Chapter Text
“Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that.”
— Martin Luther King Jr
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The first thing Yuta registered was the wrongness of the light. It wasn't the soft, greyish dawn that filtered through his own room window, but a bold, intrusive yellow stripe cutting across an unfamiliar ceiling. A headache, dull and persistent, pulsed behind his temples, a low drumbeat of confusion. He shifted, and the second thing he registered was the warmth. Not just the warmth of blankets, but a solid, breathing warmth pressed along his side.
Disorientation washed over him, a cold tide that receded to leave a beach of sheer, blank panic. He was not alone.
Slowly, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs, Yuta turned his head on the pillow. The man beside him was curled on his side, facing away, the sheets tangled around his waist. A slim build, light skin that looked almost porcelain in the harsh morning light, and a shock of hair the colour of winter moonlight—silver, messy, and utterly distinctive.
Toge.
The name clicked into place with the finality of a lock. Toge Inumaki. Naked in this bed.
The realization was a bucket of ice water followed by a surge of furnace heat. Every inch of Yuta’s skin prickled, flushing hot and cold simultaneously. This was Toge’s room. The minimalist decor, the single framed print of mountains on the wall, the quiet hum of a far better air conditioner. The evidence was irrefutable, and it sent his mind into a frantic, scrabbling spiral.
Last night. Think. What happened last night?
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force the foggy fragments of the previous night into coherence.
There were flashes: the loud, bass-thumping chaos of Nobara’s off-campus house party, the press of bodies, the sweet-bitter taste of Liqueur. He remembered Toge arriving late, a calm, quiet presence in the storm of noise. He remembered laughing with him in a corner, their shoulders brushing. After that… a blur of colour and sound, a dizzy walk in the cool night air, a key fumbling in a lock… then nothing. A blank, terrifying slate.
A silent, desperate plea echoed in his mind: Please, let nothing bad have happened. Please, let me not have ruined everything.
His gaze was trapped on Toge’s sleeping form. A war erupted in his chest. A part of him, the part that lived in the secret, guarded chambers of his heart, sang with a delirious, impossible hope. Toge Inumaki was here, in his space, sharing his warmth. The object of an affection so deep and constant it felt like a geographical feature of his soul, not merely an emotion. He loved him with a quiet ferocity that could move mountains, a truth he’d never dared voice beyond the confines of his own diary.
The other part of him was terrified. This was a breach, a cataclysmic shift in the careful, fragile equilibrium of their friendship (or what he could call their friendship). What had he done? What had they done? The uncertainty was a physical ache.
He recalled the party’s origin clearly now. Maki had been insistent, almost militant about it. “You need to live, Yuta! Stop moping in the library!” she’d declared. It seemed her prescription had been dangerously potent.
Yuta knew he should get up. He should extricate himself from this delicate, damning situation with the stealth of a ninja. But his body refused the command. He just stared, mesmerized and horrified. The slope of Toge’s shoulder was a gentle curve. The silver lashes fanned against his cheek. In sleep, the constant, careful neutrality of his expression was softened into something unbearably peaceful and… pretty. So devastatingly pretty it made Yuta’s breath catch. Fuck, he thought, the word a blunt, internal strike. I love him so much it’s stupid.
The admission, even in the privacy of his own skull, was a new kind of vertigo. It had always been there, this constant, humming truth beneath every interaction, every shared glance, every time they fell into step together. But here, in the aftermath of an unknown night, it felt raw and exposed, a nerve touched directly.
Finally, with a Herculean effort, Yuta moved. He peeled the sheets back with infinite slowness, holding his breath as the cool air hit his skin. He found his clothes—jeans, wrinkled t-shirt, boxers—scattered like fallen leaves on the unfamiliar floor. Dressing felt like a clandestine operation, every rustle of fabric sounding like a thunderclap. Once clothed, he stood at the foot of the bed, a statue of indecision.
Should he wait? Should he try to explain, to parse the mystery together over mutual, awkward horror? The idea of facing Toge’s waking eyes, of seeing confusion or worse, regret, in that familiar gaze, was paralyzing.
Or should he flee? Preserve the last shred of his dignity and let Toge wake to an empty space, allowing them both to pretend, for a little while longer?
His eyes drifted back to the sleeping figure. He couldn’t leave him to wake up alone and confused. Toge deserved more than that. Toge deserved care.
The decision solidified quietly within him. He wouldn’t run. He would make breakfast.
It was a domestic, absurd plan, a life raft in his sea of confusion. He tiptoed to the attached bathroom, closing the door before flipping the light. His reflection in the mirror was a disaster—hair sticking up in chaotic tufts, dark circles under his wide, anxious eyes. He splashed cold water on his face, ran wet fingers through his hair in a futile attempt at order, brushed his teeth with a dollop of Toge’s minty toothpaste on his finger. He did his best, a small act of normalcy.
Emerging, he cast one last long look at the sleeping figure in the bed. The sight still sent a dual shockwave of joy and fear through him. Then, he turned and padded out of the bedroom.
Finding the kitchen was easy; the apartment was compact. It was neat, everything in its place. Yuta opened the refrigerator and was met with a surprisingly well-stocked interior. Eggs, milk, a bundle of fresh green onions, a package of bacon. In the pantry, rice and a few basic condiments. It was enough.
Quietly, he set to work. He found a bowl and a whisk, the clinking of metal on ceramic sounding obscenely loud in the quiet apartment. He cooked the bacon slowly, the fat rendering and sizzling, filling the kitchen with a salty, savory aroma that was somehow grounding. He beat the eggs, chopped the onions, his movements falling into a meditative rhythm. This, he could do. This was a problem he could solve. The far more complex problem still slept in the next room.
As he poured the eggs into the pan, watching them bubble and set, Yuta’s mind cleared slightly. The frantic panic receded, leaving a deep, trembling uncertainty. He had no script for this. No protocol. All he had was a pan of scrambled eggs, a heart full of terrifying love, and the waiting silence of the apartment, soon to be broken by the waking of the boy who owned it. The story of last night was still a closed book. But the story of this morning, he was determined, would at least begin with kindness.
After a while he plated the food with a care that bordered on reverence. He set the plate on the small dining table, aligned the fork just so, and stepped back.
The bedroom door remained shut. The silence was a living thing, thick and watchful. Yuta sat on a stool in the kitchen, his hands clasped between his knees. He waited. The clock on the microwave ticked from 8:47 to 9:07. Twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of rehearsing apologies that dissolved into ash before they could fully form. Needing a distraction, he remembered his phone was still in the bedroom. He rose and moved to the bedroom door, turned the handle with infinite slowness, and pushed it open.
Only to find Toge was awake.
He was sitting up in bed, the white sheets pooled around his waist, his shock of pale hair delightfully tousled. The morning light from the window caught the violet of his eyes, making them seem luminous. He saw Yuta and, with a serenity that stole the air from Yuta’s lungs, he lifted a hand and waved. A small, casual flick of the wrist.
Yuta’s mind short-circuited.
Pretty was too mundane a word. Cute was an insult. Toge was a study in gentle contrasts: the sharp line of his jaw softened by sleep, the serious eyes that could crinkle with silent laughter. He was so very… Toge. Yuta’s gaze, traitorously autonomous, darted down—to the smooth plane of his chest, the elegant collarbones—before snapping back to his face, his cheeks burning. They simply stared at each other, a wordless conversation.
Yuta’s tongue felt like lead. He had to say it. The apology was a stone in his throat that had to be coughed up. “Toge,” he began, his voice raspy. “I… I am so sorry. About last night. Whatever happened, I accept full responsibility. Completely.”
Toge’s head tilted, his expression shifting from soft wakefulness to genuine confusion. He raised his hands, his fingers moving with a graceful fluency Yuta had spent months painstakingly learning.
Nothing happened last night.
Yuta blinked. “You… what?”
Nothing happened, Toge signed again, more emphatically. You were very drunk. I was tired. We slept.
The relief that washed over Yuta was so potent it felt like a physical wave, leaving him dizzy. But it was immediately followed by a confusing, shameful undercurrent of disappointment. Nothing?
His treacherous mind, now freed from the cage of guilt, began to paint pictures. What would Toge have looked like, sound like…? He felt a heat that had nothing to do with embarrassment begin to pool in his gut and ruthlessly shoved the imagery away. Get your head out of the gutter, Okkotsu.
“But I thought we…” Yuta stammered, the blush returning full-force. “I mean, when I woke up… our clothes…”
Toge’s mouth quirked. You said it was hot. You insisted. You said, ‘Toge, we’re melting, clothes are the enemy.’ A faint, pink hue dusted Toge’s own cheeks as he relayed the memory. You were very… persistent. And funny.
“Oh, God,” Yuta groaned, covering his face with one hand. “I’m so embarrassed. I’m really, really sorry.”
Toge just shook his head, signing, Don’t worry. Don’t be ashamed of being with me.
Ashamed? The word echoed in Yuta’s mind. He wasn’t ashamed of Toge. Never of Toge. The potential shame was entirely about his own uncontrollable feelings, the intensity of which seemed to magnify tenfold in Toge’s quiet presence.
Just then, Toge’s nose twitched. He sniffed the air, his eyes widening, the earlier softness replaced by sudden, bright interest. He threw the covers back and stood up.
Yuta’s gaze instantly, politely, found a fascinating crack in the paint on the far wall. He heard the soft shuffle of fabric, the tie of a belt. When he dared look back, Toge was wrapped in a navy blue robe, looking at him expectantly.
What’s that smell? Toge signed, his movements quick with interest.
“Breakfast,” Yuta said, a tentative smile breaking through his panic. “I made… I thought you might be hungry. It’s probably cold, I should warm it—”
But Toge was already padding past him, his steps quick, as he beelined for the kitchen. Yuta scrambled for his phone and followed. Toge was already at the table. He picked up a strip of bacon, took a careful bite, and his eyes fluttered closed in a moment of pure bliss. Then another bite, faster. He sat down, picked up the fork, and began to eat the eggs with a focused intensity that bordered on desperation.
Yuta hovered, watching. A warm, fragile happiness unfurled in his chest. Toge was eating his food. He was enjoying it. It was a simple, profound victory.
The pace was the problem. Toge ate as if he hadn’t seen food in a week, as if each bite might be taken away. He forked eggs into his mouth, barely chewing, driven by a hunger that seemed deeper than the physical. Yuta was about to gently suggest slowing down when it happened.
Toge’s eyes bulged. A wet, choked gasp escaped him. He clutched at his throat, his face flushing. Panic erased every other thought from Yuta’s mind. He was across the kitchen in two strides.
“Milk, here, drink this,” he urged, grabbing the glass of warm milk he’d set out and bringing it to Toge’s lips. His other hand settled gently between Toge’s shoulder blades, feeling the tremors of the cough.
Toge drank, gulping the milk. Some of it escaped his lips, a white trickle tracing a path down his chin, over the delicate line of his jaw, and down the column of his throat, disappearing beneath the collar of the robe.
The world narrowed to that single, glistening trail.
Yuta’s thumb moved on its own volition, almost brushing it away before he froze. A violent, unbidden urge surged through him—to lean in, to taste the salt of Toge’s skin mixed with the sweetness of the milk, to kiss away the panic and replace it with something else entirely. The desire was so acute, so powerful, it stole the air from his lungs.
He jerked back as if scalded, nearly dropping the glass. The space between them felt suddenly charged and dangerous.
“Are you… are you okay?” he managed, his voice strangled.
Toge nodded, coughing once more but breathing clearly now, his eyes watering slightly as he looked up at Yuta with a mixture of gratitude and lingering surprise.
Yuta turned away, busying himself with the empty glass at the sink, the cold water he ran over his own wrists doing nothing to douse the fire in his veins. He scolded himself silently, viciously. What is wrong with you? He was choking! And you’re… you’re acting like a hormonal monster. He trusts you. He’s innocent. And you’re a fool.
Yuta was a fool—but only around Toge. Only for him.
A soft tap on the table broke through his thoughts. He turned. Toge was looking at him, one hand raised. He made a series of fluid gestures, his expression calm and inquiring.
What time is it?
The mundanity of the question was an anchor. Yuta fumbled for his phone, the screen bright in the dim kitchen. “Uh, it’s 9:15,” he said, his voice still a bit rough. “Lucky it’s a Sunday. No rush. You can… you should go back and rest after you eat. No bother at all.”
Toge gave a small, acknowledging nod and returned to his food, this time at a more measured pace. Yuta leaned against the counter, trying to will his heartbeat back to normal, to bury the memory of that treacherous, beautiful trickle of milk.
The sudden, violent buzzing of his phone on the countertop made them both jump. The screen flashed with a name that promised storm clouds: MAKI.
Yuta’s stomach dropped. He’d missed… how many calls? He snatched it up, offering Toge an apologetic wince. “I’m so sorry, I have to take this,” he whispered, already backing toward the hallway.
Toge offered a weak smile that didn’t reach his eyes and looked down at his half-finished plate, his shoulders slumping slightly.
The phone was already at Yuta’s ear, and the explosion had begun.
“WHERE IN THE SEVEN CURSED HELLS HAVE YOU BEEN?” Maki’s voice was a weapon, sharpened by genuine concern and wielded with brutal precision. “Do you have any idea how many times I called? I was five minutes from breaking down your door with a crowbar!”
“Maki, Maki, breathe!” Yuta pleaded, hurrying further down the hall toward the apartment’s entrance, putting distance between the fury and the quiet kitchen. “I’m fine! I’m safe, I’m better than fine, I swear. My phone was on mute, I just… I lost track.”
“Lost track?” she seethed. “For eleven hours? I asked around, checked AROUND, I even called Megumi, who was, as ever, completely useless! Start talking, Okkotsu.”
Yuta took a deep breath, leaning his forehead against the cool wall. There was no lying to Maki. “I… I stayed over. At Inumaki’s.”
The silence on the other end was profound and terrifying. Then, a single, flat syllable. “What.”
“I stayed at Inumaki’s apartment,” Yuta repeated, his face heating. “I We got drunk last night, so I came to his place, and I just… stayed.”
“No way,” Maki stated, absolute disbelief in her tone.
“Yes way.”
“No. Way.”
“Maki, I’m literally standing in his hallway.”
Another pause, this one shifting from shock to calculation. He could almost hear the gears turning in her head. “Well,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial, slightly smug register. “That actually makes sense. Panda mentioned Toge vanishing after a while yesterday. So. You played house. How… domestic.”
“It wasn’t like that,” Yuta rushed out, too quickly.
“Wasn’t it?” The smugness was now a fully-fledged grin; he could hear it. “My gaydar is pinging so hard it’s about to short-circuit. So. Details. Spill.”
Yuta’s entire body felt like a furnace. “There are no details! Nothing to spill!”
“Yuta.”
“Maki!”
“Did. You. Do. It.”
He choked on air. “Wha—NO! Gods, no! He was drunk! (Yuta assumes that Toge was also drunk) I just slept in his bed! I mean—not with him! In his bed, while he was in it, but just sleeping! Actual sleeping!” He was digging his own grave, sentence by mortifying sentence. “And anyway, it’s not… he might not even be interested in guys. Or in anyone, like that. He’s just… Toge.”
Maki’s laugh was a short, triumphant bark. “Please. My gaydar is never wrong. It’s a finely tuned instrument of perception. I know what I know. And I know what you are, you big, flustered disaster.”
Before Yuta could formulate another flailing denial, he heard a distant, muffled call in the background. ‘Maki! Come look at this!’ It was Mai.
“Ugh, duty calls,” Maki sighed, the amusement still clear in her voice. “This conversation isn’t over. But for now, I’ve gotta go. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Which, in your case, leaves the field wide open. Bye!”
The line went dead. Yuta slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor, the phone limp in his hand. He felt emotionally flayed.
He took a deep, steady breath and headed for the kitchen, with a rehearsed, easy smile on his face. “Sorry about th—”
The kitchen was empty. The plate was clean, washed and left to dry on the rack. The silence was absolute.
A quiet dread seeped into Yuta’s bones. He walked softly to the bedroom door, which was ajar. Pushing it open gently, he saw him.
Toge was back in bed, curled on his side facing the wall, the blanket pulled up to his shoulders. In the dim light, he looked impossibly small, a comma of solitude against the vast white sheets.
The space around him seemed to vibrate with a profound, quiet loneliness.
“Toge?” Yuta’s voice was barely a whisper.
Toge stirred, turning his head just enough to see Yuta in the doorway. His eyes were clear but distant. He raised a hand from under the covers.
Thank you for breakfast. And for staying. If you’re done, you can leave.
The signs were polite, perfect, and they erected a wall as solid as stone. Yuta felt the words like a physical dismissal, a gentle but firm closing of a door he hadn’t even known was open.
“Oh,” Yuta said, the sound small and stupid. He wanted to protest. I’m not done. I don’t want to be done. Ever.
He wanted to cross the room, to sit on the edge of the bed, to ask what was wrong.
But would that be kindness? Or would it be the desperate, cloying need of a fool, irritating and overwhelming to someone who valued his silence?
He swallowed, the fragile happiness of the morning now ash in his mouth. He forced the smile back onto his face, a poor imitation of the real thing. “Right. Of course. You should rest. I’ll… I’ll see you later, then. In class. Till next time.”
Toge gave a faint, almost imperceptible nod and turned back to the wall.
Yuta’s movements felt mechanical. He paused at the front door, looking back down the short hallway toward the bedroom. A part of him screamed to stay, to ignore the dismissal, to fight for a connection that felt more vital than air. But another part, the part that feared seeing discomfort in those amethyst eyes, won out.
He closed the door behind him with a soft, final click.
His smiles to himself, truly he was a fool. A happy, miserable, hopeful, doomed fool.