Reo rolls his eyes, but he’s quieter after that.
Chigiri’s smile turns sly. “Sure, whatever you say.”
Reo isn’t listening anymore, though. His gaze instead flicks toward the path Nagi walked down, lingering like he’s pulled by a tether tugged tight.
—
Reo pushes open the glass doors of the lecture hall with one forearm, the weight of his bag dragging down one side—his shoulders ache. His notes are a mess, his brain fried from the back-to-back lectures, and he’s still half-scrolling through texts when he sees him.
Leaning against the stone wall just past the steps, the figure half-slouched, half-still, is Nagi.
He’s not looking at anything in particular—the tree across the quad or maybe the clouds—but there’s something in how he’s waiting. Like he hadn’t really meant to be seen, this is just where he ended up.
But then his eyes flick over. He sees Reo and straightens, barely enough to catch if you weren’t looking for it.
Nagi. Nagi’s here. Reo’s mouth curves before he even realizes it. A little involuntary curl of inexplicable joy. Nagi’s here.
He hops the last few steps down, tucking his phone into his back pocket. “What, stalking me now?”
Nagi blinks at him sleepily. Reo hates that it’s so familiar and so fucking adorable at the same time. “Mhm.”
“Mhm?” Reo echoes with a grin, bumping their shoulders. “You’re out early. Didn’t get caught snoring this time?”
“Eh. Didn’t go.”
Reo makes a face. “What, you skipped?”
Nagi shrugs. “It was boring. Hassle.”
Reo snorts. “Revolutionary.”
Nagi pouts, cheeks puffing out as he fakes displeasure at Reo’s teasing.
Nagi is still cute sometimes—Reo secretly treasures those brief moments where he becomes that small, squishy, big-eyed kid with the most pinch-able cheeks that he befriended over half a decade ago.
Familiar and soft.
They fall into step like they always do, without needing to ask where they’re going.
Except, Nagi’s feet don’t turn down his usual route to his dorms. He just walks beside Reo, steps lazy, silent like he could be sleepwalking but for the faint awareness in his eyes—how they keep drifting Reo’s way, just now and then.
“You’re coming with me?” Reo finally asks, glancing at him sidelong.
Nagi rubs at his neck like it’s no big deal. “Wanna use your TV.”
Reo laughs. “What if I had plans, idiot?”
Nagi doesn’t answer right away. The silence hangs, as Nagi tilts his head, gaze dipping toward Reo’s face as they walk. “Do you?”
Reo opens his mouth. Closes it.
“I—well—I mean, no,” he mutters, smiling despite himself.
There’s no visible reaction—none that anyone else would notice—but Reo’s known him too long. He sees it. That barely-there flicker at the corner of Nagi’s mouth. He’s so cute.
There's a subtle shift in his posture, like something in him is relaxing. Reo finds it odd—no way Nagi doesn’t know Reo would drop everything for him in a heartbeat if he asked. His fondness for Nagi clearly hasn’t dimmed over the years, despite all the time spent apart.
Reo’s still pondering over the unknown realm of Nagi’s mind when the first ice-cold drop hits Reo’s arm.
He pauses. Frowns. Looks up. “Damn, is it—?”
Nagi grunts next to him.
Another drop. Then five. Then dozens, all at once.
“Oh, shit,” it speeds up every second, and fuck—
It’s not just rain. It’s a fucking downpour.
Sudden, unrepentant, heavy—like the clouds (that came out of fucking nowhere, by the way) were just waiting to soak the day. The wind picks up, tugging at his shirt, slicking his bangs to his forehead as thunder rumbles angrily.
“Shit,” Reo mutters again, blinking water out of his eyes. It’s coming down fast, it feels like he’s swimming in water, hardly able to see more than three feet in front of him. He snorts. This is—so funny.
Then a hand closes around his wrist.
Nagi’s already moving. “Come on.”
They run.
The city blurs past in grey and silver and the slap of their feet against wet pavement.
Reo can’t see through the wall of water, but he’s laughing, teeth flashing in the rain, every breath hitched and gasping. His bag bounces against his hip, shoes soaked through in seconds, and Nagi’s just ahead of him—hood half-up now, hair plastered to his face, hand still curled around Reo’s wrist like letting go isn’t an option.
They turn a corner. Reo’s lungs burn but he doesn’t even care. The whole street is melting in water and astigmatic lights.
Everything feels wild and stupid and alive.
He feels electrical and bright and adrenaline-drunk like he hasn’t felt in years.
By the time they reach the small overhang outside Reo’s building, they’re both completely drenched, and they look like they’ve survived and attempted drowning. Reo stumbles to a stop under the shelter, bent double, gasping.
“Oh my god,” he chokes out between laughs, wiping his face with the hem of his soaked shirt. “I hate, literally, fuck, everything—right now—”
Nagi stands next to him, dripping calmly, panting quietly.
He looks soggy like a wet poodle, water trailing down the curve of his neck. Reo giggles at the sight of him. But he doesn’t say anything. Just looks at Reo, and for once, he doesn’t seem tired. His eyes are bright. Almost—content?
Reo catches his breath, shivering a little as the after-rush settles into his limbs. He glances over.
“What,” he says, still breathless. “Why—Why’re you looking at me like that?”
“You’re loud,” Nagi says, mild.
Reo groans and tips his head back against the wall, eyes closed. Typical. Predictable. Reo cackles anyway.
“You dragged me into a hurricane just to play Mario Kart on the flatscreen.”
“You didn’t say no.”
Reo opens one eye.
Nagi’s watching him. Still unreadable, a thread of tension between them, brief, like that night at the basketball court. But then, he smiles—a small thing, but, but clear as crystal. Like this moment matters more than he’s willing to say.
Reo looks at him, at the water dripping down the sharp line of his jaw, looks out into the street at the way the storm keeps going without them inside it.
The city’s still rushing, but right here, it’s just the two of them. Warm breath. Cold skin. Something still lingering between their ribs from the run.
“Yeah,” Reo says softly, “Guess I didn’t. Lucky I like having you around.”
Then, so quiet Reo doesn’t catch it, “Yeah. I am.”
By the time they step into the building, they’re both absolutely drenched—hair dripping, sneakers squelching against the lobby tile, breath fogging faintly in the air-conditioned chill.
Reo’s still laughing when they get inside, little huffs between his teeth—he can’t help it.
The shock of cold, the absurdity of the downpour, and god—Nagi’s unimpressed, fucking hilarious expression as he kicks water off his shoes—it’s too much. The sound spills out of Reo as they head down the hall and into the elevator, water drops on marble creating a hazard.
Reo’s apartment is quiet when they step inside, but the rain keeps speaking through the tall glass windows—torrential and relentless, a low roar against the world outside. It beads and trails down the glass in long, dragging lines, like the storm is trying to get in and failing.
The lock clicks behind them with a soft, echoing finality. Reo kicks off his shoes in the entryway, water trailing in faint, uneven prints across the dark wood floors.
They move down the hall, steps quiet against the floor, and Reo’s still laughing under his breath—feeling the aftershocks of a thrill he hasn’t quite shaken. His wet clothes cling to him unpleasantly, socks squelching with every step.
Nagi is also soppy but otherwise quiet, not that Reo expected differently, he smiles to himself. Although, it is strange for Nagi not to complain.
“I think my socks are filled with enough water to drown every cactus in the Sahara,” Reo mutters, peeling one off with a grimace. “That was the worst.”
From behind him, Nagi makes a grim sound—noncommittal. The kind that means he’s listening, but only half registering.
“Seriously, there wasn’t a damn cloud in the sky twenty minutes ago,” Reo continues to grumble, tugging at the hem of his shirt. It clings unpleasantly to his skin, heavy and slick, suctioned to his chest and stomach. “Was fun, though, up ‘till this part. Rain always is.”
He heads to the hallway closet just outside his room and pulls it open, grabbing two towels from the top shelf. He tosses one over his shoulder toward Nagi without turning. “Here. You’re getting it all over my carpet, idiot.”
The towel hits Nagi in the chest with a thud.
He doesn’t respond.
Reo pays little mind and pushes the door open to his bedroom. He steps inside while rubbing the other towel through his hair, slinging it loosely around his shoulders once satisfied.
The sound of the rain is even louder here—amplified by the giant floor-to-ceiling windows that take up almost the entire far wall of Reo’s bedroom. The city outside is grey and silver and streaked with water, lights blurred into dreamy pools, diffused into pale smears. The storm outside feels oddly distant now, like something they’ve escaped from. Inside, everything is softer and dimmer, lights and sound.
Reo hums to himself absently as he steps up to his dresser, hardly paying attention to the way Nagi follows slinkily a few paces behind. Pulling open the top drawer, he leans in slightly, fingers rummaging for one of his hair ties. His wet hair drips in strands around his face, the translucent hem of his white shirt brushing grossly against his thighs as he moves, clinging to him with every step, cold.
Where the fuck—it’s getting cold. Finally—the tie is buried beneath some loose socks, but Reo finds it and straightens. His back to the door, he gathers his hair into a quick, practiced hold. The motion lifts his shirt to the indent of his waist, and the slickness of wet polyester over skin makes his body shudder involuntarily. He pauses for a beat like that, hair in one hand, elastic held in his teeth while he repositions, before he ties it—loops it once, twice—pulling the strands into a loose knot that lifts the soaked strands off his neck.
Reo lowers his arms, rolling his shoulders with a sigh, and only then turns around, toweling off the back of his neck—
—And halts. Nagi hasn’t moved—he stands by the doorway, towel still held loose in one hand, the other limp at his side, rain still dripping from his bangs.
But his eyes—Reo can barely see them beneath the shadows—are fixed on him. Steadily, unnervingly unreadable. It’s becoming a trend with Nagi, it seems—Reo being unable to read him. He doesn’t like it—doesn’t like being faced with it, the fact that the years gone by have created new pieces of Nagi that Reo can’t decipher the way he used to.
Maybe it’s because so much seems the same, the same as it was back then, that the things different feel so much more jarring and wrong.
Reo tries to be casual, which is next to impossible under Nagi’s gaze, “What?”
Nagi doesn’t say anything.
Something pulses in Reo’s chest. A flicker. Of what, Reo has no fucking idea, and it’s starting to drive him a bit crazy. He glances down instinctively, maybe he’s tracked mud in or tore a hole somewhere. He scans himself again, twice, just in case.
Nope—just the soaked white shirt, the mess of his hair, the now heavy-with-water towel still half hanging off his shoulders. When he looks back up, Nagi’s scalding and incomprehensible stare doesn’t waver.
“—uh, you okay?” Reo asks. His voice is light, teasing by default. But the words come out quieter than intended. Breathier. Shit—did he sound too nervous? Was it audible?
Nagi’s lashes lower slightly. He nods, once, quick and curt.
“Right—you’re still soaked,” Reo fills the silence, trying to reduce the density of the air. “You want clothes?”
Nagi doesn’t answer. Not right away, at least. He tips his head down to obscure his eyes more, almost like—Reo’s probably over thinking it—like he’s trying to hide what he’s looking at?
Reo watches him, waiting, confused. The room feels—tingly, warmer, under the icy rain-chill.
The weight of his shirt, the clinging of it, the faint tick of water hitting the window—all of it drops in pitch, like it’s all going slow motion.
Nagi finally speaks, voice soft and low, “You should change.”
Reo blinks. “Well—I mean, yeah, I’m gonna. I just,” he shrugs, letting the towel slide off his shoulder and back into his open palm. “I figured you’d want to change and dry off too. Or at least, like, come here, and not just stand in my doorway like a horror movie haunted demon doll.”
The joke lands flat. Reo doesn’t know why.
He turns back to the dresser, tugging out fresh clothes. Dry shirt. Soft shorts. He starts to peel off the wet top, half-distracted, fabric sticking along his ribs, across his chest, in the divots of his abdomen.
The sound of the rain drums against the taut tension between them.
He finally gets the shirt halfway over his head when Nagi says it again, “You should change.”
The voice is soft, but firmer this time. Not lazy or indifferent, monotonous but forceful in a way that lands.
Reo hesitates, arms half-raised up, tangled in the waterlogged cloth. He yanks the shirt off the rest of the way; the tousled, front pieces of hair too short to be tied fall in his face. He sputters to get a lock out of his mouth.
“What, again?” Reo huffs, tossing the shirt in the hamper. “Chill, I’m not going to get hypothermia in five minutes.”
But Nagi doesn’t laugh. In fact, he hardly shifts—he’s still standing in the same place, same spot, unchanged, save for the way his hands are fisted now in the towel, knuckles pale.
Nagi’s eyes drag down the length of him before they snap back to his face.
He doesn’t meet Reo’s eyes this time when he speaks. “I’m serious. Change.”
Something about the way he says it makes Reo freeze. Because it’s not a suggestion. Or a joke, teasing. There’s a strain threaded through it—something tight but frayed, unraveling from the inside out.
Nagi’s face doesn’t give it away, Reo feels it anyway, somehow. Burning.
Something in the tone makes his stomach pull tight for a second—not fear, exactly, but—something foreign. He watches Nagi closely, confused.
“...Why?”
A stifling pause.
Nagi’s eyes—when they flick upward, dangerous—aren’t blank. They’re filled with a certain weight. Careful. Uncharacteristically diffident, Reo looks down at himself a touch slower this time.
His chest is still bare for the moment, skin flushed and damp. His shorts are riding low on his hips, clinging in places from the rain, and his breathing is still a little uneven from the run.
But—that’s still—Reo doesn’t get it. Could it maybe be—no way, this is Nagi he’s talking about. There’s no way—right? Reo is overreacting and overthinking.
Nonetheless, still, the heat floods Reo’s face, sudden, sharp, and uncontrollable.
He grabs the dry shirt from where he laid it and yanks it on quickly, head ducking slightly. The motion is too fast, too stiff. He wrestles his way into it, probably stretching the neckline in his haste.
He tries to laugh, but it comes out thin. Flustered. Affected. “Didn’t realize you were such a prude.”
It’s meant to be a joke, but his voice wavers, audible and humiliating enough to make Reo’s neck flush a deeper chardonnay red (he angles himself to hide it). Fucking hell.
He glances up at Nagi, trying to read him once again. But Nagi’s expression has closed off, switched into something more inhibited, with those heated gray eyes flicking away just before Reo can catch it or try to translate it.
Reo stands there for a beat too long, shirt tugged down but askew, timorous and puzzled.
“I wasn’t trying to,” he starts, and then stops. He doesn’t know what he’s explaining or what he’s apologizing for. Or if he’s supposed to be. Or if he should.
Nagi still hasn’t spoken. Answered.
And Reo, warm all over like a fever, feels something lodge in his mediastinum. He doesn’t know what it is. Doesn’t know why he suddenly feels like he’s misstepped. Or he’s said the wrong thing.
Outside, the rain keeps pouring. Loud and steady, in silver sheets.
Nagi finally speaks, soft and almost regretful. “I just didn’t want you to be cold.”
And it sounds like a lie. Or maybe a wish. Or maybe a half-truth, stretched too thin to cover what’s really there.
Reo doesn’t call him on it. He doesn’t know how to. He just nods and moves to the dresser again, trying to find something for Nagi to wear. Something dry.
Something that might return the moment to what it was before, because now the air between them feels thick with something unspoken. Because Reo’s skin still prickles, and his hands shake just barely as he pulls one of the drawers.
The wooden glide sticks for a moment then gives.
Inside, the usual mess—folded shirts, a few rumpled sweatshirts, old basketball shorts and washed sweatpants. Reo sifts through them without looking at Nagi, still too aware of his own body, of the feel of his wet shirt before he changed, of how long Nagi had been staring.
Maybe the drawer reflects how frazzled Reo feels on the inside. Hilarious. His high school literature teacher would be proud.
He lands on an old shirt—soft and oversized, worn thin at the edges. He rubs the material between thumb and index finger, then pulls it out.
“Here,” Reo says, voice light, too light. “This should fit you.”
He turns and tosses it without warning. Nagi catches it easily, one-handed, but doesn’t immediately pull it on. Instead, he just looks at it. Like he’s thinking hard about something that shouldn’t need thinking.
Then: “It smells like you.”
Reo’s heart lurches in his chest. Ba-fucking-dum or whatever. “Ah—huh?”
Nagi lifts the shirt slightly, fiddling with the sleeves. His voice is deep, not teasing, not soft either—just honest. “It’s yours. It smells like you.”
Reo swallows.
The sound of the rain outside seems somehow, miraculously, even louder now, as if the timed silences between them are amplifying everything else. He isn’t sure what to do with that statement nor the way Nagi stands there with the shirt in his hands like it means something.
Reo laughs, a bit stilted, awkward. “Well, yeah. S’my room.”
He means it as a joke, but his voice cracks halfway. Apparently, all his jokes are doomed to fall short today. He fidgets, glancing toward the windows, anywhere not-Nagi. “Just put it on, dumbass. You’ll catch a cold.”
Another meaningful pause.
Then, Nagi pulls the wet shirt over his head in one smooth motion.
The air stutters in Reo’s lungs.
He looks away fast—too fast, enough to make his neck crack—suddenly caught off guard by the sight of ghost-pale skin and the prominent, thick curve of strong, rippling muscle he hadn’t meant to see.
Nagi never hurries, and he doesn’t now either (which doesn’t help Reo’s jitters). He moves slowly, pulling Reo’s shirt over his head like he’s still thinking about the weight of it. Or about something else entirely.
Yeah. Maybe.
Nagi really has grown, Reo thinks to himself as he busies his sense of sight with the enriching view of the floor. Taller and stronger, broader and bulkier. Reo used to be the larger one between them, and Nagi his smaller shadow.
Now, though—now, Nagi could probably—
Stop it.
Reo finally dares to glance back, and thankfully, Nagi is wearing the shirt. It fits. Reo exhales, deflating. Good.
The quiet settles again. Cool, breezy, close to the skin. And for the first time, Reo doesn’t know how to break it. Or if he’s allowed to.
He fidgets with the ends of the towel still around his neck, twisting it in his hands. “You, uh. Are you hungry? I could heat up something. Or order. The place downstairs has good pad thai. If you still, y’know. Like it.”
“I do.”
“Okay,” Reo smiles, nervous but sincere. “Okay.”