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Osamu fell in love some time between 3am and 4am, in the dim, smoky lounge known ironically as Melatonin.
Calling Melatonin a lounge was generous. It was a dorm dining hall, converted at 11pm each evening to a place where insomniacs gathered, where procrastinating students wiled away hours on their research reports and problem sets, aided by burnt coffee masked with copious amounts of sugar and the deep-fried grease that clung in the air.
Osamu had come to do homework away from his brother’s terrible study music and incessant grumbling. He tucked himself away in a corner, where the dim fluorescent light only barely reached. Sure, it was hard to read his textbook, and he had to squint while writing his equations, but it was quiet, and it was perfect. He worked for many hours, scrawling through impossible proofs and ungainly computations. Then Osamu got up for a refill of his coffee and returned to find he had a companion.
An orange-haired boy had joined him, deep in thought across the table. The boy alternately chewed on the end of his pencil and French fries dipped in melted cheese. Osamu swallowed hard as the sharp scent of American cheddar reached him for the first time. His stomach rumbled as if it, too, appreciated the smell.
Osamu didn’t know the boy however. Osamu swallowed down his saliva and not his pride. He returned to his numbers and formulas. His pencil scratched a few lines more.
Those fries, though. Osamu could go order his own. Maybe that’d be too much. It wasn’t good for his health to be eating such foods this late at night—or rather, this early in the morning.
“Would you like one?”
The boy was looking at him, one hand extended in offering towards the grease-stained paper tray.
“N-No, but thank—”
“Take one,” said the boy. “There’s too much for me. And besides”—here the boy smiled—“you’ve been staring at them for the last fifteen minutes.”
So Osamu did, plucking a slender fry and nibbling it down, until his mouth was filled with cheesy, soft potato. Every bite was heaven.
The boy watched him, cheeks pink and his grin still in place. When Osamu’s gaze met his again, the grin only widened. One more silent nudge of the paper tray towards Osamu was all that was needed for the two to become friends in this twilight place.
Sometime in between the evenings of fried snacks, instant ramen, and dozens of cups of stale coffee, Hinata had migrated from his spot across the table to a new spot beside Osamu.
They still shared food with each other, and much more besides: their majors, the mundanity of their lives, and their hopes and dreams for the future. They exchanged contact info and knew where the other stayed on campus, but they never sought each other out in the day. Instead, they let the gravity of the midnight hours draw them together at Melatonin. There was a magic to the place, a lull and a rhythm that encouraged one to share secrets with others who fell under its spell. No one wanted to learn what happened once the enchantment was broken.
They bumped elbows as they wrote on the scratched wooden tabletop, then graduated to bumping knees underneath. Osamu wasn’t sure who nudged his foot over first, but eventually the light tap of Hinata’s sneaker against his was a comfort. Somewhere deep inside, Osamu nurtured a twisting, near unbearable warmth.
One evening, Osamu discovered he could hook his own ankle around Hinata’s, so that the opposite sides of their feet touched now. The action abated the tangle of knots inside him, but left a heat flushing through his cheeks and ears. Thankfully, they remained in the dark corner where the light barely reached.
There was an evening Hinata’s hand brushed against Osamu’s resting in his lap. Osamu felt the tentative touch of Hinata’s fingertips on his knuckles, and he flipped his hand automatically, intertwining their fingers without a word. Osamu’s scribbles of equations became useless loops on the page, devoid of any meaning. Still, he held tightly onto Hinata’s hand, sneakily tracing a finger against the side of Hinata’s hand, searching for any sensation at all to show that this wasn’t a dream.
They’d taken to leaning into the other, shoulder-to-shoulder, feet still touching, hands still interlaced. It made homework awkward, but Osamu no longer cared all that much. He’d learn to write with his elbow if he had to, as long as he didn’t have to let Hinata’s warmth go. And yet, every morning when the sunlight began to creep through the curtains of Melatonin, they’d silently unknot themselves and return to their separate dorms and separate lives.
It stung to leave, to part ways at the flimsy doors with the unnecessary push bars. Osamu would lean his back into the cold metal and the door would open far too easily, pulling him outside. And Hinata would step out too, give a little wave and the ghost of a smile, and turn away. Every evening Osamu wondered if it was all too good, too ridiculous to be real, but their bond always returned, once they were back through the doors and back in their little midnight world, surrounded by yawns and murmurs and the sound of deep frying snacks from the depths of the kitchens.
It was strange to be in this equilibrium. Shouyou leaning against him, ruffled hair tickling Osamu’s neck as they worked, tapping their fingers against each others, still clutched tightly under the table.
They only broke away for a sip of coffee or to offer a fry to the other. There was a brewing tension today, or at least, Osamu thought there was. Maybe it was the fewer words of greeting, or the slightly earlier hour that saw them both at this table, but the taste of something yet to come lingered in the air. Osamu wasn’t sure if it was bitter or sweet, yet.
Shouyou mumbled something against Osamu’s shoulder and broke into a quiet yawn, untangling his hand to hide his exhaustion. The pencil in his other hand slipped and clattered onto the table.
“What was that, Shouyou-kun?” Osamu could feel his own eyelids droop, as if Shouyou’s exhaustion extended to him as well.
“Nothing, nothing.” Shouyou closed his eyes and relaxed his face into a sleepy grin. “Just tired.”
Osamu hummed, offering his shoulder again, and Shouyou leaned back once more, slumping in his seat. His pencil sat abandoned where it had rolled onto his half-finished page of work.
Osamu’s pencil also stopped scratching. His hand itched to move, but not against the page. “Shouyou-kun…”
“What is it, Osamu-san? Are you comfortable?”
“We… are we…”
“Hmm?” Shouyou’s head lifted again, and he rubbed his eyes.
Osamu watched Shouyou’s hand fall back into his lap. Osamu’s hand twitched forward, and Shouyou’s hand met his, and now they were holding hands between them, out from under the table.
“Are we…?” Shouyou blinked more sleep from his eyes. “Are we…” Another blink. “Oh,” Shouyou whispered. He smiled down at their hands, and Osamu thought he felt a gentle squeeze. “Do you… want to be?”
Osamu’s breath caught in his throat. Time stopped, like it was waiting for Osamu’s answer too. Slowly, shakily, Osamu brought Shouyou’s hand up to his lips. Osamu’s gaze caught Shouyou’s for the briefest of moments, and then Osamu’s eyes were fluttering shut, and his lips met Shouyou’s soft skin, a kiss pressed gently on top of Shouyou’s fingers.
Osamu almost couldn’t bear to open his eyes. But when he did, Shouyou was still sitting before him, hand in his, eyes shining, and Osamu’s heart was ready to burst. “May I, Shouyou-kun?”
And Shouyou’s returning smile was all Osamu needed. Osamu leaned forward and closed the final distance between them: a sweet kiss on Shouyou’s lips, sometime around 3am, in the dusky lounge known as Melatonin.