Chapter Text
Useless.
Useless. A word that carried weight far beyond its letters—a label for something or someone incapable of fulfilling its purpose.
Sakura Haruka imprinted the word into his mind along with its meaning as he glared hard at his blaring phone, stubbornly refusing to offer any inspiration. He had understood the concept around the chosen word for today, he perfectly understood the assignment—the project entrusted upon him.
However, when he glanced back up at the empty canvas sitting in front of him, there was not a spark of movement or an ounce of connection he felt by it. As he also scanned the phrase scrawled across the blackboard—“Create a portrait to interpret your idea of what is deemed useless”—he was drawing blanks in his mind instead, letting the silence mock him.
What was useless to him? Was there truly anything in the world that could be called useless? If it was destined to be useless, why had it existed at all?
Haruka disliked judging the existence of anything or anybody. He felt he had no right in it. The only ever-created form of existence he can press judgment on was himself. And even then, it was a bitter task.
Chika Takiishi had personally chosen him to represent Tokyo College Arts School in the upcoming art exhibition, set to take place in a month. To be selected from the five hundred students was an honor he could not waste. And so, Haruka continued to torment himself by sitting in front of the easel with the theme on the board across him for his supposed portrait with no clear direction whatsoever.
He’s been at it for hours now. Haruka shut his phone and placed it aside, replacing it in his hand with a pencil, and turned back to the canvas. He leaned towards it slightly, hands hovering, hesitant to make the first line over the sheet as he didn’t want to waste any more paper.
By hours—it had been hours since he started working on the project. Evidence perfectly displayed with the ripped, torn, and crumpled canvas papers on the floor scattered around his feet. Frustration could be seen through his failed works but he tried his best to remain physically composed.
He couldn’t let this be his downfall. He couldn’t give up now—not when a month of preparation still lay ahead.
When he constantly reminded himself of that fact, he slowed down his breathing and calmed the storm raging in his mind. He needed time and he had it. Besides, the news of his being appointed as the next main subject for the project was only announced today.
Haruka had the habit, however, of getting assignments done on the day they were given. He was no procrastinator and he thought he’d be able to do just that for this huge project only for him to be proven wrong.
No wonder Chika-sensei told him today to give him a month-preparation.
While he continued to battle with the word “useless” and the plain fabric in front of him, time went on without care. His back was starting to ache from sitting up straight, so he resorted to slouching. He ignored the growling of his hungry stomach, relying on bottled water for now. And the number of papers used increased.
What was useless? Haruka gritted his teeth, the same questioning burning through his mind. To me… what was useless to me?
He thought that if he were to stand up and circle the room, he’d get some ideas. Scratching the tip of his pencil on his temple, he sauntered around the room over and over while trying to brainstorm.
After a couple of rounds, he went back to sit on his stool and trapped himself in the same position he had been stuck in for six hours now. The sun had turned in and it was dark outside but none of that mattered to Haruka.
Was he not up for the job? Was this an artist’s block? If it was, why now—why did it have to strike at the worst possible timing?
Disappointing Chika-sensei over telling him that he couldn’t do the project would be a first-time experience for Haruka, except he had no plans to experience whatsoever. He had to prove he was capable of handling a task this demanding. If Chika-sensei believed he could do it, then he had to be able to do it.
He shut his eyes, forcing the world to disappear before him.
With the inability of hearing a hint of sound, the simple act of closing his eyes would have everything become void to him. He’d be isolated and alone in the darkness he put himself in. This was something he didn’t do out of a way to search for what he shouldn’t but to seek answers.
He couldn’t think when everything was laid bare in front of him. Being alone with nothing but his consciousness felt… relieving.
Useless.
Useless.
Useless.
Such a short word, yet unbearably heavy.
If he had to be honest with himself, the first idea that came to his mind when Chika-sensei finished writing the theme on the board was his ears. His ears—silent companions, useless to him in their intended purpose. Nothing more than a mere accessory to his whole being. He didn’t need them to hear, yet they existed as part of the image of “normality” he was expected to maintain.
And normality—appearing as if he could hear—was the only way to navigate life sometimes.
When he shared his thoughts with Chika-sensei, the older man had challenged back saying how ridiculous it was just because his ears couldn’t fulfill their function didn’t make him meaningless. They were part of who he was. Part of what made him Haruka.
Chika-sensei almost made it sound like Haruka’s ears made him deaf to have him as he should be and Haruka found that ridiculous. Yet, after hearing Chika-sensei’s thoughts about it, Haruka felt unsure as to how to proceed with it.
If Chika-sensei hadn’t approved the idea, hadn’t encouraged him to even consider it, who would understand his work? Who would care to see it at the exhibit?
In the end, he was stuck.
Haruka wouldn’t be able to move forward or make any progress today. He knew that however his body didn’t want to leave the room just yet because he knew he’d be left unsatisfied with himself.
Letting out a heavy sigh, he placed his pencil on the easel’s ledge, grabbed a cutter knife that rested on the edge of the table next to him, stood up, grabbed it, and sliced straight through the canvas, tearing it right at the center.
Once wasn’t enough.
He kept going, chest rising and falling rapidly as he destroyed the work completely. This—this—felt useless. Hours wasted, energy spent, nothing to show for it.
There was that haunting thought that had been putting him on the edge for a while.
What if he couldn’t finish it on time?
One month. Four weeks. Not enough.
He had every right to panic.
Haruka feared that if he didn’t live up to Chika-sensei’s expectations even once, he wouldn’t be able to do more events in the upcoming future. This was his first time being chosen as the main artist for an exhibit—there will be people watching and judging his piece. There may even be some instructors from foreign countries who will bide their time to scout for talent and offer scholarships.
This was a chance he couldn’t throw away. If he could perhaps just turn on the cogs in his brain to start working—
Haruka flinched the moment the blade brushed against his wrist. The cutter slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor as he sucked in a sharp breath, lips pressing into a tight line. Instinctively, he clutched his wrist with his other hand and lifted it closer to his face, watching as a thin line of red slowly welled up and spilled over.
…Great, now he’d hurt himself.
Irritation bubbled up alongside the sting. With a frustrated huff, Haruka dropped back onto his stool, shaking his bleeding wrist in short, sharp motions, hoping the pain would dull if he ignored it long enough.
A few droplets of blood hit the floor. His eyes widened slightly, and he quickly angled his arm away from his clothes.The last thing he needed was to ruin his clothes on top of everything else. He scanned the room, eyes darting over shelves, tables—anything that might help him deal with the wound.
Nothing.
He bit down on his lower lip and pressed harder against the cut, trying to slow the bleeding while he searched again. His chest felt tight. His patience thinner by the second.
Hopeless, he took his hand off the cut and his breath hitched.
The cut was deeper than he thought.
Wasn’t it just a slight brush? Why the hell did it look like that?
His shoulders slumped, head dipping forward as a small, breathless sound slipped from him—something between a whimper and a hiss. The skin around his wrist burned, sharp and insistent, and for a fleeting, irrational moment, Haruka wondered if his hand would go numb. Limp. Useless.
Then—warmth.
Large hands suddenly closed around his wrist.
Haruka startled, jerking his head up. Standing in front of him was Suo, eyes wide, posture tense, clearly frozen mid-step as he took in the torn canvas, the blood on the floor, and Haruka sitting there with his wrist exposed.
Relief crashed into Haruka in the presence of his boyfriend, it made his chest ache.
Suo lifted his head, meeting Haruka’s gaze. His expression was unmistakable—concern written deep into his lone red eye. His eyes traveled down to see that Suo’s lips moved rapidly, clearly asking what happened, questions tumbling over each other in silent urgency. Haruka didn’t need to hear them to understand.
Before Haruka could react, Suo gently guided Haruka’s free hand, putting it back on top of his wrist over the bleeding cut. Hold it there, his actions said.
Haruka watched him move.
Suo set his bag down beside Haruka’s things and leaned his guitar carefully against a nearby cabinet, making sure it wouldn’t fall. From his back pocket, he pulled out a handkerchief, then grabbed a nearly empty bottle of water—Haruka recognized it immediately as his own.
Suo glanced around the room once more before his eyes landed on the window. He walked over, slid it open, and unfolded the handkerchief. Haruka watched as Suo sprinkled water over the cloth, wetting it thoroughly, his movements quick but controlled.
When he returned, Suo crouched in front of Haruka, close enough that Haruka could feel the warmth of him. He rolled the damp handkerchief neatly, reached for Haruka’s wrist again, and carefully wrapped it around the wound, applying steady pressure.
Gentle. Focused. Protective
Haruka stayed still in wonder, his heart finding its calming pace once again.
When Suo finished securing the handkerchief around Haruka's wrist, he gently brought the wrapped wrist closer to his lips and pressed a soft, reassuring kiss to the skin beside the cloth. This was something he always did whenever he tended to Haruka's small accidents—knowing how clumsy and easily hurt he could be, Suo had made it a habit to follow up with a quiet, comforting gesture.
Haruka felt the familiar warmth flood through him. His skin, always pale, seemed to flush immediately under Suo’s lips, betraying his embarrassment despite himself.
“What happened? How’d you hurt yourself?” Suo signed quickly, tilting his head as he looked at him, eyes sharp with concern once his hands were free.
“I accidentally cut myself,” Haruka signed back, pointing toward the ruined canvas strewn on the floor to give him context. “I didn’t know you were coming—you should’ve told me.”
Suo shook his head, a small, exasperated smile tugging at his lips. “I did. A bunch of times. You weren’t checking your phone.”
Haruka’s lips formed a small ‘oh,’ realizing he’d been so absorbed in his work that he’d ignored the notifications flashing across the screen. “Sorry… I was busy.”
“I can tell,” Suo signed, rolling his shoulders slightly as he relaxed. “So… tell me about the piece. What are you working on?”
Haruka’s hands and fingers moved quickly, explaining everything: the shock of being chosen as the main subject for the next exhibition, the stress and pressure that had consumed him all day, the hours spent trying to force inspiration onto the blank canvas. He fumbled a few times, his movements awkward and hesitant, and his cheeks flared deep red under Suo’s intense, unwavering gaze.
Suo’s eyes followed every gesture, every flutter of his hands, with fascination and admiration. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t rush him—he simply watched, absorbing the story of Haruka’s day as though each word, each motion, were a treasure to him.
It had always been like this between them. Ever since that day three years ago, when Suo had appeared out of nowhere, pushing Haruka safely out of the path of a car on the street. At the time, Haruka had been confused and startled, not yet realizing the boy’s quick instincts or the intensity of his presence. It hadn’t taken long for Suo to learn that Haruka couldn’t hear, but for Haruka, it had taken a long time to fully trust that Suo could communicate with him fluently in sign language.
And yet, here they were—2 years later—so attuned to each other that even in moments of panic or pain, they could speak volumes without a single sound.
They’ve always been like this—Haruka explaining everything for a while since he couldn’t speak and Suo would just be there, a short distance from him and gaze at him nonstop like Haruka hung the stars in the sky or something defined extravagant.
Haruka’s hands trembled slightly as he finished recounting the day, the tension of hours spent trapped in his own thoughts still lingering in his movements. Suo watched him with steady eyes, a soft, reassuring smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
“I’m really proud of you, Sakura-kun,” Suo signed, leaning a little closer so Haruka could see the sincerity in his expression. “Even just hearing everything you’ve gone through… you’ve handled it all so well.”
Haruka’s chest tightened at the words. Proud… him? For once, someone wasn’t looking at his struggles as a limitation. Suo’s presence always had this way of grounding him, making him feel capable even when he was spiraling inside.
“I… I just… I don’t want to mess it up,” Haruka admitted, rubbing his wrist lightly where the handkerchief was wrapped. His fingers hovered over the faint cut, now clotting, and he let out a quiet, almost inaudible sigh. “One month… it feels like it’s not enough time.”
Suo reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from Haruka’s forehead with a gentle hand. “You have more than enough time,” He signed, tilting his head slightly. “And even if you struggle a bit, I know you’ll find your way. You always do.”
The warmth in Suo’s gaze made Haruka’s cheeks flare again. He looked down at his hands, fiddling nervously with the edge of the handkerchief. “It’s just… what if I can’t come up with anything? What if it’s all… useless?”
Suo’s smile softened, and he placed both hands on Haruka’s shoulders, giving them a reassuring squeeze. “Nothing you do is useless,” He signed firmly, his eyes locking onto Haruka’s. “Not your art, not your effort… not you. Do you understand me?”
Haruka’s stomach twisted at the raw honesty in Suo’s expression, at the unwavering confidence he had in him. He didn’t need words spoken aloud—he didn’t need to hear anything at all. Suo’s presence, his touch, the careful way he looked at him… it was enough.
For a long moment, they just sat like that, the room quiet except for the distant hum of the city outside the window. Haruka’s tense shoulders relaxed slightly as Suo’s hands lingered, grounding him in the moment.
After a while, Suo gave a small, teasing grin. “But you know,” He signed, leaning back just enough to smirk, “you’re really dramatic about this whole thing.”
Haruka’s lips twitched into a scowl, a reluctant smile breaking through. “I… I just want it to be perfect,” He signed back, his fingers moving more fluidly now, the tension in his movements easing as Suo’s presence calmed him.
“Perfect doesn’t mean flawless,” Suo reminded, shaking his head gently. “It means it’s yours. That’s what matters. And whatever you create… I’ll be proud. Always.”
Haruka felt a warmth spread through him that had nothing to do with the faint sting in his wrist. He looked up, eyes meeting Suo’s, and let a small, genuine smile form. “Thank you… for always being here,” He signed softly.
Suo leaned closer again, pressing a quick, affectionate kiss to Haruka’s temple. “Always,” He signed in return.
Always—no matter what, Haruka constantly finds himself falling into Suo everyday. It’s neverending. It’s a blessing.
“We should tell everyone about the news and celebrate tonight,” Suo suggested, his smile steady and warm, the kind that made Haruka’s chest ease a little. “Are you up for some beer and sausages?”
Haruka's hands fell slowly to his lap, eyes drifting to the crumpled canvas scraps scattered across the floor. “Celebrate? But I…” He signed slowly, hesitant. The thought felt foreign, almost indulgent, when he hadn’t accomplished anything tonight—not with the empty canvas still staring back at him, mocking his inability to translate “useless” into something tangible.
He wanted nothing more than to say yes, to step out with Suo and share the moment with friends, to laugh and clink glasses in celebration of the special news. But responsibility pressed down relentlessly. Chika-sensei had trusted him with this project, chosen him as the main artist for the upcoming exhibit. He couldn’t leave, not even for a short celebration.
A month wasn’t enough. Even if it were longer, it wouldn’t feel like enough. Others might call him obsessive or reckless, but to Haruka, it was the only thing left that mattered. The only way he could reach out to a world that didn’t speak to him, that he couldn’t hear.
When words failed, art was his voice.
Suo would understand that, right? As a fellow artist in the music world, he knew what it meant to have a chance to take a leap, to risk everything for growth. Suo would understand why Haruka couldn’t leave just yet.
Haruka’s fingers trembled as he opened his hands to decline, but before he could, Suo’s hands came up, cupping Haruka’s face, thumbs brushing softly against his cheeks. Without a word, he leaned in, and their lips met.
Haruka froze. His eyes widened, shock and warmth flooding him all at once. He expected Suo to pull away immediately, but the hold was careful, deliberate, and gentle. Suo had always treated him as fragile, and the tenderness in his touch made something inside Haruka give way.
He let himself melt a little, welcoming the fluttering butterflies in his stomach—as cliche as it may sound, the warmth spreading through him. For the first time tonight, he forgot the canvas, the looming exhibit, the gnawing pressure of perfection.
He’ll at least have this so he let his guard down.
Closing his eyes, he leaned fully into Suo’s touch, returning the kiss with the same gentleness. His hands moved slowly, mindful of the lingering ache in his wrist, resting lightly on Suo’s jacket lapels as he pulled him closer. He could feel Suo’s lips curve into a soft, knowing smile against his own, a quiet affirmation that he was safe, cherished, and understood.
It’s because of this—how Suo could treat him the same way he had been treating him ever since their relationship started—Haruka could never grow tired of falling for him over and over again. It was a rush of emotions so overwhelming and strong enough to devour him entirely and he’d gladly take it any time as long as it was from Suo.
There was that familiar vibration—one Haruka immediately recognized. Suo pulled back just slightly from his lips, shoulders shaking as he held back a laugh, and Haruka found himself blushing profusely, wondering what caused his boyfriend's little amusement. It was ridiculous, really. The way they still acted like two foolish boys hopelessly in love, even months into their relationship, as if everything between them was still brand new.
Suo's smile remained on his face as leaned in once more, pressing a quick peck to Haruka’s lips for good measure before finally letting him go.
“I’m not taking no for an answer,” Suo signed firmly, expression soft but unwavering. “You need a break. And you won’t be able to work properly with your wrist injured.”
Haruka bit the inside of his cheek. Of course Suo knew him too well.
“I still need to brainstorm,” Haruka argued back, trying to reason with him. “At least come up with something.”
“And you will,” Suo replied immediately, not missing a beat. He reached up and tucked a loose strand of Haruka’s hair behind his ear, the touch tender and familiar. “I know you will. I don’t doubt for a second that you’ll create something amazing. But right now, you need to rest and take care of that wound.”
Suo’s eyes narrowed slightly, a playful threat flashing through them. “I’ll carry you out of this room myself if I have to.”
And knowing Suo—he absolutely would.
Haruka shouldn’t have given in so easily. It was just a small injury; it shouldn’t get in the way of his work. He rolled his wrist experimentally, only for a sharp jolt of pain to shoot through it. He flinched, jerking slightly on his seat. It was probably still bleeding a bit—still too fresh to ignore.
When he looked back at Suo, he was met with an unmistakable I told you so expression.
Haruka sighed, shoulders sagging in defeat. Finally, he nodded. “Alright,” He signed, a small, soundless laugh escaping him. “We can celebrate.”
The way Suo instantly lit up made Haruka smile despite himself.
“But,” Haruka added, raising a finger pointedly, “you’re paying for my share tonight. Got it?”
Suo nodded enthusiastically, like an obedient puppy. “Everything’s on me tonight,” He signed back. “My sweetheart got chosen as a representative out of five hundred students.”
Haruka wouldn’t have been surprised if Suo planned to brag about it to every stranger he’d meet tonight. Moments like these made Haruka feel seen—appreciated—but he knew it wasn’t the whole world doing it. It was mostly just Suo, loving him loudly and without hesitation. And Haruka had never once doubted the feelings Suo held for him.
He told Suo he needed to pack up his things first. Suo immediately moved to help, already knowing where everything went without needing instructions. He gathered Haruka’s art supplies quickly, carefully sliding them into the bag while reminding Haruka to message their friends and let them know they’d meet at the local restobar—the one where Suo worked.
Once everything was cleaned up, trash thrown away, and the room returned to order, Suo slung Haruka’s art bag over his back and wore his own backpack across his chest.
Haruka protested, insisting he could carry his own things, but Suo just shook his head, extending his hand instead—clearly implying that the only thing Haruka was allowed to carry was him.
Oh, this silly musician of his. Haruka would often find him annoying, but that's alright, Suo was his.
Not wanting to argue, Haruka accepted it. He laced their fingers together, letting Suo hold the strap of his guitar bag with his free hand as they left the art room together.
They’d probably be the last ones to arrive at the restobar. It was close to the apartment building they all lived in, and conveniently nearby—close enough that Suo had managed to get a part-time job there as a waiter. In exchange, the owner let him perform on weekend nights on the small stage, entertaining customers with his music.
At first, Haruka thought Suo should focus on earning money too—but Suo had been firmly against it. He’d explained that he didn’t need the pay from the restobar when he already had other part-time jobs that covered his tuition and living expenses. Working there was never about the money. It was the only place that allowed him to perform his own compositions freely, without restraint.
Did it bother Haruka that he couldn’t hear Suo sing? That he couldn’t hear his voice at all?
Every day.
Did it leave a dull, gnawing ache in his chest whenever the thought crossed his mind?
Of course it did.
Has he ever told Suo about it?
Never.
What Haruka hated most was pity. The way people’s expressions shifted the moment they learned he was deaf—the way their eyes softened too much, their voices slowed unnecessarily, their behavior changed. He didn’t want that. He didn’t want to be treated like a fragile exception or placed on a separate pedestal from everyone else.
He wanted to be normal—not accommodated, not pitied. Just him.
Born to two deaf parents, it had been expected that he would grow up the same way. Haruka never blamed them—there was no one to blame. But they saw how hard it was for him. How he struggled to fit in, how easily groups of children shut him out. So they worked relentlessly to afford hearing aids, even when the cost was heavy.
He was still in elementary school when he got them.
Kids were cruel.
Being deaf apparently wasn't the only reason for their constant stir of insults against Haruka—they just had to comment on his appearance as well. His odd-colored hair that was split into two and how his eyes followed.
It took less than a week for the hearing aids to be destroyed.
That moment carved something permanent into Haruka’s understanding of the world. Even if he were given the chance to hear again, it wouldn’t change how people saw him. Deafness would always be the first thing they noticed, the lens through which they judged him.
So he stopped trying.
He chose sign language. Writing. Silence on his own terms. Spending that much money again felt pointless when the world had already decided who he was.
He learned to avoid people instead. Earphones became his shield—an easy excuse to be left alone, a barrier against forced interactions. And then, somewhere along the way, he found art.
Color. Line. Shape.
For the first time, there was something that didn’t demand sound. Something that let him speak without having to explain himself. It felt like a path opening up in front of him—burning, vivid, undeniable.
And then he met Suo.
And Suo’s friends—who slowly became his friends too.
Haruka’s art spoke through paint and paper, through colors layered with intent and emotion. Suo’s spoke through strings and instruments, through rhythm and a voice Haruka would never hear—but could still feel in the way Suo’s eye lit up when he performed—how the most beautiful shade of red Haruka has ever seen in his life reflect brightly.
Two different languages.
Two different worlds.
And somehow, they still found a way to meet.
Even if he couldn’t hear—even knowing there would never be a day when he would—Haruka had still imagined what Suo’s voice might sound like. He pictured it as something warm and steady, sweet but deep, the kind of sound that lingered long after it was gone.
On nights when they lay tucked into bed together, Haruka would trail his fingers lightly along Suo’s throat, feeling the gentle vibrations whenever Suo made a sound or hummed under his breath. It was subtle, easy to miss—but Haruka never did.
(“Why does your throat vibrate when I touch it?” Haruka had asked one night.
Half-asleep, eyes barely open, Suo had answered without hesitation, guiding Sakura’s hand to stay there.
“I’m humming a song I wrote for you,” He’d signed slowly. “I want you to feel it.”
Because you can’t hear it.
Suo hadn’t signed that last part—but Haruka had understood it anyway.)
It hadn’t been easy at first. Accepting the idea of dating a musician—someone whose art lived and breathed through sound, the very thing Haruka would never have—had taken time. It was a quiet ache he carried with him, one he never voiced aloud.
But Suo never made it feel like a burden. Never treated it like something that stood between them. Time and time again, he reassured Haruka that it didn’t matter—that music wasn’t something meant only to be heard, and love certainly wasn’t.
Slowly, Haruka learned to believe him.
Because never in his life had he felt so deeply, so undeniably loved. Suo had come into his world gently but decisively, offering nothing but patience, protection, and unwavering support. Whether through touch, shared silence, or the way Suo always looked at him like he was enough—Haruka found safety in their relationship.
And that, more than any sound, was something he could feel completely.
And right now, they were about to meet their friends—people who had welcomed Haruka without hesitation, without question. They weren’t a large group, but they were close, each of them chasing different paths through college life.
There was Kotoha Tachibana, the one Haruka felt closest to aside from Suo. She wasn’t an art major like him, but she was always around anyway—sharp-eyed, blunt when needed, and quietly protective in a way that made Haruka feel grounded. Then there was Aya Mizuki Suo’s childhood friend, someone he’d known long before Suo ever entered his life. Aya was an art major, just like Haruka, and they were in the same class under Chika Takiishi, their instructor.
And then there were the juniors—one year below them. Tsugeura, loud and endlessly energetic; Nirei, reserved and observant; and Kiryu, expressive and sharp-tongued. Over time, Haruka had grown fond of them all in different ways.
They had all been respectful of his condition. More than that, they’d tried. Nirei and Kotoha had even taken an extra class to learn Japanese Sign Language just for him. Tsugeura and Kiryu couldn’t fit the class into their schedules, so they relied on Suo to teach them whenever they were together—clumsy hands, awkward pacing, but sincere effort all the same.
Aya had joked once that it wasn’t really necessary anyway—that they could just write down whatever they wanted to say to Haruka on paper.
Haruka had an inkling then that Aya didn’t like him very much.
But none of that mattered now.
Haruka and Suo managed to grab a cab, cutting down the travel time, and soon found themselves stepping into the restobar, fingers still intertwined. The scent of alcohol, grilled food, and oil-filled air wrapped around him immediately. Haruka scanned the place, eyes searching for their table—their people.
A gentle tug on his arm pulled his attention back. Suo pointed toward the far corner, where a long booth sat tucked away. Haruka let himself be guided, lifting his free hand to wave as a bright smile spread across his face.
Kotoha was the first to stand, practically vaulting over her seat as she rushed toward him and pulled him into a tight hug. Haruka had to let go of Suo’s hand to return it, his cheeks aching from how wide he was smiling.
When she pulled back, she signed enthusiastically, “We heard everything from Aya. This is huge for you, Sakura!”
“Thank you, Kotoha,” Sakura signed back, his cheeks warming.
Tsugeura was next—he looked like he was practically yelling as he threw himself between Haruka and Kotoha, wrapping him in another fierce hug and shaking him side to side. Haruka felt his chin moving against his shoulder and assumed he was talking a mile a minute.
Confused, he glanced sideways, watching Suo quickly sign for him. “He said you deserved it the most,” Suo translated. “He even made a bet with Kiryu-kun that you’d be the one picked.”
Ah.
And speaking of Aya—
Haruka spotted her standing close to Suo, lightly slapping his arm right after he finished signing. Suo laughed, turning toward her, and from where Haruka stood, he caught the teasing glint in Suo’s eyes as he said something that made Aya scowl, her face flushing red.
Haruka watched their interaction from where he stood, the uneasiness creeping up on him despite his efforts to suppress it. The way Aya clung to Suo’s arm so naturally. The way Suo reached up and ruffled her hair without hesitation, a gesture so familiar it had clearly been repeated countless times before.
Haruka swallowed.
No, he told himself firmly. He couldn’t be jealous over this again. They’d known each other since childhood—long before Haruka ever entered Suo’s life. That was all it was. Nothing more.
A light tap on his shoulder pulled his attention away.
Turning, Haruka found Nirei standing there. The younger student bowed politely, and Haruka mirrored the gesture out of habit. When Nirei straightened, he signed, “Congratulations, Haruka-san! I’m sure you’ll do great at the exhibit.”
Haruka smiled, touched. “That means a lot coming from you, Mister Future Architect,” He signed back teasingly, a quiet laugh escaping him.
Nirei’s cheeks tinted faintly pink. He hesitated before signing again, eyes drifting to Haruka’s wrapped wrist. “I wanted to ask… what happened to your wrist? Did you get hurt while working today?”
Haruka glanced down at the neatly tied handkerchief—Suo’s doing. “Oh, this?” He shrugged lightly. “I was cutting up one of my failed pieces and slipped.”
Nirei blinked. “You destroy your own artwork?”
Haruka couldn’t help laughing at the sheer disbelief on his face. “It’s an old habit,” He explained, hands moving calmly. “I don’t do it often—only when I’m stressed about a project.”
Nirei nodded slowly, thoughtful. “You should try finding other ways to relieve stress,” He signed gently. “Ones that won’t hurt you.”
He went on to suggest a few techniques he used himself, and Haruka watched closely, genuinely listening.
By the time Nirei finished, the unpleasant knot in Haruka’s stomach had eased. As much as he loved Kotoha, it was Nirei he found himself talking to the most. Nirei was sharp, disciplined—already holding an architecture scholarship—and yet he’d still made time to learn sign language. More than that, he’d picked it up quickly. Second only to Suo in fluency.
Midway through their conversation, Haruka felt a warm palm settle against his lower back.
He turned to find Suo standing close behind him. Suo gestured toward the booth, signaling that everyone should sit so they could start ordering.
Haruka slid into the seat between Suo and Nirei, with Aya seated across from him.
As he sat, Haruka lifted a hand and waved at her. Aya didn’t acknowledge it—didn’t even look his way. She continued talking animatedly with Kiryu, her attention firmly elsewhere.
Something twisted uncomfortably in Haruka’s chest.
Aya was upset. Of that, he was sure.
And the only reason he could think of—the one he didn’t want to dwell on—was that she hadn’t been chosen.
Haruka couldn’t say they were rivals—and even if they were, over what exactly? It couldn’t be over Suo, and it couldn’t be over art. Or maybe it was. He didn’t know, and worse, he didn’t have the confidence to ask.
He’d long accepted that Aya didn’t like him. Whatever her reason was, he’d trained himself to believe it didn’t matter. If she wanted to be petty over something childish, then he could afford the same indifference—or at least pretend to.
“I’ll grab some beer from the bar,” Suo signed before pushing himself up from the booth.
Haruka’s eyes followed him instinctively, lingering a second too long—utterly smitten, as always. Suo moved easily through the space, familiar with the bar and its people. He exchanged a few animated gestures with the owner, Umemiya Hajime, who was already grinning like he’d found a new source of entertainment. Umemiya-san had never cared whether Suo worked there for the money or not. As long as he could keep guests amused, that was more than enough.
Haruka leaned back against the booth once Suo disappeared behind the counter.
Almost immediately, a napkin slid across the table toward him.
He looked up.
Aya only shrugged, her expression unreadable, before turning away once again.
Haruka frowned, then glanced around. Nirei was locked in a heated argument with Tsugeura, hands flying. Kotoha and Kiryu were engrossed in their own conversation, laughter visible even if he couldn’t hear it.
Moments like this always made the feeling creep back in—that quiet sense of being an implant. He was surrounded by noise, by chaos and energy, yet none of it reached him. It never had. The only sound he’d ever truly known was silence.
Haruka unfolded the napkin.
He inhaled slowly as he read.
Don’t get too confident just because Chika-sensei picked you. He’s only protecting his image as a fair and kind instructor. What better way than choosing a disabled student to represent the exhibit? Get your head out of the clouds.
Oh.
Okay.
He shouldn’t have been surprised. This—this—was nothing new. Discrimination had a way of following him everywhere, no matter how far he went. Even with a loving boyfriend and friends who cared, there would always be someone who refused to see him as anything more than his disability.
Haruka knew that. Intimately.
What made it worse was that this was Suo’s childhood friend. Suo cared for Aya like a sister, and Haruka couldn’t bring himself to be the reason that bond fractured. So he folded the napkin neatly, his expression carefully neutral, and slipped it away.
A little while later, Suo returned—four beer bottles hooked effortlessly between his fingers. He set them down on the table with an exaggerated thud. Not long after, Umemiya-san followed with the rest of their order, grinning like he was in on some private joke.
Haruka straightened, eyes flicking over the drinks and food as excitement visibly spread across the group. Hands lifted, mouths opened in laughter and cheers.
And Haruka smiled along with them—because that was easier than letting anyone see how badly the words on that napkin still burned.
Without wasting a second, everyone dug in—hands moving fast, bottles clinking, mouths opening wide in laughter. They looked loud.
No—scratch that. They were loud.
Suddenly, Haruka didn’t feel like drinking at all. He hadn’t really been in the mood to celebrate in the first place. He could’ve been using this time to sit somewhere quiet, forcing his thoughts into something concrete for the exhibit—but he couldn’t bring himself to say no to Suo. And Suo, right now, looked like he was having the time of his life, laughing freely and chatting with their friends.
So Haruka stayed still.
He fiddled absently with the chopsticks Nirei had handed him earlier, turning them between his fingers without lifting them toward his plate.
It was almost laughable—how even after convincing himself that he belonged here, that this group saw him as family (save for one), his own mind would betray him into thinking otherwise. A shaky breath slipped past his lips as he finally set the chopsticks down against his small plate.
Maybe he couldn’t go back to the studio and work tonight—but he could go home. He could rest.
Just as he began to shift, preparing to excuse himself, a hand closed gently around his own.
Haruka froze.
Suo’s fingers were warm where they rested against his thigh, giving his hand a soft squeeze. Haruka schooled his expression, turning his head toward him.
Suo had already picked up a small piece of sausage with his chopsticks and brought it close to Haruka’s lips, a silent prompt. Eat.
“You haven’t had dinner yet,” Suo signed easily. “Eat a bit first. Then we’ll go.”
There was nothing but warmth in his eyes.
Haruka felt it settle deep in his chest.
Suo understood. He always did. Even if Haruka liked their friends, gatherings like this still made him feel distant—like he was watching everything through glass. And somehow, Suo always seemed one step ahead, reading thoughts Haruka never had to put into words.
Like now.
He didn’t care that Haruka wasn’t drinking. Didn’t tease him. Didn’t push. He just offered food, steady and gentle, like an anchor.
“All right,” Haruka signed softly.
He opened his mouth, letting Suo feed him the piece of sausage, and in that moment, the rest of the table faded away. His focus narrowed until there was only Suo—the way his expression shifted with quiet concern, the way his eyes never left Haruka’s face.
There it was—Suo’s breathtaking smile as he continued to feed Haruka slowly. And gosh, Haruka felt like he was drowning in the warmth and affection Suo had for him.
Haruka took a few more bites, savoring the food while Suo ate alongside him. The rest of the group added more orders to their table, increasing the tab, and Haruka quietly passed his share of beer to Tsugeura, who took it gratefully, while Suo only had one.
It took effort not to notice the occasional glance from Kiryu, the way he would sometimes flick his eyes toward him. Haruka ignored it, focusing instead on Suo feeding him, and engaged in conversation with Nirei, bringing up small topics that kept his mind busy. Even the bartender, Umemiya-san, lingered near their table to throw in his opinions, and Suo would sign the gist to Haruka.
As the minutes ticked by, drowsiness began to tug at him. He shook his head gently when Suo offered another bite, a silent signal that it was time to go home. Suo noticed immediately and rose, helping Haruka to his feet.
He signed as he spoke, letting the friends know, “We’ll be heading off first. See you tomorrow.”
“Thanks for tonight. I had fun,” Haruka signed back, the words half a lie. He had a list of worries waiting for him tomorrow, but for now, all he wanted was to crawl into bed and fall asleep in Suo’s arms.
After exchanging the last of their goodbyes, Haruka took the lead, stepping out first while grabbing his art supply bag before Suo could insist on carrying it again. He didn’t spare Aya a glance—he had no energy left to be scrutinized by her, and whatever problem she had with him could wait. Tomorrow will come soon enough.
He bowed slightly to Umemiya-san, who waved in return, and stepped into the night. The chill wrapped around him, making his bones ache, and he hugged himself against the cold. The sound of the door jingling behind him made him turn—and there was Suo, carrying both his bag and his guitar, his eyes locked onto Haruka’s.
It was just the two of them again, and Haruka wouldn’t have it any other way. He held out his hand for Suo to take, but Suo stepped closer, closing the space between them, his gaze intense, pulling Haruka in like gravity.
Without warning, Suo took Haruka’s bag into one hand alongside his guitar. Haruka opened his mouth to protest, hands rising to sign, but Suo caught his hand with the other, sliding it inside the pocket of his jacket.
Well, wasn’t that just—
The walk back to their apartment was quiet, the kind of silence that always surrounded Haruka. It was almost winter, and the cold nipped at his skin, reminding him that he’d need to start layering up tomorrow. As they passed through nearly empty streets, Haruka stole occasional glances at Suo. Whenever a lamppost lit above them, it cast Suo’s features into sharp relief—the way the light hit his jawline, the soft curve of his lips, the warmth in his eye that always seemed to reach Haruka even in silence.
Ten minutes later, they were standing in front of their apartment door. Haruka dug through his jeans for the key, since Suo’s hands were still full with their bags and guitar
When the door clicked open, Haruka stepped inside first, Suo right behind him. Immediately, he felt the subtle shift in the air—the kind of presence Suo carried that made the room feel different.
Even though he was exhausted and ready for sleep, Haruka felt a small shift in the air the moment Suo closed and locked the door behind them. He didn’t need words to understand it—Suo was there, steady and present, and that was enough.
With a quiet sigh, Haruka waited for Suo to set down the bags and his guitar before he leaned back against Suo, and let the tension of the day melt away.