Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The sun filtered in through the tall library windows, slicing golden ribbons across the dusty pages of books no one touched anymore. Amid the quiet murmur of shifting pages and distant footsteps, he sat—long limbs folded with a careless elegance, as if the world itself bent slightly around his presence. Rindou Haitani. Second-year sports science major. Midfielder prodigy of the university’s elite football team. And perhaps more notorious than admired, the arrogant, cold-eyed prince everyone either wanted or feared.

His appearance alone was enough to stop conversations mid-sentence. That dual-tone hair—golden brown melting into deep raven black—hung just past his shoulders in disheveled layers that looked deliberately careless. Some strands fell over his faintly flushed cheeks, caught in the frame of thin, gold-rimmed glasses perched loosely on the bridge of his nose. He adjusted them often, not because he needed to, but because he liked the way people stared when he did.

His skin was a little tan, kissed by the sun. He had that kind of look: sharp, willowy, languid. Dangerous. The kind of man who looked like he read poetry under streetlamps but would break your heart without ever remembering your name. His lips were pale, full, often curved in that near-smirk that made it impossible to tell whether he was amused by you—or just didn’t care.

A loose shirt hung over his lean frame, collar pulled just wide enough to reveal the curve of his collarbones. His fingers—elegant, unhurried—rested near his chin, brushing against his lips as if thoughtfully, though in truth he wasn’t thinking about much. He didn’t need to. Rindou never chased moments. He made them.

The only hint of rebellion beyond his gaze was the single silver hoop that hung from his left ear. Small, but significant. A quiet message to anyone who knew him—or knew of him—that he wasn’t here to play by anyone else’s rules. Not even the university’s.

He wasn’t just admired. He was envied.

Girls tripped over themselves when he passed in the halls, giggling behind perfectly manicured nails, hoping for a look, a word, anything. But Rindou rarely acknowledged them. He didn’t have to. He was Ran Haitani’s younger brother, after all—a third-year with a ruthless reputation and connections that made most professors think twice before scolding either one of them.

They were royalty. And Rindou was the untouchable prince.

To his teammates, he was a contradiction. On the field, he was ruthless: focused, fast, brilliant. Off the field, he was detached, barely speaking unless it was to taunt or correct. Yet no one could deny his talent—or his influence. Captains listened when he talked. Coaches adjusted drills around his instincts.

Some said he was born with a silver spoon. Others said he sharpened it into a blade. A lie people would buy over and over again, because Ran bled for Rindou to have this life.

But one thing was certain. When Rindou Haitani entered a room, the air shifted. And everyone, even those who hated him, looked up.

It was barely the second week of the fall semester when whispers of him started drifting through the halls like smoke—acrid, undeniable, and impossible to ignore. First-year, they said. Already flagged by two professors and almost suspended for bringing a lighter into a chemistry lab. Yet he walked the campus like he owned every inch of concrete beneath his boots. Sanzu Haruchiyo—nobody called him Haruchiyo, though. Just Sanzu. Like a storm needs no surname.

He strolled in late to class again, reeking of cigarettes that no one ever saw him smoke but everyone could smell. The pungent scent clung to his white uniform shirt, sleeves perpetually rolled just high enough to show veined forearms and a carelessly tattooed wrist half-hidden beneath black string bracelets. His crimson tie hung loose like it never once knew the tightness of a formal knot. A mask—black, sleek, and oddly fitting for someone so expressive—hung across his face, but it didn’t hide his smirk. Nothing ever really did.

His hair was long, pink, straight like threads of silk and always falling perfectly over his shoulders no matter how much he raked it back. One hand was often seen brushing it away while the other gripped his phone, tilted just enough to take a photo—not for memories, but for proof of existence. That he was here. And that this place, this clean, prestigious university, was already cracking beneath his presence.

Behind him, a pink backpack slung across one shoulder seemed almost ironic, like a silent challenge: Go ahead, make a comment. No one ever did. Not twice, anyway.

The chalkboard behind him—though mere background noise to the world he walked through—lit up in a blur of hearts, stars, geometric nonsense, as if the universe itself struggled to contain his contradictions. There were light bulbs, rocket ships, unfinished equations, and broken arrows. The kind of scrawl that perfectly echoed his mind: unfiltered, wild, and unashamedly brilliant.

He wasn’t in sports, nor literature, nor politics—though he could’ve stirred chaos in any of those if he cared to. Sanzu chose psychology. Not because he wanted to help people. No. He wanted to understand them, understand himself if we’re being honest. The mind fascinated him, especially the fragile ones. He liked to know what made people tick. What made them snap. What made people feel traumatized, scared, loved.

Professors hated him. Not because he failed—he didn’t. In fact, he passed with scores that made no sense considering how rarely he took notes. But because he questioned everything with a mockery in his tone that made them feel small, even when he was technically right. He wasn’t just rebellious. He was rebellion.

He made fast friends with the kind of students most avoided: the ones who hung out in the back alleys behind lecture halls, who knew where to get things and how to disappear. If there was a rule, Sanzu had already broken it. If there was a line, he’d crossed it, then doubled back just to spit on it.

And yet… there was something undeniably magnetic about him. Girls liked him, until they realized he would mock their perfume and laugh in their face if they cried. Guys liked him, until they saw the way he smiled when things burned. You didn’t just meet Sanzu Haruchiyo. You survived him.

The sharp thwack of cleats against turf echoed across the sun-drenched field. The late afternoon sky bled orange and violet, casting long shadows from the goalposts to the benches. Rindou Haitani, second-year and midfielder with eyes sharper than his coach’s whistle, stood at the sideline, shirt clinging to his back from the relentless drills. His breathing was calm, even. Sweat kissed the corner of his jaw, but he didn’t seem to notice. Or care.

“Oi, Rindou! You ever gonna move faster than a funeral march?” Mochi’s gruff voice carried through the field, punctuated with laughter.

Rindou didn’t answer. He never answered when there was nothing worth answering. He stared toward the other side of the pitch, lazily watching the rest of the team wrap up their scrimmage. A strand of blone hair fell into his eyes, and he brushed it back with one gloved hand, slow and deliberate. His heartbeat barely rose above idle.

He didn’t play football for the thrill. He didn’t play for friendship. He played because it filled time between silence and sleep, because it kept his body moving while his mind drifted miles away.

Mochi jogged up beside him, panting, a half-smirk tugging at his lips. “Yo. You hear about that first year who’s been running trades under everyone’s nose?”

Still no answer. Rindou adjusted his wristband.

“Cigarettes, man,” Mochi pressed on, as if Rindou had invited the conversation. “Little punk’s been handing ’em off like candy in the locker hallway. Teachers don’t know. Dude’s got this clean act when they’re around—hell, even Principal Tachibana bought it. But under the surface? Scummy as they come. Gotta respect that hustle.”

“Sounds like your type,” Rindou said at last, his voice low, eyes still fixed on the goalpost.

Mochi barked a laugh. “Nah, nah. He’s too pretty. Like, weird pretty. Long pink hair, always got that smug look behind a face mask, like he’s about to laugh at you for existing. He came to me, asked if I wanted to make a deal. I gave him a carton of Seven Stars—guy paid in crumpled yen and chewing gum. Then just walked off. Didn’t even say thanks.”

“That’s a red flag,” Shion, Rindou’s roommate and a player of the team muttered nearby.

“That’s a fun flag,” Mochi corrected, grinning.

Rindou finally turned his head slightly, a flicker of mild curiosity in his cool, amethyst eyes. “What’s his name?”

“Haruchiyo. Sanzu Haruchiyo. Real mouth on him. Doesn’t shut up unless it’s to sneer. Kid’s probably got more enemies than friends already. Think he’s studying psych or something creepy like that. Baji’s roommate”

The name didn’t register with Rindou. And honestly? He didn’t care.

There was always some new drama rolling in with the first years. Always some new punk trying to prove they were harder, colder, smarter than they really were. It usually ended the same way: they got bored, or beaten, or dropped out. Sanzu sounded like another name that would eventually fade into the background noise of campus life.

Still… Rindou noticed something. The tension. The way Mochi talked about the kid—like someone retelling the first few lines of a ghost story before nightfall. Like he wasn’t sure if he was the predator or the prey in that transaction.

Rindou clicked his tongue and walked back toward the center of the field, letting the weight of the air fall behind him. Sanzu Haruchiyo? Let him crawl through shadows and trade smokes and twist people’s heads. That was his problem.

Rindou had no interest in meeting him. And if fate had other plans?

He’d deal with it when the cigarette smoke started to drift his way.

Night fell quickly at the University of Tokyo’s west campus. The day’s golden hues had bled into navy skies, and now the buildings—tall, glass-faced giants—glowed from within like lanterns against the dark. The walkways between them were slick with the damp cool of a coming fog, the streetlamps humming softly as they cast golden light on the striped stone paths.

Most students had already scattered to their dorms, laughter fading behind heavy doors and soft elevator chimes. The walkways were mostly empty now. Mostly.

Leaning against the cold metal railing near the edge of the courtyard, Sanzu Haruchiyo exhaled smoke in slow, curling ribbons. The cherry of his cigarette flared orange against the night, briefly lighting his face beneath the black mask pulled under his chin. His eyes were half-lidded, watching the world like a predator watching prey it wasn’t hungry enough to chase—yet.

He wasn’t worried about getting caught. Not anymore. This part of campus didn’t have patrols after eight, and even if someone did show up, he had a smile that could get him out of most things. Or a laugh sharp enough to slice through anyone who dared try.

He had one hand in the pocket of his wrinkled slacks and the other holding the cigarette like a wand. He shifted, tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth.

“Where the hell is that bastard,” he muttered, glancing toward the dorm building across the courtyard. “Tenth time. Tenth damn time.”

He’d lost his key again. Or maybe it was in his hoodie back in the psych lecture hall. He didn’t care. Baji Keisuke, his ever-reliable disaster of a roommate, had the spare. He doesn’t know what the teachers had in mind when they paired a psychology student and a sports one together, a mess is a mess 

A moment later, the double doors of the indoor stadium swung open with a gust of noise and heat—the football team.

Chaos spilled out like smoke. Voices crashed together—jokes, curses, half-shouted retorts. Cleats clacked against the tiled floor as a crowd of tall, adrenaline-soaked players poured out in uniform shirts and jackets slung over shoulders. Their laughter was loud, alive. Wild.

Sanzu took another drag and watched, unseen from the shadows under the walkway’s glass corridor. His smirk twitched. Loud men. Big egos. Too much cologne and not enough self-awareness.

He spotted him in the mess—Baji—still toweling sweat from his neck, hair tied back, shirt half untucked, looking like he’d fought the field itself. As always. Sanzu raised his hand slowly and wiggled two fingers in lazy greeting.

Baji caught the movement immediately. Rolled his eyes. Walked over. Behind him, another figure peeled off from the crowd—Mochi. Predictable.

“Sanzu!” Mochi called, voice lowered to a hiss as he approached. “Got more?”

“No hello?” Sanzu asked without looking. “Rude.”

Mochi ignored the sarcasm. “You got any or not?”

“Depends,” Sanzu said, dragging out the word. “You got any more gum wrappers and bent coins to pay with?”

“Asshole,” Mochi muttered.

“Accurate,” Sanzu replied, exhaling a stream of smoke toward the other boy’s face just to watch him flinch. “But fine. One. And you owe me something that isn’t a melted cough drop next time.”

He flicked a cigarette toward Mochi without warning, and the bigger guy barely caught it. Baji reached Sanzu then, handed him a spare key without saying anything. Their eyes met, and in that moment of quiet camaraderie, something shifted in the air.

Sanzu felt it first—eyes on him. A gaze so piercing, it sliced through the sound, through the smoke, through the crowd of athletes still howling across the yard.

He turned slowly, eyes scanning past shoulder pads and duffel bags until—

There.

Rindou Haitani.

He stood a few feet away from the group, still half-shouldered by teammates, a bottle of water in one hand. His hair hung damp and lazily tied back, but his gaze? Razor-sharp and fixed, entirely, on Sanzu.

Not the noise. Not Baji. Not the team.
Him.

Their eyes locked for one long second—maybe two. And in that quiet, everything else blurred: the chaos, the laughter, even Mochi lighting his new cigarette with trembling fingers.

It wasn’t recognition. It wasn’t curiosity. It was challenge.

Sanzu tilted his head slowly, as if observing a creature in a cage. He didn’t smile. Didn’t smirk. But his fingers twitched like they wanted to. Rindou blinked. Then, without a word, turned and walked back into the crowd, vanishing into a group of teammates joking about late-night ramen.

The moment shattered like glass. “What the hell was that?” Baji asked under his breath.

Sanzu finally let the smirk creep in. “The campus prince has eyes, huh?”

“You’re gonna start a war if you keep looking at people like that,” Baji said, unlocking the door.

Sanzu laughed—low and mean, like a gun cocking. “Maybe I want one.”

And then the door clicked shut behind them, sealing the tension behind glass and smoke, and leaving the courtyard quiet once more.

The corridor leading to the dorm rooms buzzed with a low, industrial hum, lights overhead flickering like they were just as tired as the building’s residents. The glass doors hissed shut behind Sanzu and Baji, and yet the sounds from outside still bled in—shouts, heavy laughter, the rhythmic stomp of cleats echoing off concrete like a war drum.

But before either of them could reach the elevator—

“Oi, Sanzu.” Mochi’s voice, dragging behind them like a leash. “You got one more? I swear it’s the last one.”

Sanzu didn’t even turn around. He kept walking, fingers already slipping the dorm key between his knuckles like a weapon.

“That’s what you said the last three times,” he called back lazily. “You planning on quitting or just planning on draining me dry?”

Mochi jogged up, still sweaty from practice. His face flushed, probably more from nicotine withdrawal than exercise. “Come on, just one.”

“I’m gonna start charging you in soul fragments.”

Baji groaned, rubbing his temples. “You can’t keep losing your damn key, Haruchiyo. It’s not a toy, it’s the only thing that lets you into the room without waking me up at 2 a.m.”

“I didn’t lose it,” Sanzu said, unbothered. “It’s… just not with me.”

Baji glared. “That’s what losing something is.”

Their argument was cut short by the slam of the outer doors opening again. The rest of the football team stormed into the building like a riot spilling into a courthouse—rowdy, laughing, stomping down the halls in mismatched uniforms and half-untied cleats.

Inupi was halfway through a sentence about some girl in his physics class who offered him lecture notes and a granola bar in exchange for “tutoring.”

Shion burst out laughing. “She was trying to get in your pants, dumbass.”

“Bro,” Kazutora chimed in, “anyone offers you a granola bar, they want something. Trust no one.”

Peh elbowed Shion. “Bet you’d give up your whole bag for some attention.”

“Shut it, Peh,” Shion shot back, flipping him off.

Hanma leaned against the elevator doorframe with his usual half-smirk, scanning the group like he was at a zoo watching animals lose their minds. “All this noise over protein bars and nerd girls. Who gives a damn?”

The chaos stormed forward, echoing off every surface. The hall practically pulsed with testosterone, sweat, and sarcasm.

Through it all, Rindou said nothing.

He walked behind the group with slow, measured steps. Hair damp, his hoodie now slung over one shoulder, eyes low-lidded but razor sharp. He wasn’t looking at anyone anymore. Or maybe, not looking on purpose.

They reached the lobby space just as Sanzu passed by the sitting area, flicking the last of his cigarette out through an open window like a king discarding something beneath him.

And that’s when Kazutora finally noticed him.

“Wait a second…” His voice rose just enough to drag the others’ attention. “That’s him, right? The troublemaker?”

“The first-year one?” Peh asked, squinting.

“The one that made the guy in Student Affairs cry?” Shion added, interest perking.

“The guy who had a lighter on campus day one,” said Inupi. “Didn’t even try to hide it.”

“Oh sh*t,” Mochi muttered, backing off like Sanzu had caught fire. Sanzu paused mid-step. Just enough to acknowledge the wave of attention now crashing toward him.

“Name’s Sanzu, right?” Hanma asked, his smirk pulling wider. “Heard you made a scene in the cafeteria last week. Dumped a tray of miso soup on someone?”

Sanzu looked up slowly, icy blue eyes half-lidded but gleaming with something unreadable.

“That guy tried to touch my cigarettes,” he said, voice bored, like they were talking about laundry.

“Bro.” Kazutora leaned forward, eyes wide with impressed disbelief. “You’re a damn menace.”

“I like him already,” Peh grinned.

“Think he’d survive football practice is he tried?” Shion joked.

“He’d start a fight during stretches,” Hanma replied.

“Can he even run?” Inupi asked.

”i ain’t getting involve into a team where everyone runs after a damn ball, i have other shit to do” sanzu said

“yeah, like trying to study personality or someshit” Peh said

“Exactly-“

“Can any of you shut up?” Rindou’s voice finally cut through, low and cold.

Everyone fell silent for a beat.

He didn’t look at them. Didn’t look at Sanzu either. Just kept walking toward the elevator, one hand raking through his hair as if the noise around him was an infection he refused to catch.

The group stood frozen for half a second before chaos resumed.

“Someone’s moody today,” Kazutora said.

“Brooding prince,” Peh snorted.

“I bet he does know Sanzu,” Hanma murmured with a grin. “He’s just pretending he doesn’t.”

Baji gave Sanzu a sharp look. “Don’t you start anything with that guy.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Sanzu said with that smug glint in his eyes. “He looked first.”

The elevator doors slid shut behind Rindou, his silhouette framed by flickering lights. He didn’t speak again, but his silence roared louder than the team ever could. Something was coming.And the fuse was already burning.

The elevator chimed, metal doors swallowing Rindou’s figure as the football team’s voices poured over each other in a disorganized symphony of banter and suspicion. The moment it shut, Baji let out a long, exasperated breath. The chaotic energy still buzzed in the air like static after a lightning strike, but he’d had enough.

“Alright, that’s enough, you circus rejects.” His voice cut through the din like a whip. “Everyone, shut the fuck up and go home.”

Kazutora laughed, still giddy from the tension. “Someone’s on big brother duty tonight.”

Peh elbowed Shion. “Bet he’s gotta tuck the kid in.”

Baji didn’t even answer. He was already walking, his shoulder brushing Sanzu’s as he passed. “Move your ass.”

Sanzu blinked, then followed, hands shoved into his pockets, expression unreadable except for the lazy flick of his tongue over his teeth—half amusement, half habit.

Behind them, the banter picked up again. The noise faded with every step they took down the corridor toward the east wing of the dorms, their footsteps the only sound left against the tile floor. The farther they got from the lobby, the quieter the world became, settling back into the stillness of night.

The silence between them hung for a while, unbroken until they reached the hallway that smelled faintly of old coffee and warm detergent. They went to their wing. The first year’s dorm rooms. Room 207. Baji stopped, fishing out his key with a grunt.

“I’m not gonna keep doing this,” he muttered as the door clicked open.

“Yeah, yeah,” Sanzu murmured behind him, stepping in.

Baji didn’t turn on the light. He didn’t have to. The place was a mess, sure, but lived in. Clothes scattered, two duffel bags—one black, one hot pink—slouched near their respective beds. On Sanzu’s side, an ashtray on the windowsill overflowed with cigarette butts, and a notebook with graffiti-like scribbles sat half open on the desk. The glow of the city lights outside cut across the floor in sharp lines.

Baji tossed his bag on the bed with a sigh. “I’m serious.”

Sanzu flopped onto his mattress, one leg bent up, eyes on the ceiling. “About?”

Baji leaned against the wall, arms crossed, jaw tight. “Rindou Haitani. Stay away from him.”

That got a blink from Sanzu. “What, that guy from earlier?”

“The one who stared you down like he wanted to gut you.”

Sanzu’s lips twitched upward. “You jealous?”

Baji threw a balled-up sock at his face.

“Listen to me, asshole. That guy’s bad news.”

“Oh, and I’m sunshine and rainbows?”

Baji’s voice lowered, more serious now. “He’s not like you. You think you’re dangerous ‘cause you run your mouth and laugh at people who flinch. Rindou’s dangerous because he doesn’t have to do either. He’s the kind of guy who’ll tear you down without a word, without moving a finger. And his brother? Worse.”

Sanzu was quiet for a moment, fingers lazily playing with the strings on his hoodie. Then came that smirk—sharp and amused, dipped in venom.

“I’ve got better things to do than get involved with boys who have egos taller than their actual height.”

Baji snorted, but he didn’t smile.

“I mean it,” Sanzu continued, eyes half-lidded, voice a whisper now, like he was talking more to the smoke still lingering in his lungs than to Baji. “I don’t give a damn about princes or captains or favorites on the team. I’m not here to worship anyone. Least of all some pretty boy who thinks silence makes him deep.”

“You say that now,” Baji muttered, shoving his shoes off. “Just stay out of his way.”

“I don’t even care enough to walk in it.”

Sanzu reached into his drawer, pulled out another cigarette, and stuck it between his lips without lighting it. It dangled there, a lazy threat, a toothless grin at the world.

Outside the window, the sky had turned thick with clouds. No stars tonight. Just the city humming softly under fluorescent lights, and somewhere, on another floor, footsteps pacing like the echo of something yet to come.

Neither of them knew it then, but paths that were meant to never cross had already collided.

The next day crept in beneath a dim gray sky, and the university campus came alive with motion—students pouring into glass-paneled buildings, their chatter bouncing off the polished stone walkways like scattered marbles. But within that constant flow, one figure moved differently.

Haruchiyo Sanzu walked like he didn’t belong to any of it. Loose white uniform shirt half untucked, pink strap of his bag dangling at his side, a fresh bandage taped across his knuckle, and dark circles under his eyes that no amount of sleep would erase. He slouched into the Applied Psychology building with a cigarette behind his ear—unlit, but a promise—and the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips.

His major? Behavioral Neuroscience.

Not that anyone expected that from someone who looked like he belonged in a back alley with a switchblade, not a lecture hall.

Inside Room B-102, rows of students sat stiffly upright, notebooks open, laptops glowing. The professor’s voice droned at the front, pointing with a laser stick at a graph about serotonin levels and how trauma alters the limbic system. Heads nodded along in confusion or compliance. And there was Sanzu, slouched in the second row from the back, one leg up on the seat in front of him, chewing a toothpick, no pen, no notebook, no laptop.

Just watching like a tiger in a zoo cage watching a trainer try to tame him with logic.

“Mr. Haruchiyo,” the professor called, pushing up her glasses. “Since you seem so… comfortable back there, why don’t you tell us what happens when the amygdala is hyperstimulated over long periods?”

A few heads turned toward him, some with curiosity, most with that nervous twitch—waiting for a blow-up, a sneer, a careless answer.

Sanzu yawned.

Then, without missing a beat, he answered flatly, “You get chronic overactivation of the HPA axis, cortisol floods the system, hippocampal neurons start to degrade, and the person’s emotional regulation goes to shit. Probably ends up on meds or in jail. Depends on what broke them first.”

A pin could’ve dropped and be heard due to the class being so quiet

The professor blinked, stunned. “…Yes. That is—correct.” The room whispered with uneasy respect.

Every class followed that pattern. Sanzu showed up with no materials, stared into space half the time, cracked a joke now and then—yet when questions came, he answered faster than anyone. Concepts that took others hours to grasp, he’d dissect in minutes. One professor swore he had a photographic memory. Another whispered he must be cheating. But they couldn’t prove anything. Because every test came back with perfect scores. Every essay written in erratic handwriting on the margins of lined paper was layered with depth, sharp insight, and brutal precision.

Students talked about him In quiet corners of the library, in murmurs in the cafeteria line, they warned each other:

“Don’t sit next to him, he’ll glare at you until you move.”

“He answered the lecture before the professor even finished asking.”

“He doesn’t study. He doesn’t need to.”

“Rumor is, he threatened a guy for copying his notes once.”

“…But he never takes notes.”

He was feared, sure—but more than that, he was a storm cloud people watched with fascination, waiting for lightning.

During his final class of the day, a group assignment had begun. Sanzu groaned and leaned back, arms crossed, not bothering to join the forming clusters.

A timid girl walked up, hesitant. “Um… we’re supposed to be in groups of four—”

“Then go find three more people,” he said flatly, not even looking up.

She backed away in silence.

The professor didn’t intervene. No one did. Sanzu wasn’t bullied out of groups. He refused them. And no professor ever marked him down. His solo submissions always outscored group efforts.

As class ended, Sanzu was the first out the door. The halls buzzed with noise around him, but none of it touched him. He tugged the cigarette from behind his ear, popped it into his mouth, and wandered toward the garden steps near the eastern end of campus—his usual place to smoke and vanish.

Another perfect day. Another A. And he hadn’t written a single word down. No one understood him—but everyone remembered him.

That was enough.

It was midday when the sun finally broke through the thick cloud cover, casting golden slices of light across the university courtyard. The metallic bleachers overlooking the sports field glistened faintly, half-warmed by the day’s reluctant sunlight. Grass was trampled, voices rose with effort, and the sharp whistles of a coach echoed like gunshots between the buildings.

And there, at the edge of it all—seated lazily on the low concrete wall near the track—was Haruchiyo Sanzu, legs splayed out, one crossed at the ankle, head tilted toward the field. A pink strawberry milk carton dangled loosely in one hand, a cigarette burning idly between two fingers in the other. Smoke drifted up in lazy spirals, mixing with the breeze and the faint scent of turf.

Beside him, seated like a mountain of calm strength in contrast, was Mucho—a second-year student, muscle-packed, quiet-eyed, always clad in a jacket one size too small. A cigarette rested behind his ear, unlit. He didn’t smoke much. But he did talk with Sanzu. That alone made him an anomaly.

“…They’re loud today,” Sanzu muttered, gaze trained on the football team going through drills. His voice, even when casual, always carried that soft sneer—like every word was coated in boredom or irony. He took a long sip of his milk, pink liquid swirling through the plastic straw.

Mucho grunted. “They’ve got a match this weekend. Coach’s riding their asses.”

Sanzu’s lips twitched into the faintest smirk. “Hope they don’t pull a hamstring trying to impress the cheer squad.”

He always sat out here during lunch. Never in the cafeteria. Too many rules. Too many eyes. He liked the smell of grass and asphalt more than the scent of plastic trays and boiling rice. And besides, this spot had Mucho.

They had clicked instantly.

Months ago, Sanzu had been smoking here alone when Mucho wandered over, dropping onto the wall without a word. He didn’t ask questions. Didn’t judge. Just lit a cigarette and stared at the field like they’d always shared this routine. Most people stayed away from Sanzu like he was a fire alarm about to go off. Mucho didn’t. And from that day on, their lunch break was a quiet ritual: pink milk, shared smokes, and dry observations of everyone trying too hard.

“See the guy with the yellow shoes?” Mucho nodded toward the field.

Sanzu lazily turned his head. “What about him?”

“He’s new. First year, I think. Runs like a headless chicken.”

Sanzu squinted, then huffed out a smoky chuckle. “Bet he thinks he’s the next world champ. Poor bastard.”

They both watched in silence for a moment. The football team shouted over each other, muscle and energy colliding. Rindou was there—Sanzu noticed him even from a distance. Calm, deadly in his form, hair pushed back with a sweatband, expression unreadable. He didn’t care, not really. But he saw him.

Mucho didn’t mention him. Didn’t need to and instead, Mucho glanced at Sanzu’s milk and raised a brow. “Still drinking that stuff?”

Sanzu looked at it like it was some sacred relic. “It’s the only pure thing left in this hellhole.”

“You know that’s for kids, right?”

“I am a kid,” Sanzu replied, deadpan. “I just happen to be smarter than the professors and meaner than the guards.”

Mucho barked a laugh—a rare, deep thing that rumbled from his chest.

It was like this every lunch. No judgment. No lectures. Just two misfits—one built like a boulder and the other like a blade—watching the world from the sidelines. Sanzu liked it that way. No expectations, no masks. Just silence, smoke, and the buzz of something real.

The wind picked up slightly, and the trees rustled above them.

“Midterms soon,” Mucho said.

Sanzu yawned. “Yeah. Gonna ace it with a crayon and half a hangover.”

“You’re a real piece of work.”

“And you love it.”

They sat there as the football team dissolved into shouting and chest-bumping chaos. Sanzu drained the last of his milk, crumpled the carton, and flicked it into a trash can ten feet away without looking.

Perfect aim. Just like always.

The sun had sunk just a little lower in the sky by now, warming the field in a late afternoon gold that made everything—sweat, laughter, even failure—look more cinematic than it deserved. The shouts from the football team began to die down, replaced by the low hum of speakers being packed away, shoes scuffing the pavement, and grumbled plans for dinner.

Sanzu hadn’t moved, still perched on the same concrete wall, one leg swinging idly, his smoke burned down to a stub, pink milk long finished, crushed carton under his boot. Mucho was still beside him, arms folded over his chest, head tilted back slightly as he watched clouds slide slowly across the sky like they were on something stronger than nicotine.

Then, out of nowhere:

“There’s a party at Koko Hajime’s place this weekend,” Mucho said, casual as hell.

Sanzu turned his head slowly, suspicious. “And this is relevant to me because…?”

Mucho smirked without looking at him. “It’s a house party. Rich kid house party. That kind where you open a bathroom door and regret it for the rest of your life.”

Sanzu groaned, dramatically. “So it’s an orgy with background music.”

“Pretty much.”

“I don’t do crowds, Mucho.”

Mucho finally looked at him, brows raised. “You are the crowd.”

“Exactly,” Sanzu said, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “Imagine willingly walking into a place full of drunk halfwits, over-perfumed girls, EDM remixes of songs no one asked for, and horny idiots dry-humping on antique couches. Like I need to see someone cry in a laundry room because their ex made out with a barista on a ping-pong table.”

Mucho let out a deep laugh—one of those genuine, unfiltered ones that cracked the moment wide open.

“I didn’t say you had to dance or make out on someone’s dad’s desk,” he said. “I’m saying come hang. Chill. Me and my crew’ll be there. You know Hanma? He’s fun when he’s drunk. Creepy, but fun.”

Sanzu gave him a look that translated roughly to: That makes it worse. Hanma? The guy from the football team who was famous for always picking fights with any DJ he sees? 

Mucho shrugged. “I get it. You hate people.”

“No, I just like watching them more than being one of them.”

“Same difference.”

There was a pause. The kind that hung between two people who knew they weren’t talking about just a party.

Then Mucho added, quieter this time, “Still… you should think about it.”

Sanzu squinted at him, skeptical. “Why?”

“Because being smart and angry in your dorm room only gets you so far. Sometimes it’s good to show up. Be seen. Shake the cage a little.”

Sanzu leaned back again, eyes half-closed, letting the sun hit his face. “You know the last time I went to a party, someone tried to touch my face.”

Mucho raised a brow. “Your face?”

“Yeah. Said I had ‘tragic beauty.’ I almost bit him.”

Mucho just grinned. “Well, maybe don’t bite anyone this time.”

“I’ll consider it,” Sanzu said, voice dripping with fake diplomacy. “But I’m bringing my own smokes. And if anyone throws up on my shoes, I’ll set the house on fire.”

“Fair.”

They sat there in silence again, the kind of silence that felt like a handshake. The football team had mostly cleared out, save for a few stragglers kicking around a ball and arguing over who owed who lunch. Somewhere in the distance, a speaker blared someone’s awful playlist from a dorm window.

Sanzu watched it all, detached, thoughtful.

A party at Koko’s. A mansion full of pretense and perfume. Lights, lies, and bodies tangled on expensive couches.

It wasn’t his scene. It wasn’t his anything. But Mucho asked. And for some reason, that made it harder to say no.

The sky was beginning to dim, folding itself into the early stages of dusk. Clouds gathered in loose clusters above the tall dorm buildings, their shadow crawling across the concrete like something watching. Students shuffled back from classes, voices low, energy spent, some laughing, others dead silent with their headphones in.

Sanzu hated this hour.

The air was thick. Warm and heavy, like everything was too full—of chatter, of fake plans, of people who didn’t know when to shut up. His head was a fog of half-thoughts. The idea of that stupid party still lingered at the back of his brain like smoke he hadn’t exhaled yet. His feet moved on autopilot, dragging him back toward the dorm, hoodie sleeves rolled up, fingers twitching like they missed a cigarette already.

He made a turn past the stairwell, sharp and quick—

—and slammed into someone. Hard.

His shoulder hit bone and muscle, and the impact knocked him back a step. The strawberry milk buzz he’d been riding on evaporated immediately.

“The fuck—” Sanzu hissed, his head snapping up, eyes narrowing into slits, tone already murder.

Then he saw who it was.

Tall, lean, jaw sharp enough to cut glass, hair swept back with careless perfection, headphones looped around his neck, eyes as cold and unreadable as blank paper.

Rindou. Fucking. Haitani.

Sanzu’s lip curled. “You lost, prince?”

Rindou looked down at him, unmoved. Like bumping into someone wasn’t even worth blinking over. His eyes flicked lazily over Sanzu, from his bandaged knuckles to the milk carton print on his sleeve.

Then he clicked his tongue and muttered, “Watch where you walk, trash.”

That did it.

Sanzu let out a short, sharp laugh. “You serious?”

Rindou tilted his head slightly, the kind of slow, deliberate motion people make right before throwing a punch or dismissing someone forever. “Yeah. I am.”

“God,” Sanzu muttered, shaking his head with an incredulous grin. “You’re exactly what I thought. Arrogant. Empty. And so far up your own ass you probably echo when you talk.”

Rindou took a step closer. Not aggressive—but something worse. Controlled. Calculated.

“You’re that first-year everyone’s whispering about,” he said coolly. “Sanzu, right? With the attitude problem and a nicotine addiction. Supposed to be smart or whatever. Guess brains don’t come with manners.”

Sanzu leaned in too, eyes glinting with delight now, the kind of unhinged glee that meant danger wasn’t far behind. “Guess money doesn’t come with personality, huh?”

The hallway had emptied. Echoes bounced off the walls. Just the two of them, two volatile wires, too close. Both still. Neither backing down.

Rindou’s voice dropped. “Stay out of my way.”

Sanzu smirked like a blade. “If I ever see your way, I’ll spit on it.”

A full beat of silence. Tension like stretched wire.

Then Rindou scoffed, brushing past him like he didn’t weigh enough to register. Sanzu’s shoulder tensed, eyes following him until the other boy vanished around the corner, footsteps smooth and unhurried.

The moment he was gone, Sanzu exhaled, low and tight. His jaw clenched.

What the hell is he doing near my dorm?

He didn’t know. Didn’t care. Didn’t want to care.

But the heat in his blood didn’t go away. Not for minutes after. Not even when he reached his room and the door slammed behind Sanzu like a shot fired into silence.

He stood in the entryway of his shared dorm room, chest rising and falling a little too fast, as if the hallway encounter had cracked open something inside him and the pieces were still rattling. He could feel the leftover heat in his blood—like he’d swallowed a lighter.

The dorm light flickered once, buzzed softly. Nothing new.

“Whoa,” came Baji’s voice from inside, low and casual, with that usual edge of mischief. “Who pissed in your cereal?”

Sanzu blinked and looked up.

There stood Keisuke Baji, shirtless, steam still rising faintly from his skin, a towel slung dangerously low around his waist, and his long black hair dripping water onto the shitty linoleum floor. He was wiping his face with another towel, unfazed, barefoot, and completely at home in the chaos of their shared living space—which looked like a frat house halfway through a natural disaster.

Socks on the desk. Cigarette cartons on the window ledge. A stack of books under a cracked mirror. Two beds—one neat (Sanzu’s), one a damn battlefield (Baji’s).

Sanzu dropped his bag with a thud and collapsed onto his bed.

“You’re not gonna believe who the fuck I just ran into,” he muttered, voice sharp.

“Ran into?” Baji asked, moving to the window to open it a crack. “Like, literally?”

“Shoulder check. Full hit.” Sanzu stared up at the ceiling like it had wronged him. “Fucking Rindou Haitani.”

That made Baji pause. Just for a second.

He turned around, one eyebrow raised, towel draped over his shoulders now. “Rindou? Why the hell was he around here?”

“I don’t know,” Sanzu growled, sitting up. “He was walking near the east stairwell. We bumped into each other and he talked like he owned the whole damn building. Arrogant piece of shit.”

Baji grinned, dark and amused. “You two must’ve been delightful.”

“I was fine,” Sanzu snapped. “He’s the one that called me trash.”

Baji let out a barking laugh. “I knew you’d hate him. You two got the same attitude. Like cats with knives.”

Sanzu glared. “Take that back.”

“Nope.” Baji walked over to his side of the room, opened his closet, and pulled out something—a torn, pitiful piece of what used to be a jersey. “Speaking of Rindou, actually…”

Sanzu raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“He came by earlier.” Baji shook the shirt. “Wanted to show me the damage on my football tee. Thought I’d laugh.”

“What the hell happened to it?” Sanzu squinted at the giant tear down the front. “Get into a blender or something?”

Baji snorted. “Nah. Fight. Some prick on the opposing team tried to trip Inupi during scrim last week. I called him out, fists got involved. Someone grabbed my shirt during the chaos. Ripped it straight off me like it was a damn anime scene.”

Sanzu blinked. “That explains why half the school saw your abs on Twitter.”

“You’re welcome,” Baji said smugly.

“And Rindou?” Sanzu prompted. “He really came here just to show you your destroyed shirt?”

“Yeah,” Baji said, throwing it aside and dropping into his desk chair with a creak. “Said I should frame it. Called it ‘battle-worn.’ Dramatic bastard.”

Sanzu’s face twisted. “So he knows where we live.”

“He knows I live here,” Baji corrected, drying his hair with the towel now. “Probably just put two and two together.”

Sanzu groaned and flopped back again. “Great. The football prince of campus is gonna start haunting my floor.”

“You sure you didn’t like seeing him?” Baji teased, grinning now. “He’s your type. Tall, deadly, emotionally constipated.”

“I will throw you out the window.”

“You won’t. I’m wet and towel-wrapped. You’d lose.”

Sanzu tossed a pillow at him anyway.

It hit Baji square in the chest. He caught it, grinning, then leaned back in his chair and looked over at his roommate—the violent genius with a nicotine habit and no patience for social bullshit.

“He’s not worth it, y’know,” Baji said after a beat. “Rindou. I’ve played with him for months now. He’s good at what he does, but he’s cold. Got that bored-rich-kid syndrome. You’ll hate every second you spend near him.”

Sanzu’s voice was low. “Good. Makes it easier to stay the hell away.”

But in his mind—he was still hearing that cold voice, still seeing those calm, sharp eyes.

Stay out of my way.

Sanzu didn’t reply. Just reached into his drawer, pulled out a new cigarette, and lit it.

The room filled with smoke and silence. And something else, too. Something electric and unresolved 

The smoke curled from Sanzu’s cigarette, threading up toward the ceiling like it was trying to escape the weight of the conversation that had just ended. He lay sprawled across his bed, one foot hanging off the side, the other bent at the knee. His hoodie was bunched up under his neck like a pillow, eyes narrowed as he watched the smoke trails move.

Baji was back at his desk now, finally pulling on a pair of sweatpants, towel draped over his shoulders, hair still wet and dripping onto the floor he swore he’d mop “tomorrow.” He hummed some tune under his breath, tapping on his cracked phone screen, when—

“Hey,” Sanzu muttered suddenly.

Baji glanced over. “Mm?”

Sanzu exhaled slowly, cigarette between his fingers, gaze still on the ceiling. “That party. Koko’s. You going?”

There was a long pause.

Baji turned slowly in his chair, expression amused—almost suspicious. “Wait. You’re asking about the party?”

Sanzu shifted his eyes toward him. “Just curious.”

Baji stared. “Bullshit. You’re never curious unless it involves cigarettes, drama, or food.”

Sanzu shrugged one shoulder. “Mucho invited me.”

That got a real reaction.

“Mucho?” Baji sat up straighter. “He invited you to Koko’s party?”

“Yeah. Said I could hang with him and his crew so I don’t stab someone in the middle of a dance circle.”

Baji let out a bark of laughter. “That sounds exactly like something he’d say.”

Sanzu took another drag. “So? You going?”

“Of course I’m going,” Baji replied without hesitation, grinning. “Everyone is. Third years, second years, even the junkies who barely show up for class unless there’s free food.”

Sanzu raised a brow. “Everyone?”

“I mean, the whole damn football team’s going. Shion’s already bragging about doing body shots off a med student. Hanma’s planning on DJing in Koko’s home theater—completely uninvited, of course. Peh said he’s bringing three dates, none of whom know about each other. And Kazutora? He’s making a bet with Inupi on who’ll get kicked out first.”

Sanzu blinked slowly. “Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah.” Baji chuckled. “Koko’s parties are always chaos. Rich-boy chaos. Mansion, private bar, catered food, indoor pool, probably one guy who thinks cocaine is a vitamin.”

“Sounds like a mess.”

“It is a mess,” Baji said, leaning forward with a smirk. “But it’s the best kind of mess. Loud, sweaty, probably illegal, and you get to see people destroy their reputations in real time.”

Sanzu tilted his head back again, taking a long drag and thinking.

He wasn’t the party type. Everyone knew that. Hell, he knew that. Loud music and sweaty bodies made him want to dig into his own skull. But something about this one… something about the way Mucho invited him, the way Baji described it like it was a battlefield more than a party—it didn’t feel like a celebration.

It felt like a test. A circus. A war zone. A masquerade for people pretending to be cool when they were just scared of being boring.

“…You’ll be there, right?” he asked, voice quieter than before.

Baji raised a brow again, but this time softer. “I already told you, yeah. Why?”

Sanzu took the cigarette from his mouth, flicked ash into an old can on his nightstand, and muttered, “Just don’t let me end up in a closet with a weeping stranger trying to trauma bond.”

Baji snorted. “I make zero promises.”

The two of them sat in silence after that—smoke thick in the air, tension faded, laughter still hanging like residue.

And somewhere beneath all that sarcasm and bravado, Sanzu realized something that made his stomach twist:

If everyone was going…

That meant he would be there too.

Rindou Haitani.

And parties had a way of forcing people into rooms they wouldn’t choose otherwise.

The shared locker room for the university’s football team was less of a facility and more of a post-apocalyptic war zone with better plumbing. Concrete floors slick with water, half-used towels draped over benches, shampoo bottles stolen from each other’s kits—no one remembered who brought what anymore—and the lingering, suffocating mix of body spray, sweat, and hot steam.

The showers ran like thunder, eight showerheads roaring at once, water slapping tile. Conversations were shouted over the noise, echoed, and occasionally censored by a flying bar of soap.

Rindou Haitani stood under one of the middle heads, his back to the wall, water cascading down the sharp lines of his shoulders and jaw. His hair was wet, slicked back, eyes half-closed in a rare moment of quiet. He didn’t speak much here, didn’t laugh like the others. He wasn’t loud. But he listened.

And in this room, where chaos reigned, listening meant knowing everything.

“Brooo, Koko’s party’s gonna be insane,” Shion called out from the end shower, lathering his neon-pink mohawk with something that smelled like cherries and gasoline. “Last time I made out with two girls and I think one of them stole my earring.”

“That wasn’t a girl,” Kazutora hollered back, dodging a towel whip from Peh. “That was a guy named Jun with really good eyeliner. He’s in theater.”

Shion paused, blinked, then grinned. “Still hot.”

“Oh my god,” Inupi groaned, rubbing shampoo into his hair like the entire conversation was physically hurting him.

“Hanma said he’s bringing speakers that aren’t even legal in Japan,” Mochi laughed, stepping out of the shower with steam billowing around him like some bare-chested beast. “Dude’s gonna blow out Koko’s security system.”

“Don’t even joke,” Peh added, drying off his hair aggressively. “Koko’s got the money, but he’s paranoid as hell. Remember last time? That hallway camera caught us lighting a joint in his mom’s sauna.”

“That was your joint!” Kazutora shouted, slipping on the wet floor and grabbing onto Shion for balance.

“My point still stands!”

Amid the mess, Rindou reached for a towel and dried his face with slow, methodical movements. His body moved on autopilot, but his ears stayed open.

That’s when he heard it.

From just beyond the shower area—over the clang of metal lockers and Baji’s unmistakable voice.

“Nah, I’m not going solo,” Baji was saying, towel slung over his shoulder, rummaging through his locker with one hand. “Sanzu might come with me.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Shion’s head popped out of the shower stall. “Sanzu? Your roommate Sanzu?”

“Yeah,” Baji confirmed, half-laughing. “Mucho invited him. He’s thinking about it.”

Kazutora whistled, towel draped around his waist, eyeliner from earlier practice still slightly smudged. “Damn. Didn’t see that one coming.”

“Did he get bribed?” Inupi asked.

“Nah,” Baji replied, chuckling. “He just said, ‘If someone pukes on my shoes I’ll set the house on fire,’ so I guess that’s his way of saying maybe.”

That drew a wave of laughter from most of them. Even Peh slapped a locker and wheezed.

But Rindou’s hands stilled. He didn’t react. Didn’t lift his head. He just stood at his locker, towel wrapped around his waist, hair dripping onto the floor, and let the name echo in his head:

Sanzu Haruchiyo.

The same first-year he’d shoulder-checked in the hallway. The one who looked like a problem wrapped in nicotine and smirks. The one who spat venom with every word, like he was born to start fights and keep them going.

And now he was coming to the party?

Interesting.

Rindou blinked slowly, face still unreadable, a storm cloud with no lightning yet. He said nothing, just slipped on his hoodie with careful precision as chaos exploded around him.

“Yo, Rindou!” Mochi’s voice rang from a few lockers down, shirtless, sunglasses on somehow indoors, because of course he was. “You bringing someone to the party or going in solo like a mysterious prince again?”

Rindou didn’t look up.

Just smirked faintly and replied, “Depends who’s there.”

He shut his locker with a sharp metallic clang, the sound crisp, final. And somewhere, buried deep beneath all the noise and heat and chatter, a part of him itched. Not curiosity. Not even annoyance. Something quieter. More dangerous. He would be there. So Rindou would be watching. And parties had a way of unmasking people. Even the ones who thought they had nothing left to hide.

The pavement was still slick from the early morning sprinklers, a shimmer of dew catching the sun in scattered halos across the university’s walkways. The air smelled of cut grass and engine oil—campus life waking up with a yawn and a stretch, students dragging their bags, half-asleep, into their morning classes.

Rindou Haitani walked with slow, steady strides through the center path of the east quad, water still dripping from the ends of his dark highligted hair, his black T-shirt damp and clinging to the defined lines of his abs and chest like second skin. He wore it like he didn’t notice, or didn’t care—which was the same thing with him.

Next to him strolled his older brother, Ran Haitani, who looked like he’d just stepped off the set of a crime film. His striped dress shirt was half-buttoned, sleeves rolled to his elbows, gold rings glinting as he flicked a toothpick between his fingers. There was a lazy confidence in his gait, the kind that made people move out of his way without understanding why.

And though the two of them couldn’t have looked more different in energy—Rindou quiet and calculating, Ran loud and venomous—there was no mistaking they were blood. They moved in sync, like sharks in formation.

Ran was mid-monologue, his voice smooth and sly. “So I heard Koko’s blowing half his allowance on this one. Imported drinks. Some DJ from Tokyo. Full guest list of degenerates and idiots. It’s gonna be a zoo. You better not ghost halfway through it again, Rin.”

Rindou didn’t reply. His gaze was fixed on something invisible, something past the trees, past the students. His body was here, but his mind had been trailing behind ever since the locker room.

Ran glanced over, smirking.

“Oi,” he said, nudging Rindou’s shoulder lightly. “You spacing out again? That whole mysterious, ‘I-don’t-give-a-damn’ thing only works when you’re not obviously daydreaming.”

Rindou blinked slowly, the edges of his thoughts catching up to him. His smirk curled at the corner of his lips, faint, almost lazy.

“…The first year,” he said finally.

Ran raised an eyebrow. “What first year?”

Rindou didn’t break stride. “Sanzu. Haruchiyo.”

Ran whistled low under his breath. “Oh. That one.”

“Mm.”

Ran laughed. “He’s got a reputation already. Stinks like smoke, punched a guy in his first week, and sleeps through lectures but still gets straight A’s. They say he threatened a professor with a lighter when she tried to take his phone.”

Rindou’s smirk deepened, but he didn’t confirm or deny. Ran tilted his head, watching his brother now instead of the trees. He wasn’t stupid. Rindou didn’t just mention people. He rarely brought anyone up at all unless they were a problem—or interesting enough to watch.

“You planning something?” Ran asked, tone more amused than concerned.

Rindou just slipped his hands into his pockets. “Might have some fun.”

Ran snorted. “That’s not how you usually define fun.”

Rindou didn’t respond. But there was something sharp in his eyes now. Something lit.

He wasn’t the kind of guy who chased people—not for friendship, not for rivalry, not for attention. But he had a sixth sense when someone was going to matter. And Sanzu? That one wasn’t like the others. He didn’t try to be liked, didn’t seek power—he was power, in a cracked, unpolished way. And people like that? You either avoided them or tested how far they’d go.

Rindou, unfortunately, had never been the avoiding type.

“Just don’t break the kid before the party even starts,” Ran muttered, nudging his shoulder again. “At least wait until he’s had a drink or two.”

Rindou let out a small, dry laugh. “No promises.”

They walked on, twin shadows cast long in the morning light. One smiling like he owned the world. The other like he might burn it.

Meanwhile

The midday sun had burned off the chill of morning, blanketing the campus in lazy gold. Students clustered in pockets of shade under wide trees, their laughter echoing across the courtyard. Somewhere nearby, a music student strummed a guitar under the library steps, and the clack of skateboard wheels on concrete kept tempo with the buzz of conversation.

Sanzu walked alongside Mucho, the taller boy’s hands jammed into his pockets, their strides slow and crooked as they weaved past the crowds.

“So,” Mucho said, glancing sideways at him, “you gonna come or what?”

Sanzu was sipping from a strawberry milk carton, the straw crushed slightly from his habitual chewing. His other hand played with his lighter, flicking it open, closed, open, closed.

“I’ll go,” he muttered, not looking at him. “Might hang around with Baji so I don’t murder anyone.”

Mucho snorted. “That’s the spirit.”

Sanzu shrugged. “It’s not like I’m going to dance or some shit. I’ll stand around, judge people, maybe trip someone if they annoy me.”

“Sounds like a dream night.”

They passed a group of art students painting on the grass, some theater kids practicing lines by the fountain. Mucho was talking again, something about whether they should pre-drink or just rob Koko’s imported stash. But Sanzu had stopped listening.

His eyes narrowed.

Because from the opposite side of the wide concrete walkway, weaving between students like they didn’t exist, came Rindou Haitani—hair still wet from his earlier shower, now air-dried into damp waves that fell around his sharp features like a casual warning. He wore a black long-sleeve that clung to his frame, his phone in one hand, a cigarette in the other, unlit for once.

And beside him strolled Ran Haitani, laughing at something he’d just said, all gold chains and unearned arrogance. Together, they looked like something out of a slow-motion scene—too pretty to ignore, too dangerous to approach.

Sanzu’s lips thinned around his straw. He didn’t say anything. But Rindou looked up. And saw him.

Their eyes met across the moving bodies of students, the same way wild animals lock eyes across a clearing—two predators circling the edge of unfamiliar territory. There was no friendliness, no acknowledgment. Just recognition.

And then Rindou smirked.Not a polite smile. Not even mocking. It was slow, deliberate, and threaded with something unreadable. Something coiled.

Sanzu’s hand curled tighter around his milk carton. The straw bent until it cracked. His brow furrowed—just slightly. Enough for Rindou to notice.

Ran looked over at his brother, catching the shift in mood. He followed his line of sight and spotted Sanzu standing beside Mucho.

“That him?” he asked casually, as if commenting on a passing breeze.

Rindou didn’t answer. Just took a slow drag of air through his teeth and kept walking.

Across the quad, Sanzu stood dead still, milk still in hand, lighter in his pocket.

Mucho raised a brow. “What was that about?”

Sanzu turned back toward their path, jaw tight. “Nothing. Just a parasite who thinks he owns the sidewalk.”

Mucho chuckled, not buying it for a second. “Uh-huh.”

They kept walking. But even after they turned the corner and the sun filtered between the buildings, the aftertaste of that stare lingered like smoke in the back of Sanzu’s throat. Because Rindou hadn’t said a word. And still, somehow, it felt like he started something.

They took the long way past the lecture halls, the quieter side of campus where shade pooled at the edges of the buildings, and footsteps echoed against concrete walls. The trees lining the walkway swayed lazily in the warm breeze, leaves whispering secrets between them as two shadows moved beneath.

Sanzu pulled out a half-crushed box of cigarettes from his pocket, the cardboard stained slightly at the corners. His fingers moved with thoughtless rhythm as he slid one out, already reaching for his lighter.

“Got another?” Mucho asked, flicking ash from his voice more than his hands.

“Obviously.” Sanzu was already tilting the box toward him, brows knit as he lit the one between his own lips. “You think I carry these just for me?”

But before he could fish out another stick, Mucho leaned in with quiet, calm confidence—and plucked the cigarette straight from Sanzu’s mouth.

Sanzu’s eyes widened, not in panic, but in the kind of startled awareness reserved for fight-or-fuck moments.

Mucho brought it to his own lips, slow and unfazed, fingers brushing Sanzu’s jaw just briefly in the transfer. Then he lit it with the same lighter Sanzu hadn’t even realized he’d handed over. A click. A flame. Smoke.

He exhaled directly, the warm curl of it dancing between them before drifting upward, half of it caught in the collar of Sanzu’s shirt.

Sanzu blinked, lips still slightly parted, the taste of ash and someone else’s nerve still lingering on his tongue. Mucho didn’t break eye contact.

He stood taller, broader, heavier in his frame—his presence not demanding space, but owning it. Like he didn’t have to prove anything because gravity already bent in his direction.

“You look better when you’re not scowling,” Mucho said, voice low, even.

Sanzu scoffed under his breath, stepping back half a pace—not out of fear, but control. His heart wasn’t racing, not exactly. Just…paying attention.

“And you look better when you shut the fuck up,” he muttered.

Mucho smiled like he’d been given a compliment. “Cute.”

It wasn’t flirting. Not really. It was dominance. Posturing. The sort of slow-burn test of will between people who didn’t trust easily but respected sharp edges.

Sanzu turned his head, running a hand through his hair, frustration—or maybe intrigue—humming beneath his skin.

And from across the quad, just beyond a tree-lined path, Rindou Haitani watched.

He stood still, partially hidden between a line of stone columns, one earbud half-in, the other dangling. Ran had walked ahead, talking on the phone, distracted. But Rindou’s attention was locked.

His gaze cut through the shade like glass.

He watched as Mucho stood too close, as Sanzu didn’t stop him, as the cigarette passed like a whisper between teeth. He saw the smoke. The narrowed eyes. The slight recoil. The unreadable smirk on Mucho’s face. The tiny flicker of hesitation in Sanzu’s.

And then he scoffed. A short, amused breath. Dismissive. His tongue pressed into his cheek as he leaned back against the stone.

So that’s how it is.

He didn’t feel jealousy—that wasn’t his thing. But he did feel something. A vague irritation at the image. A tightening in his jaw he didn’t bother hiding. Because there was something about Sanzu that wasn’t meant to be predictable. Wasn’t meant to be touched by just anyone.

Mucho? Please.

Still, he said nothing. Did nothing. Just lit his own cigarette and turned away, smoke curling behind him like a trailing laugh.

If Sanzu thought the party would be harmless, he was about to be very wrong.

The dorm room was a mess of unmade beds, scattered textbooks, the sharp tang of cologne, and the constant low thump of bass coming from Baji’s speaker in the corner. It smelled like fabric softener, cigarette smoke, and a hint of sweat — the lived-in scent of boys who didn’t pretend to care about rules.

Sanzu stood in front of the half-open closet, arms crossed, gaze narrowing at the selection of clothes as if any of them had personally offended him.

“This is all your stuff?” he asked, tone dry.

“Yeah.” Baji was shirtless again, as usual, digging through a drawer for socks. “You think I’m gonna let you show up to Koko’s party in that psych ward hoodie and those damn bloodstained Converse?”

“They’re not bloodstained. It’s juice.”

“Bullshit. You don’t even drink juice.”

Sanzu scowled, then looked back at the shirts hanging limply from mismatched hangers. Black, black, more black. Leather, mesh, denim. Chains. Safety pins. Most of it looked like it had been stolen from backstage at a punk show. And still, it suited him more than he cared to admit.

Baji finally yanked a button-down from the closet, holding it up with one hand. It was charcoal grey, slightly oversized, with frayed cuffs and slits near the sides — effortlessly cool in that way Baji always managed to be, without trying.

“This one,” he said. “Goes hard. Roll the sleeves. Leave the top two buttons open. Boom, you’re the mysterious bastard people won’t stop staring at.”

“I already am that bastard,” Sanzu muttered, but took the shirt anyway.

Baji grinned, teeth sharp, and tossed a pair of black ripped jeans onto Sanzu’s bed. “There. Outfit complete. You can thank me when someone tries to take you home.”

Sanzu made a face. “I’d rather take cyanide.”

“Your loss,” Baji said with a shrug. “I hear Koko’s friends are wild. You might even enjoy yourself if you stop growling at everyone.”

Sanzu pulled off his hoodie and shirt beneath, tossing them over his chair. His back was pale, dotted with a few faint scars — like the ghost of a story he never told. The new shirt slipped on easily, sleeves rolled up just above his elbows, collar open just enough to be careless. He tugged on the jeans next, not too tight, not too loose.

He turned toward the cracked mirror above Baji’s desk, eyeing himself.

“…Shit,” he muttered under his breath.

“What?”

“I look hot.”

Baji laughed from his side of the room, zipping up his own jacket. “Told you. You just needed a stylist.”

Sanzu ran a hand through his hair, which was messier than usual but it worked — soft pink strands tousled like he’d just walked out of a fight or a very, very good kiss.

“I still don’t like parties,” he said after a pause.

“No one does,” Baji replied, grabbing a pack of gum from his desk. “But we go anyway. That’s college, baby.”

Sanzu glanced toward the window. The sky was already beginning to darken, sunset dripping gold over the horizon. From across campus, music was already beginning to rise — distant, rhythmic, inevitable. Like thunder rumbling just before a storm.

He turned back to Baji. “You sure everyone’s going?”

Baji popped a piece of gum in his mouth. “You asking if Rindou’s gonna be there?”

Sanzu glared. “No.”

“Uh-huh.”

Sanzu grabbed his lighter and stuck it into his pocket. “Let’s get this over with before I change my mind.”

Baji smirked and opened the door.

“You say that now,” he said, throwing an arm over Sanzu’s shoulder as they stepped into the hall, “but wait till you see the chaos that’s waiting.”

And down the corridor they walked — two devils dressed for battle, one smirking, the other scowling — toward a night that neither of them was prepared for.

The walk from their dorm to Koko Hajime’s house wasn’t long, but it felt like a descent into another world. As the sun vanished entirely behind the rooftops, night blanketed the sky, and the sound of bass was already echoing across the lawn before Sanzu and Baji even turned the corner.

Koko’s house—if you could call a two-story mansion with tinted windows, a sprawling balcony, and a marble lion statue a house—was glowing from the inside out. Lights pulsed from the living room to the yard, shifting in time with music that was already vibrating in the air like a heartbeat. People were everywhere—on the porch, sprawled across the lawn, crowded by the door, pouring out of every open window like smoke from a burning building.

As soon as they stepped into the house, chaos hit like a slap to the face.

The living room was packed, bodies brushing past each other, drinks raised high, conversations shouted over thumping music. The air reeked of cheap beer, too much perfume, weed, and too many egos in one room.

“Welcome to hell,” Baji shouted over the noise, shoving a cup of something vaguely glowing into Sanzu’s hand.

Sanzu raised a brow, sniffed it once, then passed it to some girl who smiled at him like she’d won a prize.

The music was pounding—some remix of a remix—and by the DJ booth, Hanma Shuji was already half-drunk and halfway through threatening the DJ.

“I SAID SKIP THIS ONE—NOBODY LIKES HOUSE MUSIC!” Hanma barked, slamming his palm onto the table. The DJ just kept bobbing his head with the headphones on, muttering “bro chill” like it was a defense spell. Someone dragged Hanma away, laughing. Hanma let himself be dragged, only after knocking over a speaker for good measure.

Sanzu’s eyes slid across the room.

On the far left side of the house, by the open bar and the ridiculous custom ice luge with Koko’s name frozen into it, the football team had claimed their territory. It wasn’t hard to tell where they were—too loud, too large, too confident.

Peh and Kazutora were locked in an intense arm-wrestling match over the counter, drinks spilled everywhere.

Inupi sat perched on the kitchen counter, legs swinging, casually texting with a cigarette between his lips while someone sat on the floor beside him ranting about astrology.

Shion was already making out with someone pressed against the fridge, and no one seemed to care.

Mochi laughed too loud while pouring a bottle of vodka into a blender full of Red Bull, no one daring to stop him.

Rindou stood in the middle of it all, quiet but unmistakable. He wore a dark button-up tucked into black slacks, a ring on every other finger, drink in hand. He wasn’t laughing, wasn’t yelling. He was watching.

And when Sanzu stepped in, that cold gaze found him instantly.

Like radar. Like a hawk.

It wasn’t overt. Rindou didn’t say anything. Just raised his drink slightly, as if in mock greeting. A smirk touched his lips. A look that said, So you came after all.

Sanzu didn’t react. Didn’t flinch, didn’t scowl. He turned his head deliberately away and scanned the room.

“Where’s Mucho?” he muttered to Baji, voice low, eyes sharp.

“Probably outside on the balcony,” Baji said, leading them through the crowd. “He always chills there. Says he likes to ‘watch the whole show like it’s a play.’ You two are freakishly similar, you know that?”

Sanzu didn’t answer. Behind him, he could still feel that gaze. Heavy. Persistent. Rindou hadn’t stopped watching him.

But Sanzu had learned long ago that if you feed a predator attention, it bites back harder. So instead, he kept walking, shoving through bodies, brushing off hands that tried to pull him into conversations, ignoring half-sincere compliments and fully-drunk stares.

He only had one goal for the night—and it wasn’t dealing with the Haitani circus.

He needed a cigarette. He needed Mucho.

And he needed to not give in to the way Rindou Haitani looked at him like he was already his favorite sin.

Sanzu finally slipped past the last cluster of bodies and pushed open the tall sliding glass doors that led out to the balcony. The air hit him like a relief—cooler, fresher, only faintly tainted by smoke and perfume. Out here, the noise from inside was dulled, distant—like a riot happening behind glass.

The view was decent. The backyard stretched out beneath them, dimly lit by string lights and dotted with drunk students making fools of themselves. Someone had already fallen into the pool. A girl screamed at someone to “stop filming.” Another guy was throwing up near the hedges like it was a spiritual experience.

But Sanzu wasn’t looking at any of that.

He found Mucho immediately, standing by the railing like he belonged there—like he’d been sculpted for that exact spot. One arm rested along the edge, his head tilted back slightly, a cigarette glowing between his fingers. His shirt was unbuttoned at the top, sleeves rolled casually up to his forearms, and his expression was the same unreadable calm he always wore.

He wasn’t alone.

Around him stood a small circle of his friends—older, sharper looking, all second or third years. Men with cocky smirks and loose limbs, drinking like it was their last night alive. And every single one of them turned when they saw Sanzu approaching.

“Hey,” one of them said, elbowing Mucho lightly. “Look who decided to show. Is this the freshman you’re always talkin’ about?”

“That him?” another grinned, eyes scanning Sanzu like he was a new car model.

Sanzu didn’t blink. He just lit his cigarette without a word and leaned against the stone railing beside Mucho like none of them existed.

“Don’t start,” Mucho said, tone low but firm. He didn’t even glance at them, but the warning was clear.

His friends backed off a little, but the smirks stayed. One of them muttered something about “damn cold-blooded types” and took another sip of his beer.

Sanzu exhaled smoke in a thin line, eyes scanning the chaos below.

“You made it,” Mucho said after a moment, nudging his elbow lightly against Sanzu’s.

“Regretting it already.”

“You always do. Yet here you are.”

Sanzu didn’t reply. He wasn’t in the mood for small talk, not when the bass was making the rail vibrate beneath his fingertips and people below were doing tequila shots off someone’s abs.

He took another drag, then felt fingers brush his lips. In one smooth, lazy motion, Mucho reached over and plucked the cigarette right out of his mouth.

Again.

Sanzu blinked, expression twitching just slightly, but he didn’t stop him. Didn’t pull away.

Mucho brought it to his own mouth, exhaled a long, low drag, and turned to look at him. His voice dropped half a register, just above the music, just for him.

“You let me take that awful easy.”

Sanzu’s gaze flicked up to him from under his lashes, a subtle side-eye that could’ve sliced through brick. “Would you shut up if I didn’t?”

“Nah,” Mucho said, smirking, smoke curling from his lips. “But you let me anyway.”

Sanzu didn’t answer. Didn’t flirt back. But he didn’t move either.

Mucho leaned a bit closer, just enough that Sanzu could feel the heat of him against his side, the press of his forearm barely grazing his own.

Down below, someone screamed. Glass shattered. A pair of drunk guys wrestled each other into the hedge while a third filmed and laughed hysterically. Mucho didn’t look away.

“Everyone’s trying too hard in there,” he muttered, still watching Sanzu. “You’re the only one out here who looks like he already owns the place.”

Sanzu scoffed. “I don’t want to own anything. I just want my fucking cigarette back.”

Mucho chuckled, then gently placed the half-finished stick back between Sanzu’s lips, eyes flicking downward for just a second before meeting his again.

“There you go, pinkie.”

Sanzu smoked in silence. The nickname should’ve annoyed him. It didn’t.

Neither of them said anything after that. They stood side by side in silence, overlooking the chaos of the party like kings above a ruined kingdom.

And from the second-floor window, hidden behind half-drawn curtains and a trail of cigarette smoke of his own, Rindou Haitani watched the whole damn thing.

The cigarette had burned out in Sanzu’s fingers, but he hadn’t lit another. The music below had shifted into something heavier, bass thick enough to drown in, and the chaos of the house had only grown louder, sweatier, more unhinged.

Mucho was still beside him, eyes casually scanning the people below. He leaned against the railing like he was born there, like nothing could touch him — not the shouting, not the noise, not the cold sharpness in Sanzu’s eyes.

“You haven’t had a drink, have you?” Mucho asked, almost offhand, gaze still forward.

Sanzu’s lip twitched into a faint smirk. “Why would I drink when watching people act like idiots is already entertaining enough?”

“You sound like someone who’s never had fun.”

“I’ve had fun,” Sanzu replied flatly. “Just not the kind that makes me lose brain cells.”

Mucho chuckled, then turned to face him completely. “So, that’s a no.”

Sanzu didn’t answer. Which was an answer.

With one eyebrow raised, Mucho reached forward — not rough, not fast — and took Sanzu by the wrist. His fingers wrapped around the bone there, warm and casual like he did it often. Sanzu instinctively stiffened, eyes darting to the contact. But again, he didn’t pull away.

“Come on,” Mucho said simply, tugging him toward the stairs. “We’re gonna fix that.”

Sanzu let him lead.

The walk down the stairs was like descending into a living jungle — bodies shoulder-to-shoulder, the air thick with alcohol and perfume and smoke. Music pumped through the walls like the house itself had a heartbeat.

They pushed through the crowd, people parting slightly at the sight of Mucho — respected, feared, known. His presence always carved space around him. And trailing right behind, Sanzu moved like a shadow in velvet — the kind people stared at but didn’t dare stop.

They made their way to the football team corner — and gods, if chaos had a nucleus, this was it.

Kazutora was dancing shirtless on a table while someone chanted his name.

Peh had lost a game of shot roulette and was dramatically pretending to pass out, limbs flopped over the couch.

Inupi was now playing bartender with an entire bottle of tequila, pouring shots with one hand and texting with the other.

And in the middle of it all stood Baji, grinning wildly, holding a red cup and shouting at Shion to “stop dry-humping the damn fridge.”

Mucho walked straight up to him. Without warning, he took the drink right out of Baji’s hand.

“Hey!” Baji barked, hand still half-raised. Then he saw who it was. “Oh, it’s you. And the devil.” His grin widened when he spotted Sanzu behind him. “Yoooo. Look who finally crawled out of his crypt.”

Sanzu rolled his eyes. “You’re three sips away from alcohol poisoning, Baji. I’m surprised you can still stand.”

“I’m not,” Baji replied proudly. “I’m leaning.”

Mucho smirked and turned toward Sanzu, drink still in hand. “Try this one.”

Sanzu gave the cup a skeptical glance. Mucho didn’t push it into his hands. Instead, he raised it to his own lips first, took a slow sip, and then held it out.

“I’ll share,” he said. His voice was low, laced with amusement — but not mocking. “It’s not poisoned. Yet.”

Sanzu took it. Sipped. And hated that it didn’t taste bad. Just strong enough to sting a little.

Their fingers brushed at the handoff, and for a moment — just a breath — Mucho didn’t let go. Sanzu stared at him, that same calm fury always simmering behind his eyes.

And then he felt it. A gaze from across the room. Heavy. Unblinking. Familiar.

His head turned slightly. And sure enough — Rindou Haitani, leaning against the wall by the staircase, a glass in his hand, his hair pushed back, eyes cold and fixed on him like a predator denied its prey.

Sanzu’s mouth curved, slow and deliberate, into a smug little half-smirk. He lifted the drink to his lips again — and then passed it back to Mucho.

Letting him take another sip from the same rim. Rindou didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

But Sanzu saw it — the slight clench of his jaw, the subtle twitch of his fingers. And it was enough.

Sanzu turned his back to him completely, drink now returned to Mucho, his attention solely focused on the taller boy beside him.

“You’re really trying tonight, huh?” Sanzu said quietly, almost amused.

Mucho leaned down slightly, the corner of his mouth near Sanzu’s ear. “Maybe. Or maybe I just like the way you look when you’re trying not to enjoy yourself.”

Sanzu didn’t answer. Didn’t smile. But he took another sip — and didn’t stop him

As the night went on, it also bled on.

The house around them pulsed with life, reckless and glittering — but it had all begun to fade into background noise for Sanzu. The music blurred into one long bassline. The laughter, shouting, drunken howls — they were nothing more than static now. All that was real, all that felt present, was the man standing far too close beside him.

Mucho.

He still held the cup between them, still sipping from the same side that Sanzu had. The exchange had been easy, wordless, like something they’d done a hundred times before. Like there was nothing strange about the fact that the distance between their mouths had been breath-thin.

“You keep looking at me like that,” Sanzu muttered, tilting his head lazily toward him, “I’m gonna start thinking this party wasn’t about the drinks after all.”

Mucho’s grin was low and slow. “I told you to come for a reason.”

“Yeah?” Sanzu raised an eyebrow. “And what reason would that be?”

“Maybe I like company that doesn’t trip over its own tongue trying to impress people.”

“Or maybe you like being the one who does the impressing,” Sanzu fired back, lips brushing the rim of the cup before he drank again. “Always the smooth one. Always in control.”

Mucho leaned in slightly, shoulder to shoulder now. His voice was quiet, meant only for Sanzu. “There’s nothing wrong with friends being like this.”

Sanzu’s eyes flicked to him sharply. He took another drink — slower this time — before passing the cup right back into Mucho’s hand.

“Friends, huh?”

Mucho met his gaze. “Sure. Close ones.”

Sanzu scoffed under his breath, the sound sharp and smoky. “Didn’t know friends shared cigarettes, drinks, and… whatever the hell this is.”

“This?” Mucho smirked. “This is just talking.”

Sanzu’s mouth curled, barely. “You tryna get me drunk for a specific reason, Mucho?” he said, voice silked with teasing. “’Cause if you are… you really don’t need to.”

The smirk dropped from Mucho’s face — just for a second. His lips parted slightly in surprise, and his eyes flashed — like something flared to life behind them he hadn’t quite expected.

And then, he laughed. Low. Warm. A little shocked.

“Well, shit.”

Sanzu leaned one arm on the balcony rail, side to side with him now, gaze sharp but unreadable. “What? Didn’t think I’d call you out?”

“No,” Mucho said, gaze narrowing with a grin that was half-challenge, half-something else. “Didn’t think you’d flirt back.”

Sanzu’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m not flirting.”

“You sure?”

“I just said you didn’t need to try so hard. Doesn’t mean I want you to.”

Mucho stared at him for a long moment. “I think you do.”

Sanzu took the cup from him one last time. Drank. Slowly. Kept his eyes locked with Mucho’s the entire time.

And just as he pulled away from the rim, he said it, soft but sharp:

“Maybe I do.”

Mucho’s breath caught — but he recovered fast.

“Dangerous game, pinkie.”

Sanzu set the empty cup down on the railing between them. “Only if you’re scared.”

Mucho stepped in — barely, subtly — close enough that their arms brushed, close enough that the heat between them was impossible to ignore. “Who says I’m not?”

Sanzu didn’t blink. “You don’t strike me as the type who plays safe.”

“I’m not.” His voice was lower now. Rougher. “But I don’t lose.”

Sanzu’s lips curled. “You haven’t played with me yet.”

And there — under the flickering lights of a party built on chaos, with music pounding through walls and people shouting their lungs out just a floor below — silence stretched thick between them.

Neither moved. Neither backed off.

And from somewhere in the shadows behind them, out of sight, Rindou Haitani stood watching, jaw tight, eyes narrowed, as he crushed out a cigarette he hadn’t realized he’d lit just to deal with this.

The music was still thundering through the walls, sweat and lust and liquor turning the party into something unhinged. Upstairs, where the lights were lower and the crowd thinned into pockets of conversation and heated gazes, Rindou Haitani stood planted like a statue carved in arrogance and disdain. But his eyes were far from indifferent.

They were locked, pinned with quiet intensity on the balcony rail just across the room.

Sanzu. Mucho. Too close. Too relaxed. Too casual in the way they traded a drink, shared a laugh, leaned in just enough for something to spark.

Rindou’s jaw ticked. His fingers twitched slightly where they rested in the pocket of his jeans. He didn’t realize how long he’d been staring — how long his gaze had been caught in that invisible string of annoyance, curiosity, and something darker he didn’t dare name.

“You’re really bad at pretending you don’t give a shit.”

The voice came from his left, slurred slightly, coated in alcohol and amusement. Ran Haitani, looking like sin in a black shirt half-unbuttoned and smeared with someone’s lipstick. His hair was a mess, his mouth twisted into a slow grin. And as always, he knew. Ran always knew.

Rindou didn’t bother to look at him. “You’re drunk.”

Ran threw an arm lazily around his younger brother’s shoulders, leaning into him with that heavy, careless weight only older brothers could manage. He smelled like perfume and whiskey, like a mistake half-made.

“And you’re jealous,” Ran said, sing-song low in his ear. “That’s so cute, Rin.”

“Shut up.”

“Don’t bite,” he grinned. “I’m not judging. I mean, look at that.” He nodded toward the balcony, where Mucho leaned down, too close, whispering something into Sanzu’s ear — and Sanzu, the little demon, didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. He smirked.

Rindou’s stare burned. Ran noticed. Of course he noticed.

“Oh, wow,” Ran said, watching his brother’s expression twist at the sight. “You hate this.”

Rindou scoffed. “It’s not about him.”

Ran pulled back slightly, just enough to squint at his face. “Really? Then why are you glaring like you’re about to put a hole in that guy’s head?”

Silence.

“Rindou,” Ran said, slower now, more serious. “Why the hell do you care so much about a little troublemaker like him?”

And that was the question, wasn’t it?

Because Sanzu Haruchiyo wasn’t the kind of guy Rindou usually paid attention to. He was a first year, barely on the radar. A smoker, a slacker, someone who got too many stares and gave too few fucks. He didn’t smile unless it was sharp. He didn’t talk unless it was cruel. He had that kind of confidence you didn’t earn — you survived into it.

And Rindou should’ve written him off like everyone else.

But then he’d bumped into him — eyes blazing, mouth foul, standing toe-to-toe like he had no clue who Rindou Haitani was, or worse — didn’t care. That should’ve been the end of it. But it wasn’t.

And now he was here, watching that same sharp-mouthed brat pass drinks and cigarettes with someone else. Laughing like he belonged. Relaxed. Open. Not with him.

Rindou’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I don’t.”

Ran gave a low chuckle. “Sure you don’t.”

Rindou finally looked at him. “Why are you even here?”

“Because you’re my baby brother,” Ran said dramatically, placing a hand over his chest like it pained him. “And I can’t watch you suffer in silence. Especially when it’s about a guy with pink hair who looks like he sleeps in ashtrays and gives better side-eye than you.”

“I don’t care,” Rindou said again, flatly.

“Keep saying that,” Ran muttered, sipping from his half-empty drink. “Maybe one day you’ll believe it.”

Rindou’s jaw clenched again. He looked back toward the balcony.

Mucho had just flicked ash off the railing. Sanzu took the drink again. Their hands brushed. Mucho taking Sanzu upstairs. And Rindou looked away — not because he didn’t care.

But because he cared too much and had no idea why.

The balcony had grown quieter as the minutes passed, a haze of smoke and alcohol-hum settling into the air like a second skin. The chaos of the party remained beneath them — muffled now, like the world had turned down its volume just for them.

Sanzu leaned back on the railing, one boot hooked lazily over the other, a new cigarette between his fingers. The ember glowed in the dark like a secret whispered too close to the edge.

Mucho stood beside him, shoulder brushing against his with subtle, almost calculated ease. Neither had said much since the last drink. They didn’t have to. The silence between them pulsed with something heavier than words.

Sanzu tilted his head, letting the smoke trail from his lips. He glanced sideways, eyes half-lidded, voice soaked in that slow, dry drawl that always came just before he said something dangerous.

“So,” he muttered, “are you gonna tell me what you want or are you just gonna keep standing there like you’re posing for a cigarette ad?”

Mucho smirked — not sheepish, not shy — but knowing. Confident. “That obvious?”

Sanzu’s grin was razor-thin. “You’ve been looking at me like that since the first time we talked.”

“And you let me.”

“I let a lot of things happen,” Sanzu shrugged. “Doesn’t mean I care.”

Mucho turned fully then, one hand sliding over the balcony rail behind Sanzu’s back — not touching, but close. Too close. His eyes were heavy, dark, unreadable.

“And if I did want something?” he asked, low and deliberate. “What then?”

Sanzu didn’t flinch. He leaned forward instead — slow, precise — until there was barely any space left. Their noses nearly brushed. Their mouths? Inches. Less. He could smell the alcohol on Mucho’s breath. The smoke on his clothes. He didn’t blink.

“Then I’d tell you,” Sanzu said softly, “that I don’t make the first move.”

Mucho’s eyes dipped to his lips. “And if I did?” he asked, voice rougher now.

Sanzu’s smirk widened — not friendly. Not kind. Predatory. Playful. His lashes lowered as he looked at Mucho like he was just another gamble on a night already riddled with bad decisions.

“Then I’d ask if you’re doing it because you want to…” He exhaled smoke through his nose, the curl of it winding between them like a spell. “Or because you think you’ll win.”

Mucho didn’t move. Not forward. Not back. His breath hitched, only a little, but it was enough. Enough for Sanzu to know. He had him. But Sanzu wouldn’t budge. Not even millimeter.

Because power — for him — was in the almost. In the tease. In the split second before someone leaned in and learned the hard way that Haruchiyo Sanzu didn’t give himself to anyone. He let them try.

But only if they burned for it. So he pulled back just slightly — enough to break the tension, not kill it. Mucho inhaled, slow and steady, like trying to regain control of himself.

Sanzu tilted his head and took another drag. “You look like you want to kiss me,” he said simply.

“I do,” Mucho replied, too honest.

Sanzu’s lips twitched. “Then don’t.”

Mucho stared. “Why not?”

“Because,” Sanzu murmured, eyes flicking down to Mucho’s mouth before climbing back up to meet his eyes. “You’ll regret it when you realize I bite.”

Mucho grinned, voice quiet and full of something heavier than flirtation.

“I like pain.”

Sanzu took the cigarette from his mouth and leaned in again — just enough to make it unbearable.

“Then you’ll love me,” he whispered.

But he never moved the final inch. He let it hang there — like smoke in the air — and smiled around the cigarette that  was barely burning now — the ash long and fragile at its tip — but Sanzu didn’t flick it away.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe, for a second.

Because Mucho was still staring at him — no smirk this time, no lazy joke balancing on the edge of his tongue. His eyes weren’t playful now. They were focused. Low. Dark. Burning in that way that said fuck the rules, fuck the warning, fuck the consequences.

And then — he leaned in. Not slow. Not hesitant. Not asking. He just took.

His hand landed firm on the side of Sanzu’s jaw, fingers rough against the hinge of his face, tilting it up the way someone might tip a match toward flame. And then his mouth was on him — hot, unrelenting, and filthy.

Tongue.

Teeth.

Heat.

The kiss was a full-body thing — bruising and sharp, all teeth and breath and too much pressure and not nearly enough. Sanzu didn’t moan — not fully — but the sound he let out was a raw thing, half-gasp, half-growl, caught between surprise and pleasure.

Their teeth knocked. Their lips dragged. Smoke passed between them like something sacred and shared. Sanzu’s cigarette dropped to the balcony floor without ceremony, burning out beside their feet.

He grabbed the front of Mucho’s shirt, not to pull him away — but to ground himself. His knuckles clenched in the fabric as their mouths moved together, hot and possessive, as if the moment had waited for them to break and burn all this time.

Sanzu tasted alcohol — cheap, bitter, and wild. Tasted smoke — his own and Mucho’s, tangled and warm. Tasted want — and it was a mouthful.

Mucho kissed like someone who wanted to own you — not seduce, not charm. He kissed like a man with a point to prove.

And Sanzu let him.

His body stayed still — no chase, no dive, no desperate hands pulling him closer. But his mouth… his mouth betrayed him. His tongue met Mucho’s with equal challenge. His lips opened just enough. His teeth scraped back once, daring.

Daring him to go further.

But even now, even with his spine pressing lightly against the balcony rail, Sanzu didn’t give an inch more than he wanted to. He kissed back like a man who’d kill if you took too much. Like someone who gave only what he chose, never what you demanded.

Finally — after what felt like minutes pressed between clenched fists and breathless fire — Mucho pulled back. Barely. Enough to breathe, barely enough to speak.

Sanzu’s mouth was pink, parted, slick. His eyes, heavy-lidded and sharp, daring, burned into Mucho’s.

The silence roared between them. Neither moved.

Sanzu was the first to break it — lips still shining, voice hoarse but laced with mockery.

“Didn’t think you’d actually do it.”

Mucho was panting, but grinning. “Didn’t think I’d get away with it.”

Sanzu chuckled — quiet, low, dark. “You didn’t.”

Mucho raised an eyebrow. “So what now?”

Sanzu leaned in, their foreheads brushing — a tease, a threat, a promise. His voice was quieter now, threaded with smoke.

“Now you deal with the fact you wanted something you can’t keep.”

And from the far edge of the room — just inside the glass doors, cloaked in shadow and chaos — Rindou Haitani watched it all unfold.

His drink was long gone.

His mouth was tight.

His knuckles, white.

And for the first time in a long time,

he didn’t know whether he wanted to hit something…

or someone.

The kiss had ended.

But the heat hadn’t.

Not really. Not when it still hung in the air like smoke that refused to drift away.

Sanzu stood there, the taste of Mucho still smeared across his lips, his breath slower now — but not calm. Never calm.

He looked at Mucho with sharp eyes, tilting his head slightly, like he was choosing his next words carefully — not because he feared the reaction, but because it needed to be perfectly clear.

“This,” he said, voice steady and clipped, “didn’t mean shit.”

Mucho lifted a brow, almost amused, almost daring him to say more.

“I don’t do anything real,” Sanzu continued. “No strings. No emotions. No drama. I’m not your boyfriend, I’m not your secret. I’m not your goddamn heartbreak.”

There it was — ice under fire, the cold bite beneath all that chaos. Sanzu was a storm, sure, but he was one that came with a warning sign: stay back — beautiful, but lethal.

Mucho smirked, tongue brushing his teeth, still catching his breath. “You think I’m looking for someone to keep me warm at night?”

Sanzu didn’t blink. “I think people get stupid when lips get involved.”

Mucho leaned in again — bold — and pressed a quick, sharp kiss to the corner of Sanzu’s mouth. Not tender. Not needy. Just a statement.

Sanzu flinched, but didn’t pull away.

“I’m not stupid, Sanzu,” Mucho murmured. “And you’re not untouchable. So don’t waste your breath pretending this didn’t spark something.”

Sanzu was already looking away. Because that wasn’t the part that bothered him. It was what he saw next.

Down below — where the lights pulsed and the bass thumped through wooden floors and blurred people into bodies — he saw him.

Rindou Haitani.

Leaning against the wall like sin personified.

Mouth buried in a girl’s neck, her hands twisted in his blonde hair, her head thrown back in laughter, like he’d whispered something wicked.

Rindou kissed her like he didn’t need to remember her name. And maybe he wouldn’t.

But his eyes —

his fucking eyes —

they weren’t on her.

They were on Sanzu.

The moment cut deep.

Even as his lips moved against hers, slow and drawn out, his stare never left the balcony. His expression? Impossible to read — bored, amused, predatory.

But his hands told a different story. Strong. Possessive. Cruel in how easily they pressed into the girl’s waist, sliding under her shirt like he was punishing someone else with his touch. His thumb trailed over her ribs — slow. Calculated.

And Sanzu… watched.

His cigarette trembled slightly in his fingers — barely — but enough. Enough for Mucho to notice.

“Don’t tell me that bothers you,” Mucho said under his breath, a smirk in his voice.

Sanzu scoffed, flicking ash over the balcony’s edge, still watching, still refusing to look away.

“It doesn’t.”

“Looks like it does.”

“I said,” Sanzu hissed, “it fucking doesn’t.”

And maybe it didn’t.

Maybe it was just the alcohol.

Or the heat of the kiss.

Or the slow, burning ache of someone watching you while kissing someone else.

But one thing was clear — even in the chaos of it all:

Whatever this was between them — this tension, this spark — Sanzu wasn’t the only one burning anymore.

And from down below, Rindou smirked against the girl’s mouth, like he could feel it.

Like he knew the war had already started.

The night had spiraled.

The music had dulled into heavy basslines behind walls soaked in spilled liquor and moaned laughter. Cigarette smoke curled lazily in the humid air. Somewhere inside, someone shouted about losing a shoe. Someone else cheered like it was a victory.

Sanzu didn’t care.

He sat at the edge of the pool, the soles of his boots damp with chlorine from where his heels touched the wet stone. The water shimmered under the string lights — full of glitter, beer cans, half-drowned party favors, and a body or two passed out like sacrificial offerings to the gods of youth and excess.

A cigarette clung between his lips, nearly burning to the filter. His shirt was loose, the first few buttons undone, a sheen of sweat clinging to his collarbone. His buzz had turned into a fog, and he didn’t feel like pushing through it.

He just wanted to exist. Alone.

Footsteps shuffled behind him. The body dropped beside him with the ease of someone too used to taking space. Didn’t say anything. Just sat close enough to be felt, not heard.

Sanzu didn’t look over. He figured it was Mucho, coming back for another round of smoke and teasing. Maybe to sit in silence. Maybe to flirt again. He smirked lazily.

“Took you long enough,” he muttered, voice gravelled with smoke. “What, get tired of charming freshmen with that crooked smile of yours?”

No answer.

He flicked ash into the pool and took another drag, still not looking. “I was starting to think you’d left me for someone with a lower alcohol tolerance.”

Still nothing. His brow twitched. “What, cat got your—”

He turned, irritation pushing him over the edge of his buzz—

—and froze.

It wasn’t Mucho.

It was Rindou Haitani.

Leaning back on one arm, shirt half open, hair damp, and the ghost of someone else’s lipstick still smudged faintly near his jaw.

His eyes? Locked on Sanzu. Amused. Low. Unreadable.

Sanzu’s smirk dropped immediately, replaced by a sharp, annoyed sneer.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” he muttered, flicking the cigarette into the pool with a hiss.

Rindou tilted his head slightly, lazily watching the ripples. “Didn’t know you were expecting someone else.”

“I wasn’t expecting a goddamn mosquito.”

“Harsh,” Rindou said, his voice dipped in that drawl — slow, elegant, always on the edge of mockery. “I thought you’d be more fun outside the classroom.”

“I’m a riot,” Sanzu snapped. “Especially when people I don’t like breathe next to me.”

Rindou chuckled, like that didn’t faze him. He leaned forward, forearms resting on his thighs, cigarette already lit between his fingers. “You always this charming when you’re drunk?”

“I’m not drunk.”

“You’re sitting by a pool full of glitter and pisswater, talking to someone you hate. You’re drunk.”

Sanzu stared at him. “I thought you were busy swallowing some girl’s tongue.”

Rindou looked over, eyes glittering under the lights. “Were you watching?”

“Please,” Sanzu scoffed. “I’ve seen better chemistry between my socks in the laundry.”

That earned a real laugh. Quiet. Deep. It crawled up Rindou’s throat and slipped between them like velvet.

“I don’t think you hate me,” he said eventually.

“I don’t care what you think.”

“You say that a lot. Like you’re trying to convince yourself.”

Sanzu clenched his jaw, heat rising in his chest — not from the alcohol. Not from the night air. From him. The way Rindou spoke, like every word was a game, and he’d already won.

“You’re not that interesting,” Sanzu snapped. “Not to me. Go back to your groupies.”

Rindou leaned in — just a little. Close enough for Sanzu to see the way his pupils stretched, the slow, deliberate smile growing on his face.

“You sound jealous.”

“I sound bored.”

“You’re both,” Rindou said, flicking ash into the water. “And you didn’t answer the question.”

“What question?”

“Were you watching?”

Sanzu didn’t answer. Because he had been. And they both knew it.

So he stood up. Sudden. Controlled. His boots splashed against the wet stone, his shirt catching the warm breeze.

“I don’t watch second-rate shows,” he said, turning his back.

But as he walked away, he felt Rindou’s stare dig into him. Heavy. Knowing. The kind of stare that didn’t chase, but waited — like it knew you’d look back eventually.

And maybe Sanzu would. But not tonight. Not like this.

Not when he still tasted someone else on his lips. And wanted it to be someone else.

The sun was an asshole.

It crawled through the thin, half-open blinds like it had a personal vendetta, slicing slivers of light across Sanzu’s closed eyelids. He groaned, low and guttural, arm flung across his eyes as the drumbeat in his skull throbbed louder than any bassline from last night’s chaos.

The room reeked of alcohol, sweat, and someone’s cheap cologne.

He blinked through the pounding ache, trying to orient himself. His tongue was dry — too dry — and his head felt like someone had set up a boxing match in it.

From the other side of the room came the sound of Baji snoring, obnoxiously loud, mouth open, arm hanging off the edge of his bed like a dead man in a Shakespearean tragedy. His black shirt was half off, his pants unbuttoned, one sock missing.

Typical.

Sanzu rolled onto his side, stomach twisting slightly at the motion. His hand reached instinctively for the half-empty bottle of water on the nightstand — a miracle it hadn’t been knocked over. He downed it in three gulps, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and dropped back onto the pillow.

Then he heard it.

Running water.

Not from the sink.

From the shower.

Sanzu furrowed his brows.

He sat up slowly — wincing as his head pulsed — and stumbled toward the small bathroom attached to their dorm. The door was cracked open just enough for him to see someone’s leg sticking out.

“The fuck…”

He shoved it open.

And there, curled inside the shower, still fully clothed in last night’s outfit — leather jacket and all — was Kazutora. Sprawled like a dead raccoon under the still-dripping showerhead. A towel was haphazardly covering one boot.

Sanzu stared, deadpan. “Baji.”

No answer.

“Baji.”

A loud snort. “Huh—what?”

Sanzu didn’t even look back. “Why the fuck is Kazutora in our shower?”

There was a pause.

Then Baji let out a half-laugh, half-grunt. “Oh, right… he followed me home. Said he couldn’t remember where his room was, so I told him to crash here. He must’ve passed out before I could kick him out of the bathroom.”

Sanzu stared at Kazutora for another moment, then slowly closed the door.

He dragged himself back to the bed and dropped into it, rubbing his eyes with both hands. His stomach churned, not from the hangover anymore — but from the memories that started crawling back.

Mucho.

The kiss. The heat. The closeness.

His stupid line — “You don’t need to get me drunk.”

And Mucho’s widened eyes.

It had been intense. Stupidly intense. And Sanzu had felt alive — not something he was comfortable admitting.

But then came him.

Rindou Haitani.

Sitting beside him. Uninvited. Unbothered. Teasing him, like he belonged anywhere Sanzu was. That stupid smirk. That slow, drawled-out voice. That look he gave him even while making out with some random girl.

Sanzu covered his face with both hands.

“Fuck no,” he whispered to himself.

He kicked his blanket off violently, pacing a little now. “I’m never going to another party again. Ever. I don’t care if it’s Mucho, Baji, or a damn royal invitation. I’m done.”

Behind him, Baji finally sat up, yawning with his hair all over the place.

“Ugh. My head. What the hell happened last night? I think Hanma tried to fight the DJ.”

“He did,” Sanzu muttered, pacing still. “And then someone fell in the pool. I almost got mistaken for Mochi’s girlfriend, and I shared a cigarette with a psychopath.”

Baji blinked at him. “Wait, you were with Mucho, right?”

“No, not Mucho,” Sanzu snapped. “The other psychopath. Haitani.”

Baji’s lips curled into a slow, knowing smirk. “Oh… that psychopath.”

“I swear to god, Baji—”

“You flirting again?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Baji snorted and fell back onto his bed. “You need breakfast and a cigarette. Maybe in that order.”

Sanzu groaned and rubbed his temples. “I need brain bleach.”

Behind the closed bathroom door, Kazutora stirred and muttered something about cats stealing his shoes in his dreams.

The dorm smelled like regret, the sun was too damn bright, and Sanzu was absolutely, positively, not going to another party ever again.

Probably.

The sun was ruthless, spilling through the expensive curtains of Rindou’s and Shion’s dorm like a blade slicing through silk. Light gleamed against the steel edges of his bookshelf, glinted across the surface of empty liquor bottles, and crawled its way up the body of the girl sleeping beside him.

He sat on the edge of the bed, shirtless, with last night’s scent thick on his skin — sweat, perfume, cheap vodka, and the faint bitterness of a cigarette he didn’t remember smoking. His head throbbed in a slow, deliberate pulse, but not enough to dull the clarity that came with regretless disinterest.

He looked over his shoulder.

The girl — brunette, tanned skin, messy curls, maybe a student, maybe not — lay sprawled over his Egyptian cotton sheets, drooling on one of his pillows. He had no idea who the fuck she was. He didn’t care to.

Her makeup was smudged, lips swollen, a hickey on her collarbone that he vaguely remembered leaving just for the aesthetic of it.

“Hey,” Rindou said, voice like gravel and silk, rough from sleep but too controlled to be mistaken for affection. “Wake up.”

The girl stirred, groaned a little.

“I said,” he repeated, a touch colder, “get up.”

She blinked at him with a confused frown, mumbled something like “Can I just—”

“No.”

He stood, grabbing a hoodie from the chair and slipping it over his bare chest. “I’ve got class. You’ve got somewhere else to be. Don’t forget your shoes.”

She muttered under her breath — something like asshole — as she gathered her clothes. He didn’t even look her way as he lit a cigarette and watched her reflection in the mirror stumble around, half-hungover, searching for her bra like it mattered.

A minute later, the door clicked shut behind her.

Silence.

Rindou exhaled slowly, letting the smoke linger at the corners of his lips before sinking into the armchair near his window. His hoodie hung loose off one shoulder, hair messy, a few strands still damp from the night before.

He didn’t think about her again. But Sanzu?

Sanzu was harder to dismiss.

He thought about that flash of pink hair at the pool’s edge. The sharp tongue. The deadpan sarcasm. The cigarette balanced between his fingers like he owned the night.

He remembered the kiss — not his, but Mucho’s — that filthy, raw thing pressed against Sanzu’s mouth. The way Sanzu had almost moaned. The way he’d leaned into it, like he didn’t care who was watching… or maybe because he knew who was.

Rindou scoffed softly to himself. Who the fuck did that brat think he was?

The way he looked at Rindou by the pool — like he was above him. Like he had nothing to prove. Like he didn’t care. That irritated Rindou more than it should have.

Because he knew guys like Sanzu. Arrogant little smartasses with something to prove, all cigarettes and detachment, pretending they were too broken to be touched — the ones who looked like trouble and wanted to be treated like it. But when you dug a little deeper? They cracked like glass.

And yet… Sanzu hadn’t cracked. He’d sneered. He’d stood.

He’d walked away like he was the one leaving something behind.

That shit got under Rindou’s skin. The defiance. The sharp edges. The fact that when Rindou kissed someone last night — some girl whose name he never asked — he was thinking about someone else’s lips.

Someone else’s fucking glare.

He tapped the ash of his cigarette into the glass tray and leaned his head back, eyes narrowing at the ceiling like it had answers.

He didn’t like this feeling.

He didn’t chase people. He didn’t give a fuck about boys who mouthed off at him or kissed other guys in front of him like it was a challenge.

He didn’t.

Right?

Rindou scoffed again, standing to pull his hoodie tighter. The fabric clung to his damp neck, and his jaw clenched as he grabbed his phone and shoved it into his pocket.

Sanzu was a first year. A nobody.

He’d kissed Mucho like it meant nothing. He’d talked to Rindou like he wasn’t impressed. Like Rindou wasn’t used to being admired. Desired.

“Cocky little shit,” Rindou muttered under his breath.

Still, his fingers hovered over the lighter again. Still, he wondered where on campus Sanzu was.

Still he lit another cigarette. And stared out the window.

Rindou walked onto the field with a cigarette tucked behind his ear and his hoodie sleeves rolled up, the morning heat already beginning to cling to the back of his neck. The grass was slightly damp, the sun too bright, and the voices of his teammates echoed like a swarm of flies he didn’t feel like swatting.

The football field looked like a graveyard of regrets. Bodies slouched. Groans echoed. Everyone was hungover, sunburnt, and too talkative for Rindou’s already thinned patience.

Baji was the loudest of them all, as usual — half-yelling, half-laughing, wearing sunglasses even though they were tilted and cracked. He kicked a water bottle at Hanma, who was lying flat on the grass with a towel draped over his face like a corpse. Shion sat against the goalpost, retching quietly into a trash bag like it was a Sunday ritual. Peh hadn’t even bothered changing; he was still in last night’s shirt with glitter on his arms.

Kazutora looked like someone had thrown him in a dumpster and forgotten to rinse him off.

“Fuck me, I think I died and came back wrong,” Kazutora croaked, wiping at his face.

“You looked dead in our shower this morning,” Baji muttered.

Inupi jogged in — too energetic, too clean — and all of them hated him for it instantly.

Mochi walked over yawning, wiping sleep from his eyes, still nursing a half-eaten protein bar. “Who’s even leading this shit today?”

“Coach’s late,” said Shion with a groan. “Probably nursing his own goddamn hangover.”

And then Baji’s voice cut through the chaos like it always did — loud, unapologetic, and too eager to share.

“Yo, did anyone see Mucho and Sanzu last night?”

Rindou, who’d been stretching with one leg forward, froze mid-motion. Just slightly. Barely noticeable — unless you’d known him as long as his brother had.

He didn’t turn his head.

“Brooo—” Peh grinned, flopping into the grass like it was a beach. “You talkin’ about that kiss?”

“Tongue,” Baji corrected, raising a brow. “There was definitely tongue. I was literally right there when Mucho grabbed him and just went in. Full bite, like a damn vampire.”

Hanma lifted the towel slightly. “Wait—who bit who?”

“Mucho kissed Sanzu, man,” Baji repeated, now pacing like he was delivering some cinematic recap. “And that wasn’t no innocent kiss. That was sin, okay? That was illegal.”

The boys broke into a mess of groans, howls, and whistles.

“He kissed back?” Shion called out, suddenly interested.

“Bro,” Kazutora chuckled darkly, “he practically climbed him.”

“Damn,” Hanma muttered. “Sanzu got hands and a mouth. Impressive.”

Mochi grinned around a protein bar. “That’s why I said he’s dangerous.”

Rindou’s jaw clenched.

He stood perfectly still, arms folded now, eyes scanning the field like he was trying not to hear anything. But he had. Every damn word. And worse — he saw it all again.

The way Sanzu stood still while Mucho kissed him, but didn’t stop it. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t care that anyone was watching.

He kissed back — not like someone overwhelmed, but like someone in control. Like someone who knew exactly what he was doing.

And Rindou?

Rindou didn’t like that it bothered him.

“Yo, Rin,” Baji called, half-jogging toward him, sweaty and smiling. “You good? You look like you’re about to punch someone.”

He was.

That someone was Mucho, and it wasn’t even about the kiss anymore. It was the audacity. The gall. The fact that Rindou had been thinking about Sanzu for days, and Mucho just… touched him. Took him. Kissed him.

Like it was easy. Like he could.

Rindou shrugged, casual as ever. “Just tired.”

Baji eyed him. “Sure.”

“I don’t give a shit who that guy kisses,” Rindou muttered, walking away toward the locker bench. “He’s not my problem.”

But even as the words left his mouth, he knew they were a lie.

Because that kiss wasn’t just burned into his memory — it was branded.

And worse than the kiss?

The way Sanzu looked at him after it.

Unbothered. Untouchable. Defiant.

Like he knew Rindou would see. And like he didn’t give a fuck. Rindou Haitani hated losing. And Sanzu was starting to feel like a game he hadn’t agreed to play… but couldn’t stop watching.

The late afternoon sun spilled between the buildings like lazy golden syrup, clinging to the tops of trees and catching in the windows of the university halls. Students filtered out of lecture rooms in tired waves — eyes glazed, bags slung over shoulders, laughter echoing too loud in clusters.

Sanzu didn’t walk with them.

He walked alone, lazy and untouchable, a slow saunter with one hand in his pocket, the other twirling a red lollipop between his fingers before sliding it back into his mouth.

Click. Pop. Click.

His lips sucked gently at the candy, tongue occasionally flicking it with practiced indifference. He didn’t even notice the way a few girls whispered behind him as he passed, or how some boy from his psychology class looked twice.

He never noticed that kind of thing. But Mucho did.

He was already waiting near the stone wall just before the lower courtyard, leaning back like he owned the damn place, arms crossed, sleeves rolled up, cigarette tucked behind his ear and his sharp eyes tracking Sanzu like he was watching a lit match walk into gasoline.

And then he scoffed — loud enough to be heard. A smirk tugged at his mouth.

“A fuckin’ lollipop, Haruchiyo?” he said. “What are you, five?”

Sanzu stopped in his tracks, head tilted, the candy still in his mouth. He raised a brow, unimpressed, then shrugged like he couldn’t care less what Mucho thought.

“Tastes better than your cigarettes.”

Mucho pushed off the wall slowly, approaching him with that same easy, confident walk he always had — like he’d already won whatever game he was about to play.

“Bet you say that ‘cause your cigarettes taste like ass.”

Before Sanzu could shoot back, Mucho reached out with two fingers — slow, deliberate — and plucked the lollipop right from Sanzu’s lips, still glistening with spit. He turned it casually, inspected it once… then placed it in his own mouth.

There was a thick beat of silence. Sanzu blinked once. That was his. His tongue had been on that.

And now Mucho’s mouth closed around it, sucking the same candy like it was the most casual thing in the world.

Sanzu scoffed, lips twitching, half amused, half irritated. “You’re disgusting.”

“You like it,” Mucho replied, his voice a little lower, a little more amused than it should’ve been. He took one long pull from the lollipop, then tilted his head. “You always got something sweet in your mouth. Could be replaced.”

Sanzu rolled his eyes, stepping slightly closer now, his gaze sharp — cold, even. “You trying to make everything sound like a threat or a come-on?”

Mucho smirked, the lollipop tucked at the side of his cheek. “If the shoe fits.”

“You know I bite, right?”

Mucho leaned in, their faces now inches apart, the air between them thick with tension, sugar, and smoke. “You think I don’t?”

Their eyes locked. The air tightened.

A breeze pushed past, rustling Sanzu’s hair slightly. He didn’t move. Neither did Mucho.

And that damn lollipop still sat between his teeth, borrowed from Sanzu’s mouth like it was his to take.

Sanzu’s voice came out quieter this time, not soft, but dangerous in its calm. “One day, you’re gonna do that to the wrong thing, Mucho.”

Mucho’s eyes darkened just a little, smile not fading. “You gonna be that wrong thing?”

Sanzu smirked. Didn’t answer. And kept walking. But he didn’t ask for the lollipop back.

The buzz of the convenience store lights hummed like a nervous heartbeat in the quiet of the night. That part of campus — the corner stretch between the west dorms and the closed-up library — was always eerily still after midnight. The streets shivered under old lamplight, and even the moon looked too lazy to care.

Sanzu liked that.

He liked the stillness, the cold air that bit at his wrists where his hoodie sleeves didn’t quite reach, the way his boots echoed alone against the pavement. Sometimes, when he couldn’t sleep — which was often — he walked. Not to anywhere in particular, just… away from the noise in his head.

Tonight, that destination was the 24-hour convenience store just off the corner.

Fluorescent light spilled out onto the sidewalk as he pushed the door open, the bell above letting out a sharp ding. Inside: warmth, cheap snacks, ramen aisles, and those cold drink fridges humming in the back like they were hiding secrets.

He walked in slow, hands buried in the pockets of his grey hoodie, pink strands falling in front of his eyes as he made a beeline toward the fridge. He wasn’t even hungry — maybe a juice or another lollipop if they had his favorite brand — but it wasn’t about that.

It was the quiet.

The lack of judgment.

No one here knew who the hell he was.

Except someone did.

He froze mid-step.

Because across the aisle, near the back of the store where the instant noodles were stacked in crooked towers, stood Rindou Haitani.

Still dressed in all black, sleeves rolled up, headphones hanging around his neck, a few strands of his lilac hair still damp — like he’d either just left training or a shower. His hoodie clung to him in the cold, and his hand reached lazily for a bottle of water.

Their eyes met like flint meeting stone.Tension. Sharp. Immediate. Neither moved.

Sanzu’s lips pulled into a slow, annoyed curve. “You stalking me now, Haitani?”

Rindou smirked, tossing the water bottle in the air before catching it with one hand. “Didn’t know I needed a permission slip to buy water.”

“You don’t,” Sanzu said, walking over to the fridge without looking at him again. “You just happen to appear wherever people are trying to be left the fuck alone.”

Rindou took a slow step closer, voice low but cutting. “Maybe that’s because those people make it too hard to ignore them.”

Sanzu’s jaw flexed, hand gripping the fridge door but not pulling it open.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he said, not turning around. “I don’t make an effort to be seen.”

“But you are,” Rindou replied, closer now, a few feet away. “All the time. With your lollipops, your cigarettes, and your smart-ass mouth.”

Sanzu finally turned, slowly. He looked bored — his specialty. “Sounds like a you problem, not a me problem.”

The silence buzzed. Neon flickered above. And then Rindou took a step into his space. Too close.

Sanzu didn’t move. Didn’t blink. But his shoulders tightened just slightly — the kind of flinch only people who knew him would catch.

“You don’t like me, do you?” Rindou asked, head tilted, voice silk-wrapped menace.

“No,” Sanzu said flatly. “And I’m not subtle about it either.”

Rindou’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes narrowed. “You treat everyone like shit, or just the people who see through your tough act?”

“You got me confused with someone who gives a damn about being seen,” Sanzu said. “You’re not special.”

They stood there, facing each other like two live wires. One spark away from burning the whole aisle down.

The convenience store clerk coughed awkwardly behind the counter, loud enough to remind them this wasn’t some underground alleyway.

Sanzu finally stepped back, brushing past Rindou like he wasn’t worth the oxygen. “If you’re done breathing on me, I’ve got better things to do.”

“Like making out with Mucho?” Rindou muttered under his breath.

Sanzu paused in the candy aisle. A silence stretched between them like drawn knives.

He turned slightly, just enough for his voice to carry. “Jealousy’s a shit look on you, Haitani.”

And then he grabbed a lollipop — strawberry — and walked out without paying Rindou another glance.

The bell above the door chimed again. But the tension stayed behind. Thick. Unresolved.

The cold night hit harder once Sanzu stepped out of the store, the hum of buzzing lights fading behind him as the automatic doors slid shut. He ripped the lollipop from its plastic wrapper with his teeth and popped it between his lips — the sharp tang of artificial strawberry coating his tongue almost instantly.

He didn’t look back. He didn’t have to.

He already knew Rindou Haitani was following him.

Footsteps padded behind him — confident, smooth, that goddamn slow pace of someone who had nowhere to be and all the time in the world to be annoying.

“You really got a thing for following others? Like a damn stalker?” Sanzu muttered, not stopping.

“You make it easy,” Rindou said. “You don’t walk fast.”

“You don’t shut up,” Sanzu shot back.

He turned the corner leading into the back garden path of the dorm complex, the cracked stone walkway illuminated by old lamp posts. Trees rustled overhead. The night felt too quiet for Rindou’s presence.

“You and Mucho looked cozy the other night,” Rindou added, still behind him. “Real sweet. He always suck on your candy too, or is that just for me to witness?”

Sanzu rolled his eyes so hard he almost tripped. “Jesus, you jealous or just nosy?”

“I just think it’s fascinating,” Rindou said with a slight smirk in his tone. “How fast you warm up to people. Or maybe it’s just the smoke and liquor doing the talking.”

“I didn’t realize you kept such close tabs on me,” Sanzu said, still walking.

“I didn’t realize you gave your mouth away that easily.”

Sanzu stopped. So did Rindou.

The silence between them was instant and explosive.

Sanzu turned on his heel slowly, face unreadable, only the glint in his eyes betraying the heat rising beneath his skin. He let out a breath of laughter, thin and sharp. “You mad I didn’t give it to you instead?”

Rindou’s lips twitched.

He stepped forward, just a little.

“That what you think?”

“I think you’re real pressed for someone who claims not to care,” Sanzu said, leaning a bit forward, the lollipop bobbing slightly in the corner of his mouth.

Rindou’s gaze dropped to it.

Then — just like Mucho once did, but this time different, charged — he reached out.

Without hesitation.

He plucked the lollipop right from between Sanzu’s lips. Fingers ghosting over his mouth. And slid it between his own. He didn’t look away as he did it. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t blink. Just locked eyes with Sanzu like he was daring him to do something about it.

And for the first time…

Sanzu blinked. He stared. And for once, didn’t scoff or roll his eyes or turn away. He reached out. Just as casually. Just as unbothered — or at least trying to look like it. And tapped Rindou’s chest lightly with two fingers.

“Give it back.”

Rindou raised a brow, holding the lollipop still in his mouth.

“You didn’t ask Mucho for it back.”

“I didn’t want it back from him,” Sanzu replied, eyes steady. “I want it back from you.”

The air between them thickened instantly.

Rindou pulled the lollipop from his lips slowly, the candy wet and red and glistening in the cold.

“Sure,” he said, extending it toward him, “if you want it back, then take it.”

Sanzu didn’t flinch.

He leaned forward, slow and deliberate — eyes never leaving Rindou’s — and opened his mouth, taking the lollipop directly from Rindou’s fingers without touching them.

Their faces were too close. Breaths shared. Heartbeats unsteady.

The taste of Rindou was faint on the candy — cologne, smoke, and something else Sanzu couldn’t quite name. He held it between his teeth again, straightened, and blew out a slow breath through his nose.

Then turned and walked away. Didn’t say another word. Didn’t have to.

And behind him, Rindou stood alone under the flickering lamp, jaw clenched, fingers still tingling from the contact — and his pulse, for some reason, out of rhythm.

The moment Sanzu disappeared down the path, swallowed by shadow and the soft hush of wind-tossed leaves, Rindou just stood there. Still. Frozen. Like his brain had short-circuited somewhere in the middle of that exchange and hadn’t quite found its way back.

The lollipop had left a sticky gloss on his fingers — faint, sweet, taunting — and he hated it. He looked down at his hand like it was foreign, like it betrayed him.

And then he rubbed it against his hoodie. Hard. As if he could scrub the memory out of his skin.

But it didn’t help.

Because the taste was still there. Strawberry — artificial and cloying — mixed with cigarette smoke, with the metallic trace of defiance, and whatever sharp, electric thing Sanzu fucking carried in his bloodstream. That look he gave him. Cold. Unimpressed. Unshaken.

It burned under Rindou’s skin like a rash he couldn’t scratch.

“Fuck,” he hissed under his breath, turning and pacing a few feet down the sidewalk before running both hands through his hair in frustration. The strands tangled between his fingers — still damp from the earlier shower — and stuck to the side of his neck where sweat began to bead.

He hated this.

He hated him.

The way Sanzu talked to him like he was nothing special. Like he didn’t give a damn about Rindou Haitani, the name, the reputation, the bloody fucking legacy. Everyone at this university bent when he looked at them too long. Girls folded. First-years bowed. Even upperclassmen knew when to shut up around him and his brother.

But Sanzu?

Sanzu looked him dead in the eye like he was something to step over on the sidewalk.And worse — he did it while sucking on a damn lollipop, unfazed, with a mouth that Rindou now couldn’t stop thinking about.

That glimpse of tongue, of parted lips, of soft breath in the cold…

He clenched his jaw.

He could still feel how close they’d been. The space between them had practically vibrated. He’d leaned in, thinking he was in control, thinking he’d rattle Sanzu, pull him into some kind of power play — but that smug bastard turned it right back around. Asked for the lollipop. Looked him in the eye and took it back with his mouth.

It should’ve been nothing. A childish move. Some stupid little challenge.

But Rindou’s heart was still beating too fast, and his skin still felt like it was a few degrees hotter than it should be.

He turned and kicked the nearest wall — hard. The impact jarred his ankle and echoed down the stone path. Somewhere inside the dorm building, a dog barked once and shut up.

“Pathetic,” Rindou muttered to himself.

He didn’t care about Sanzu. He didn’t. That wasn’t what this was. This was about pride. It had to be. The way Sanzu disrespected him, mocked him, challenged him without a single ounce of fear — that was what got under his skin.

It wasn’t about the kiss at the party.

It wasn’t about the cigarettes or the flirting or even Mucho. It was about the fact that Sanzu was walking around campus acting like he didn’t notice the fire he’d lit under Rindou’s ribs.

And Rindou? Rindou was the one left burning. Alone in the dark.

With the aftertaste of strawberry and smoke on his tongue.

The walk back to campus was quiet, but Sanzu’s mind was loud.

His hand clutched the folded black t-shirt — Mucho’s — something he’d borrowed a few days ago when the taller second-year had tackled him into the grass during one of their stupid late-night cigarette debates about “who could actually win in a fight.” Sanzu lost the argument, but won the shirt, and now, for some reason, felt the need to return it.

Not because it was the polite thing to do. But because he needed a reason to walk. To move. To breathe.

Because every time he stopped, Rindou’s smirk came back. His voice. His goddamn hand, smooth and slow, pulling the lollipop from Sanzu’s mouth like it belonged to him.

Sanzu clicked the candy against his teeth, jaw tight, the faintest trace of Rindou’s taste still on it. His tongue touched the edge of it and he tensed again. He should’ve thrown it out. He should’ve spat it on the floor. But instead it was still there — warm now — like he couldn’t let go.

Pathetic.

He reached Mucho’s dorm, knuckles tapping the wood without hesitation.

“Yeah?” Mucho’s voice called from inside.

“It’s me,” Sanzu muttered.

A second later the door creaked open.

Mucho stood in grey sweats, hair tied back, barefoot and holding a can of something half-empty. “You returning my designer shit?” he teased with a grin.

Sanzu raised the folded shirt. “Didn’t realize cotton could be called designer.”

Mucho snorted. “Come in. Roommate went to the movies. You’re lucky, you’d hate him.”

Sanzu stepped inside.

The air was warm, and the lights were low — one bedside lamp glowing faintly in the corner. The scent of cologne clung to the sheets, mixed with the smoky tang of whatever Mucho had been burning earlier.

Sanzu didn’t speak for a second. He just walked toward the chair by the desk and placed the shirt there without care. “There. Unwrinkled and everything. Your precious cloth is safe.”

Mucho leaned against the wall, eyeing him. “You good?”

“Do I look good?” Sanzu deadpanned, then sucked once on the lollipop.

Mucho’s gaze flicked to it, to his mouth.

“You still have that thing?” he asked, amused. “You’re gonna rot your teeth.”

Sanzu shrugged. “Guess I like the taste.” He didn’t explain further.

Mucho’s brow lifted a little, curiosity flickering in his eyes. “You alright?” he asked again, more serious now.

Sanzu didn’t answer right away. Instead, he sat on the edge of Mucho’s bed, legs parted slightly, eyes trained on the floor. He looked up only when he felt Mucho move — walking over and leaning against the desk, arms crossed.

The silence buzzed with a kind of unspoken tension. Finally, Sanzu sighed. “Had a run-in. Nothing new.”

“Run-in like… a fight?” Mucho asked, tilting his head.

Sanzu snorted. “Worse. A conversation.”

“With?”

He didn’t answer. Just shifted the lollipop from one side of his mouth to the other. The silence gave it away.

Mucho narrowed his eyes. “Haitani?”

“Which one do you think?” Sanzu muttered.

Mucho exhaled slowly, running a hand through his tied-back hair. “That little brother’s gonna be a problem.”

Sanzu leaned back on his palms. “He already is.”

“You want me to talk to him?” Mucho asked, voice cool, casual — but there was something protective in the way he said it.

Sanzu blinked once. “What are you, my bodyguard?”

“No. Just a guy who’s seen that look before.”

“What look?” Sanzu asked, though part of him already knew.

“The one Rindou gives you.”

Sanzu looked away. He let the silence drag again, the taste in his mouth — Rindou — still clinging stubbornly to his tongue like it had nowhere else to go.

“I came to return a shirt,” Sanzu finally muttered.

Mucho gave a dry laugh. “Yeah. And instead you ended up looking like you’re about to rip your own skin off.”

Sanzu glared half-heartedly. “Shut up.”

“You know, if I didn’t know better,” Mucho said, voice low now, “I’d say that look in your eye — it’s not just annoyance.”

Sanzu met his gaze then. Steady. Cold. “Don’t start that shit.”

“I’m not starting anything,” Mucho said. “Just watching. You come back with your mouth all pink and your fuse shorter than usual, and you act like it didn’t mean anything.”

“It didn’t.”

Mucho stepped closer, standing just over him now. His shadow fell across Sanzu’s knees. He looked down at him with a grin that was too knowing.

“Then why do you still taste him?” he asked.

Sanzu looked up. Eyes sharp. Expression unreadable.

Then he stood — slow — so they were eye-level. He leaned in just a little, breath brushing against Mucho’s cheek.

“I could taste you next,” he said, voice low.

Mucho’s smirk faltered for a second — but then returned, sharper than before.

“I’m right here,” he replied, eyes dark.

But Sanzu just stepped away, brushing past him, pulling the lollipop from his mouth with a pop and tossing it into the trash bin by the door.

“Not tonight,” he muttered.

And just like that, he was gone.

Leaving Mucho standing in the silence, the air still thick with tension and the ghost of strawberry-flavored chaos.

Sanzu had one foot halfway out the door when a hand gripped his wrist — firm, unflinching. The kind of hold that didn’t ask permission, only gave pause.

“Stay,” Mucho said, his voice lower than before. There was something raw in the way he said it, stripped of all flirt and teasing. “Let me help you forget.”

Sanzu turned slowly, the lollipop still between his fingers, his lips parted in surprise — maybe not because of the offer, but because of the timing. Because Mucho had seen something, read something in his body language that even Sanzu hadn’t fully figured out yet.

He gave one last lick to the now-soft candy — a swipe of tongue too slow to be innocent, too deliberate to be careless — then tossed it into the trash with a soft plink.

He didn’t speak at first. He just walked back toward the center of the room, toward the faint warm glow of the desk lamp and the silence between them. And then — like it was the most casual thing in the world — Sanzu swung himself up and sat on Mucho’s desk, arms braced behind him, knees apart slightly, his eyes gleaming like a dare.

“Well?” he said, voice cool but coaxing. “What are you waiting for?”

Mucho blinked, lips twitching into a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You sure?” he asked, stepping closer, slow, every move measured. “I’m not looking for anything.”

Sanzu tilted his head, grin curling lazily. “Neither am I.”

And just like that, the air snapped tight between them.

Mucho moved in, closing the distance with a kind of calm that was almost more dangerous than hunger. His hand rested beside Sanzu’s thigh on the desk, the other brushing strands of pale hair away from his sharp, angular face. Their eyes locked — blue on dark — and then Mucho leaned in.

Their mouths collided, not with urgency, but with purpose. It wasn’t rushed. It was exact.

A kiss meant to erase, to blur lines, to cover the sharp aftertaste of someone else’s mouth with smoke and something deeper.

Sanzu parted his lips without hesitation, letting Mucho in — tongue meeting tongue, breath tangled with breath. There was no gentleness in it, no need for something soft. It was a transaction of forgetfulness, a language in which their tongues spoke things they refused to say aloud.

Sanzu’s fingers curled around the edge of the desk, digging in as Mucho pushed in closer, standing between his knees now, kissing him like he was trying to claim the moment, not the person.

Their teeth clashed once, a spark of pain, and Sanzu breathed a laugh into his mouth, one hand moving to the base of Mucho’s throat, just resting there, loose but suggestive.

Mucho’s taste was different. Deeper. Earthier.

Not like that cold bite Rindou left on him. Not like a memory he couldn’t shake.

No.

This was heavier. This was now.

When they finally pulled back — slow, breathless — Sanzu licked his lips like he was processing a new drug.

“Well,” he muttered, half-laughing, “that did the trick.”

Mucho, still close, smiled. “You done tasting ghosts now?”

Sanzu’s eyes gleamed. “For tonight.”

He didn’t say tomorrow wouldn’t bring them all back.

The quiet hum of the room swallowed them whole. It was warm inside—heat from the night air trapped between the walls, mixing with the tension that pulsed just beneath the skin. Sanzu was still sitting on Mucho’s desk, legs relaxed around him, breath a little uneven but not from nerves.

Mucho leaned in again—not toward his lips this time, but lower. Sanzu didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.

He just tilted his chin slightly to the side, exposing his pale neck to the warm air and the older boy’s breath. His eyes were half-lidded, watching Mucho without really watching. That subtle submission wasn’t weakness—it was permission.

And Mucho took it.

His lips brushed against the sharp line of Sanzu’s jaw, slow and almost thoughtful, like he was mapping it out. His mouth was warm, the stubble on his chin rough as it scraped just slightly over sensitive skin. Then he kissed lower, toward the hollow between neck and shoulder, lips parting, teeth grazing.

Sanzu exhaled. Soft. Not a moan, not quite. But he tilted his head further, offering more.

Mucho didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. The way his hands rested on Sanzu’s hips said enough—steady, present, dominant without being forceful. He kissed down the column of Sanzu’s throat, letting his tongue taste where the skin was thinnest, salt and heat and the faint taste of the lollipop that still lingered on his jaw.

Sanzu’s fingers twitched against the edge of the desk, his lips parting just slightly. He didn’t stop him. He didn’t guide him. He just let it happen. That was the thing.

Sanzu wasn’t used to this—being touched like that, kissed with intention. He didn’t do relationships, didn’t care for affection. Most people didn’t get close enough to try.

But Mucho knew what he was doing.

He left slow, open-mouthed kisses along the dip where Sanzu’s pulse beat hard, his hands moving up, fingers pressing at the curve of his waist. Sanzu let his eyes flutter closed, the taste of smoke still hanging faintly in his throat, the echo of their earlier kiss still burning on his mouth.

When Mucho’s lips moved back up to his ear, he let his teeth nip the lobe softly, breath ghosting down.

“You like pretending you’re not into this,” he murmured, voice thick.

Sanzu smiled lazily, neck still arched, eyes not opening.

“I’m into the silence,” he whispered back, breath ghosting hot over Mucho’s jaw. “And you’re quiet when your mouth is busy.”

Mucho chuckled low in his chest. And kissed him again—deeper this time. Hands firmer. Less teasing, more claiming.

Sanzu responded with that same infuriating indifference. He didn’t pull Mucho closer. Didn’t beg. Didn’t cling. But he didn’t stop him either.

And that—that—was the power he held.

The air outside was thick with early night humidity, a soft haze clinging to the pavement like fog reluctant to rise. Sanzu shoved his hands into his hoodie’s front pocket, the zipper half-done, revealing the bruised line of skin stretching from the base of his throat. His hair was still a mess — much worse than usual — ruffled, tugged, and sticking to the back of his neck. He didn’t bother fixing it.

He reeked of sweat, smoke, and something unmistakably carnal.

Each step away from the second-year dorms felt like a beat of some lazy drum in his chest, not rushed — satisfied. His legs ached faintly, but not in a way that bothered him. His lips were still swollen, raw from Mucho’s mouth, and there was a dark hickey blooming on the side of his neck, half-hidden by the hoodie’s loose collar.

He was halfway back to the first-year wing when he turned the corner — and collided, shoulder-first, into him.

Rindou Haitani.

Of course.

The impact jolted them both slightly, but it was the silence that cracked after.

Sanzu took a slow step back, licking his lips, eyes dragging up from Rindou’s chest to his face. His smirk was lazy, unreadable — the kind that held too much heat behind the eyes to be casual, and yet pretended to be.

Rindou didn’t speak. He stared.

His eyes dragged over him in one long, slow rake. The messed-up hair. The red mark on his neck. The sweatshirt that wasn’t zipped, that reeked of another guy. His jaw tensed — sharp, flexing like he was biting down words.

“…What?” Sanzu finally said, smirk deepening. “Gonna give me a ticket for walking through the wrong dorm building?”

Rindou’s lips twitched, but not in amusement.

“You look like hell,” he said flatly, eyes narrowing.

Sanzu’s laugh was low. “I feel fucking amazing.”

He took a step closer, just enough to lean into Rindou’s space like he wasn’t the one who should be uncomfortable — like he knew the scent of sex clung to him and wanted it to choke the air between them.

Rindou tilted his head, jaw sharp under the flickering hallway light.

“That your new thing?” he muttered. “Getting passed around by upperclassmen like some toy?”

Sanzu’s smile snapped. For a second, it was silent — like the moment before thunder cracks. Then Sanzu leaned in, breath ghosting across Rindou’s cheek, voice so low it could’ve been mistaken for something soft.

“No,” he whispered. “I don’t get passed around, Haitani. I choose who gets to fuck me.”

And it hit hard. Rindou’s jaw twitched again — sharper this time. His eyes dragged over Sanzu’s mouth like they hated what they saw, but couldn’t look away.

“You’re so full of yourself,” Rindou muttered.

Sanzu smiled again — this time too slow, too smug.

“Takes one to know one.”

They stood there, toe to toe, barely a breath of space between them, something electric snapping in the air like a live wire. Neither of them blinked. Neither of them backed away.

And when Sanzu finally turned, he let his shoulder brush Rindou’s chest with deliberate pressure — like a warning or a dare. He didn’t look back.

But Rindou did.

He watched the younger boy walk away — hips loose, stride unbothered, mouth still stained with someone else’s kiss — and for the first time in a long, long time…

…Rindou Haitani couldn’t decide if he wanted to punch him or pull him back by the neck and ruin him.

It was supposed to be a normal morning. Sanzu sat cross-legged in the middle bleachers of the university’s football stadium, where he always parked himself when skipping whatever boring lecture was clogging up the schedule. Strawberry milk in one hand, cigarette in the other, hoodie pulled halfway over his head to shield against the too-bright sun.

He liked the peace here — liked the sound of the wind across the field, the way the artificial turf smelled, the vague echo of old shouting and whistles that lived in the concrete.

That peace cracked like a bone under pressure.

From the far end of the stadium, the real shouting started.

At first, Sanzu didn’t pay attention. Football players were always yelling — someone lost a bet, someone made a bad tackle, someone pissed themselves over the last round of suicides. But then he caught a word — “Hey, fucker—” — and then a grunt that sounded serious, and the pitch of the chaos shifted.

He looked up. And blinked. On the grass, fists were flying.

Fucking Haitani was on top of Mucho, hands gripping his shirt as they tumbled across the turf in a tangle of limbs and violence. Rindou’s face was twisted — not cocky like usual, not composed — but furious, red with something deeper than adrenaline.

And Mucho? He was laughing. The fuck Mucho was doing there anyway?  Even while he ducked and blocked and hit back with a practiced swing to the side of Rindou’s ribs. It wasn’t just a scuffle. This was no locker room brawl. This was personal.

Players screamed around them — Baji tried to wedge between them, Inupi and Kazutora pulling at Mucho’s arms while Peh held Rindou back by the waist. Shion was yelling something about calling security, and Hanma? Hanma just stood off to the side, grinning like a fucking psychopath, clearly enjoying the show, a phone on his hand recording it

Sanzu stood slowly, strawberry milk forgotten at his feet. His cigarette burned down to the filter between his lips. He didn’t move. Just watched.

Rindou broke from Peh’s grip, nearly throwing the guy aside with brute force, lunging back at Mucho like a man possessed. “You think you’re fucking funny? Huh?!”

“You think you can throw hands over a kiss, pretty boy?” Mucho spat back, lip split, smirking as blood painted his teeth. “You jealous or something?”

That snapped something in Rindou.

He slammed into Mucho again — fists meeting flesh, snarled insults flying between gritted teeth, until Baji shoved himself between them, red in the face and panting like he was ready to deck both of them himself.

“Enough!” Baji roared. “Save that fucking energy for the field!”

Security was definitely coming now — Shion had wandered off to call them, probably bored of being the only voice of reason. Rindou stepped back finally, chest heaving, blood on his knuckles, hair in his face. His eyes found Sanzu across the field, standing silently like a ghost in the bleachers.

Their eyes locked.

And there was nothing subtle in the way Rindou looked at him. No veil. Just heat. Fury. Frustration. Something bordering on obsession. Sanzu’s fingers tightened around the edge of his hoodie.

He didn’t smirk. Didn’t taunt. Didn’t blink.

Because for the first time since coming to this school, something uncoiled inside him — a warning, a whisper, the kind of tension you only get right before a storm hits.

Rindou didn’t fight because he cared about Mucho. He fought because Mucho had something. Someone. Someone he couldn’t stop thinking about.

And Sanzu hated that the thought made his pulse quickening.

He stepped down from the bleachers, the clack of his boots against the metal echoing like a countdown to trouble. The scent of blood still lingered in the air, mingling with the sun-scorched sweat of the football team and the artificial green of the turf.

Mucho was still standing—barely—wiping at the blood on the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, that cocky grin still in place, even with his shirt collar stretched and his cheek already swelling. He caught sight of Sanzu walking toward him, and for a second, the smirk softened.

“You good?” Sanzu asked, voice low but sharp, like it had edges.

Mucho started to answer—“I’ve had worse”—but didn’t get far.

“—Mucho, Haitani!”

Two voices rang out like gongs. Authority.

Two professors in polo shirts and staff lanyards stormed across the field like the final bosses of discipline. One had a clipboard in hand; the other had fury stitched into every line of his old face.

“You two are done for the day. Mr Tachibana’s office. Now.”

Neither Mucho nor Rindou argued. Rindou, still fuming, still looking like a live wire, didn’t even glance back as he followed the teachers off the field, bruised and breathing fire. Mucho caught Sanzu’s eye briefly as he was led away—his gaze said “don’t worry,” but Sanzu didn’t trust words like that.

As soon as they were out of sight, the football team turned. And all eyes—every single pair—landed on him.

Sanzu narrowed his eyes. “What the fuck are you all looking at?”

That was enough to shatter the tension like glass underfoot.

“YOU started this!” Peh accused, pointing like it was court.

“Bro, what kind of kiss was that?” Kazutora chimed in, half-laughing, half-shocked. “Was it that good?”

“I knew it,” Inupi muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I told you Mucho liked him—”

“Mucho likes people?” Shion said, disbelieving. “I thought he just smokes with them and disappears.”

“Yo,” Hanma grinned like a wolf, “not gonna lie, that was hotter than most porn. You two wanna fight next? I’ll ref.”

Baji groaned, dragging a hand down his face like he regretted introducing any of them to each other. “All of you—shut the hell up.”

But they didn’t. They circled Sanzu like sharks who smelled the blood of gossip, barking questions and suggestions, taunts and theories.

“Did you kiss him or did he kiss you?”

“Was Rindou jealous because of that? He had to be.”

“You and Mucho together now?”

“What’s your deal with Haitani, huh?”

“You two timing them now?”

Sanzu looked around at them. These sweaty, chaotic idiots. Gods of the university’s sports department and apparently emotionally stunted middle schoolers when it came to drama.

He took a long breath, lit another cigarette. Blew smoke right in Shion’s face, who recoiled like he’d been shot.

Then, eyes cold and flat, Sanzu said:

“I fuck who I want. Kiss who I want. And if Haitani wants to break his face over it, he should’ve tried kissing me first.”

The silence was loud. Even Hanma raised his eyebrows. And then the whole team lost it.

Baji doubled over in laughter. Kazutora slapped Peh’s back hard enough to send him stumbling. Shion started choking from his own laugh-turned-cough. Inupi muttered something about chaos following Sanzu like a shadow. Even the ones trying to act like they weren’t impressed—failed.

But Sanzu? He just walked off.

He wasn’t staying there to play Q&A with a bunch of testosterone-drunk jocks.

The cigarette dangled from his lips, smoke curling behind him like a trail of warnings, and with every step away from that field, his expression settled back into ice.

He didn’t have time for drama. And he definitely didn’t have time for Rindou Haitani’s temper tantrums.

Even if the taste of that fucking lollipop still haunted his tongue

The beige walls of the office seemed to shrink around them. Posters about teamwork, integrity, and academic pride did little to soften the tension crackling in the room like an exposed wire. The air was stale, and the single ceiling fan spun with a lazy, taunting hum—as if it knew two storms had been forced into a cage too small for even one.

Mucho slouched in his seat like the worn-down leather belonged to him, one leg thrown over the other, knuckles still red, jaw bruised. His grin, despite the dried blood on his lip, was infuriatingly calm. Too calm.

Rindou sat across from him, legs spread, one hand drumming impatiently on the armrest, the other curled into a fist he still hadn’t unclenched since the fight. His hair was a little out of place, his lip swollen, and his jaw set like stone. Every so often, his gaze would flick to Mucho, sharp and electric, like he was mentally mapping out where he’d punch next.

They weren’t listening. Not really. The lecture pouring out of Principal Tachibana’s mouth—some long-winded speech about “sportsmanship” and “reputation” and “conduct becoming of athletes”—fell on deaf ears.

“Three days’ suspension,” the principal snapped, slapping down the final verdict like it was an execution order. “Both of you. Off the field. Rindou you are off team training. And if either of you so much as look at the other during the three times suspension—”

Neither blinked. Neither moved.

Mucho gave a lazy nod, barely paying attention. “Sure thing” he said, voice gravelly and light.

Rindou exhaled slowly, nostrils flaring.

“Dismissed.”

The word hit the air like a gong, and both men stood. Slowly.

Their chairs scraped back with a loud screech, matching the tension between them. They moved like predators in the same jungle—parallel, but never peaceful.

Mucho walked to the door first, opening it, then leaned slightly on the frame and glanced back. “Didn’t think golden boys like you got so riled up over a kiss.”

That was it. That was the spark.

Rindou’s hand twitched at his side, eyes darkening. “Careful who you’re playing with, Mucho. And it’s for the damn hickey”

Mucho just grinned, tongue dragging over the cut on his lip. “Wasn’t playing. Sanzu wanted it. You saw it. Everyone did. And that hickey? I gave it to him and he let me”

“Keep his name out your mouth.” Rindou’s voice was low now. Lethal.

But Mucho leaned in, just a little, voice still that slow, teasing gravel. “Or what? You gonna cry next time someone touches what you didn’t even have? Cause if you haven’t notice, i was there first Haitani. You didn’t knew about his existence until a few weeks ago”

Rindou stepped forward, close enough to feel the air shift. His eyes didn’t flicker. “Keep pushing me, Mucho. Three days won’t be enough.”

For a second, silence took over.

Then Mucho chuckled, shook his head, and walked off without another word, like he’d already won just by being touched by Sanzu first.

Rindou stood there, jaw tight, blood still simmering under his skin. He didn’t move until the footsteps faded.

The principal’s voice rose behind him again—something about second chances and better choices—but Rindou didn’t hear a damn word.

Because the only thing louder than the buzz in his ears was the memory of the lollipop.

That damn lollipop Sanzu had let him taste. And the fact that Mucho had kissed Sanzu’s neck after. He didn’t know if it was jealousy Or obsession.

But whatever it was, it was getting harder and harder to ignore.

The door slammed open with a sharp clack, Rindou stepping into their shared dorm room with blood still drying under his nails and the taste of adrenaline lingering in the back of his throat. His shirt was torn near the collarbone, knuckles scraped, and his temple was pulsing with the dull ache of a punch landed wrong.

Ran was on Rindou’s bed on his and Shion’s shared dorm, he was wearing a hoodie, his hair wet , fresh out of the shower and lighting a cigarette like he had all the time in the world. He didn’t even glance up at first—just exhaled a stream of smoke in the air and muttered with a dry edge, “You’re a fucking idiot.”

Rindou kicked his shoes off, ignoring the sting in his knuckles as he tossed his bag onto his bed. “Good evening to you too, brother.”

Ran finally looked over, eyes dragging slowly across the damage. “What the hell were you thinking, getting into a fight? You wanna ruin your football career because of a first year with a cigarette addiction and a bad attitude?”

Rindou shrugged, grabbing a cold bottle of water from their mini fridge. “Didn’t think. Just did.”

Ran scoffed. “Yeah, clearly. That fight? Pathetic. Thought I raised you better than that. I heard from a low life in my class that my fucking brother got into a fight with Mucho of all people and then you got suspended? For three days? Words travel fast you know?”

“You didn’t raise shit.”

“I babysat your ass while mom and dad would leave for hours, then days, then weeks!,” Ran corrected, then took another drag and leaned back lazily. “Still, you’ve been moodier than usual lately. Is this really about Sanzu?”

Rindou didn’t answer.

Ran smirked. “You like him, don’t you?”

That got a reaction. Rindou’s jaw ticked as he unscrewed the water bottle and chugged half of it, avoiding the question entirely.

Ran leaned forward, elbows on knees as he grinned like the devil himself. “I saw the way you look at him. You glare like you want to set him on fire. You know what that is, right?”

Rindou wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Don’t start.”

But Ran was already deep in his chaos. “It’s tension, little brother. Sexual tension. You’re either gonna kill him or fuck him. Or both. Honestly? Just fuck him and get it over with.”

“Ran.”

“No, hear me out,” Ran said, waving his cigarette. “Mucho’s got his hands on him now, but that doesn’t mean he owns him. You? You’ve got the upper hand. You’re a Haitani. You’re you. Just show up, kiss him like you mean it, and ruin his taste buds so bad he forgets everyone else’s name. Be a man. Claim him.”

Rindou rolled his eyes so hard it nearly hurt. “I’m not gonna listen to advice from a guy who once made out with two girls during a drug bust.”

Ran grinned. “And yet both still text me to this day.”

Rindou slumped into his desk chair, rubbing at his temples. “It’s not that simple.”

“No, it is,” Ran said, flicking ash into a tray. “You’re just stubborn. You want him. He’s clearly crawling into your skull rent-free. You fought Mucho like a rabid dog for a reason. So why not win?”

Rindou didn’t answer immediately. His thoughts were too loud.

He remembered the way Sanzu looked standing next to Mucho—smirking, teasing, alive. The way his lips wrapped around that lollipop. The way he asked for it back. The way his blue eyes burned like ice through smoke.

Rindou exhaled slowly, chest heavy. “I don’t want to be another name on his list.”

Ran raised an eyebrow. “Then make sure he’s the one on yours.”

Rindou gave him a flat look. “That was the cheesiest thing you’ve ever said.”

Ran just shrugged, stubbed out his cigarette, and opened the door “You’re welcome for the wisdom. Now go do something with all that pent-up energy before you explode.” Then he walked out and closed Rindou’s dorm door.

Rindou leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.

The idea of Sanzu, all teeth and venom, pressed under him, wasn’t the worst thought he’d ever had. But the idea of caring? That was the dangerous part.

And he hated how close he was getting to that edge.

Sanzu lay flat on his back, one arm stretched over his face, the other resting on his stomach as he stared blankly at the ceiling. The cheap fluorescent light buzzed faintly above, flickering every so often like it couldn’t make up its mind whether to stay alive or give in.

The taste of smoke still lingered in his mouth, but what was stronger—annoyingly so—was the sticky sweetness of that goddamn lollipop. Strawberry. The same one Rindou Haitani had taken from his mouth like it was nothing. Like he was nothing.

A smirk tugged at the corner of Sanzu’s lips, bitter and amused.

Baji’s voice cut through the stillness, muffled slightly as he lay half-facedown in his pillow, legs dangling off his bed like he’d lost the will to function.

“Bro, you seriously got Rindou Haitani and Mucho throwing punches over you. What the fuck kind of romantic drama did you stumble into? Did I miss the episode where you got cast as the main character in some messy-ass love triangle?”

Sanzu scoffed, not moving from his spot. “I didn’t ask for that shit.”

“Yeah, well, you got it anyway,” Baji said, sitting up to scratch at his chest, still shirtless, hair a wreck from sleep. “You should’ve seen their faces. Like wild dogs. I thought Rindou was gonna rip Mucho’s throat out.”

Sanzu’s eyes narrowed slightly, the mental image appearing too vividly. “I didn’t want that.”

Baji raised an eyebrow. “Sure didn’t stop you from kissing Mucho, now did it?”

Sanzu’s smirk returned, slower this time. He finally turned his head to look at his roommate. “Okay, that part wasn’t exactly on accident.”

Baji threw a crumpled sock at him. “Fucking menace.”

Sanzu caught it with one hand and tossed it aside, the smirk now full. “They’re both idiots.”

“They’re idiots,” Baji said, “but you’re the one with bite marks and a hickey the size of a golf ball. You’re not exactly an innocent bystander here.”

“I never said I was.” Sanzu leaned up, resting his elbows on his knees. His pale fingers went through his hair, trying to tame it, but it fell back messily in front of his eyes. “Still… I should’ve seen this coming. Rindou’s got the personality of a damn storm cloud. He glares like he’s trying to set people on fire.”

Baji snorted. “He is trying to set you on fire. Emotionally. Sexually. Mentally. All the -ally’s.”

Sanzu groaned. “Don’t start.”

“I’m just saying,” Baji said, lying back down, hands behind his head now like some sage in boxer shorts, “you keep walking around with lollipops in your mouth like you’re teasing the world and then get confused when people lose their minds.”

Sanzu blinked.

And then slowly, that smirk returned—wider this time. “Maybe it’s the lollipops.”

“Oh god.”

“I mean,” he said, falling back into his pillow with a soft thud, “maybe if I had a different flavor next time… like cherry… I could start another war.”

“You’re not helping,” Baji groaned.

“Don’t care.”

Sanzu folded his arms behind his head, the smirk still dancing lazily on his lips. There was no regret in his bones. No guilt in his chest. Only a strange sense of power, chaos, and consequence.

He should get more lollipops.

He closed his eyes and let out a quiet laugh.

Let the games continue.

“I’m going out.”

Sanzu’s voice was low, almost casual, but Baji didn’t miss the undertone—the kind of tone someone used when they needed to walk into trouble just to feel alive again.

Baji blinked, sitting upright on his bed with a half-eaten protein bar in one hand and his phone in the other. “Now? Where the hell are you going?”

But Sanzu was already halfway out the door, hoodie half-zipped, headphones around his neck, that usual unreadable expression stamped across his face. He didn’t respond. Didn’t need to. Baji just muttered something about “fucking drama goblins” under his breath as the door shut.

The night air was cooler than expected, but Sanzu welcomed the bite of it. The moon was low, veiled behind thin clouds, and the soft hum of campus lights cast long shadows across the path. It was quiet—his favorite time. No drunk teammates screaming. No much-too-loud music. No hungry eyes watching him like he was a prize on a shelf.

The fluorescent glow of the convenience store was almost comforting. He walked in like he’d done a hundred times before, hands in his pockets, walking straight to the candy aisle like a man on a mission.

He scanned the shelves, found what he wanted, and plucked it off the hook with two fingers.

Cherry.

He popped it into his mouth, the flavor bursting onto his tongue—sweet, dark, just slightly artificial. But it was bold. It was red. It was exactly the kind of stupid, calculated move he needed.

He stepped outside, the door’s bell jingling behind him, and that’s when he saw him.

Rindou Haitani.

Leaning against the rusted frame of a campus bike rack, hoodie hood thrown back, silver hair slicked down from a recent shower, still damp at the tips. His arms were crossed, head tilted, like he’d been waiting a while—but not impatiently.

He was staring directly at Sanzu, his pale eyes focused, unreadable.

Sanzu stopped mid-step, lollipop stem twitching between his lips.

“Stalking me again? Didn’t suspending you gave you more free time?” he asked around the candy, voice smooth, lazy, like this was just another minor inconvenience in his night.

Rindou’s lip curled up just enough to show the edge of a smirk. “Didn’t know the convenience store had become your kingdom. Should I bow?”

Sanzu tilted his head slightly, eyes sharp. “Don’t pretend like you just happened to be here.”

Rindou pushed off the rack with the slow kind of energy that made it clear he had no intention of pretending. “Maybe I was wondering what flavor you’d choose next.”

Sanzu scoffed. “Didn’t realize I was your entertainment.”

“You’re not,” Rindou said, stepping closer. “But you are… curious.”

There it was—that word again. That damn weight Rindou always spoke with, like everything he said had a second layer beneath it. Sanzu didn’t step back. He didn’t flinch. If anything, he pushed the lollipop further into his mouth and let the sugary sweetness fuel his pettiness.

“Well, sorry to disappoint, Haitani,” he said, voice low. “It’s just cherry. No fireworks.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Rindou muttered.

They stood there, face to face under flickering yellow light. The air between them was thick—charged. Not quite hatred. Not quite tension. Something twisted in between. The taste of that lollipop, the one Rindou had taken from his mouth days ago, suddenly haunted both of them like a ghost.

“You got a thing for taking what’s in my mouth?” Sanzu asked, dry and sharp.

Rindou’s smile turned dangerous. “Maybe. You got a thing for letting people take it?”

Sanzu’s jaw clenched, the stem of the lollipop cracking slightly between his teeth as he bit down harder than necessary. “You’re an asshole.”

“And you’re an attention addict,” Rindou replied easily.

They stood silent for a moment. Then Rindou leaned in—not close enough to invade, but enough for the cold of his breath to meet the warmth of Sanzu’s.

“You should be careful, first year,” he said, voice a whisper now. “Some flavors leave a burn.”

Sanzu pulled the lollipop from his mouth slowly, eyes never leaving Rindou’s.

“Good,” he muttered. “I like the pain.”

Then he turned, hands in his pockets, lollipop twirling between his fingers as he walked off into the dark—leaving Rindou 

The streets near campus were quiet, blanketed in that thick, heavy silence that only came in the earliest hours of morning. The air was cool, and the moonlight glimmered off parked cars and wet pavement. Sanzu’s boots hit the sidewalk in lazy, careless rhythm, hands in his pockets, cherry lollipop hanging from his lips like it belonged there.

He didn’t hear Rindou approach—he felt him. That magnetic presence, thick with tension and something unnamed, trailing just at his side. For a moment, neither said anything. Their steps matched, perfectly in sync.

Sanzu’s jaw was tight. The lollipop rolled from one corner of his mouth to the other as he spoke.

“You gonna tell me why the fuck you fought Mucho, or are we pretending that didn’t happen?”

Rindou scoffed.

The sound was sharp, dismissive, but the tension behind it was unmistakable.

“I don’t pretend,” he said. “I fight.”

Sanzu turned his head, lips slightly parted, one brow raised. “You fought him. Over what?”

Rindou didn’t answer with words. Instead, in one smooth movement, he reached forward and plucked the cherry lollipop from Sanzu’s mouth. His fingers brushed Sanzu’s lips, slow and deliberate—more intimate than it had any right to be.

Sanzu froze. The streetlight above them flickered.

Rindou popped the lollipop into his own mouth, his eyes never leaving Sanzu’s. The taste hit him instantly—sweet, sharp, warm from Sanzu’s mouth. And just like that, his blood stirred in the worst way.

Sanzu blinked once. Hard. His lips parted in disbelief, eyes narrowing.

“Not again you asshole-”

“For this,” Rindou cut him off, voice low, almost amused. He pulled the lollipop from his mouth, a red smear shining across his bottom lip. Then he stepped closer, his eyes flicking downward, to it—the hickey, dark and fresh against Sanzu’s pale skin, just above the collarbone.

Rindou’s expression darkened.

He leaned in.

“Because he had a taste.”

The words were a growl. Not loud, not angry—possessive. Raw. Jealous in a way Rindou hadn’t even realized he was capable of.

Sanzu didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

His skin prickled under the weight of Rindou’s stare, that storm brewing in his icy eyes. The silence between them was louder than any scream.

Rindou’s hand rose slowly, fingers brushing the fabric of Sanzu’s hoodie where the hickey marked him like a brand. His thumb stopped just beneath it, not touching it—threatening to.

“I should’ve done it first,” he muttered, almost to himself.

Sanzu blinked, caught between rage and something hotter. He inhaled once, sharp and shallow.

“You’re insane,” he whispered.

Rindou tilted his head, that crooked smirk curling again. “Probably.”

And with that, he dropped the lollipop back into Sanzu’s hand—wet, glossy, the taste of cherry and Rindou and something dangerously unspoken now mixing together.

Then he turned, shoving his hands in his pockets as he walked off down the sidewalk without another word.

Sanzu stood there, heart thudding, the lollipop sticky against his fingers, and heat crawling up his neck in a way he hated. He should’ve thrown it away.

He didn’t. He just followed Rindou

The alleyway behind the convenience store was dim, lit only by a flickering streetlamp overhead and the occasional hum of passing cars in the distance. The air smelled faintly of smoke, wet concrete, and tension that could crack the walls.

Sanzu didn’t know why he followed him.

Maybe it was the lollipop. Maybe it was the look in Rindou’s eyes. Or maybe it was that feeling deep in his gut—the one that said this isn’t over.

He found Rindou at the end of the alley, shoulders tense, pacing like a predator denied a kill. His wet hair clung to his temples, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket like he was holding himself back from doing something reckless.

Sanzu’s boots scraped against the gravel as he approached.

“You got something else to say?” he called out, lollipop now tucked in his cheek like a challenge.

Rindou didn’t answer. Not with words.

Instead, he turned in one swift motion and grabbed Sanzu by the wrist, dragging him backward and slamming him into the wall behind them—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make Sanzu’s breath catch in his throat. The concrete was cold against his back. Rindou’s body heat pressed close, his face inches away, breath hitting Sanzu’s lips like smoke.

His eyes—god, those eyes—burned into Sanzu like ice tipped with fire.

“You think this is a fucking game?” Rindou growled, voice low and raw.

Sanzu’s mouth twitched. “You’re the one who started playing.”

Rindou’s hand slammed against the wall beside his head, knuckles brushing Sanzu’s hair. He was so close their noses almost touched.

“I hated it,” he muttered, eyes darting to Sanzu’s neck. “Seeing him kiss you. Leave marks on you. Like you were his.”

Sanzu’s lips parted in a slow smirk, the cherry flavor still coating his tongue. He tilted his head back, just enough to expose his throat—that hickey.

“You did?” he asked, voice smooth and teasing.

Rindou didn’t answer. He stared at the mark like it offended him.

Sanzu’s eyes glittered beneath the shadows. “You don’t get to hate it, Haitani. You don’t get to be jealous.”

“Why not?” Rindou snapped.

“Because…” Sanzu whispered, leaning forward until their lips nearly touched, breath mingling like smoke and flame. His voice dipped into a dark, teasing whisper. “Mucho was the first one to taste me.”

He leaned in just a fraction closer—just enough that their lips grazed but didn’t meet.

“And you still haven’t.”

Rindou froze. His entire body went stiff, jaw clenched, breath held hostage between rage and want.

His hand twitched at his side. Sanzu didn’t flinch.

“You want to be mad, Rindou?” he said softly. “Be mad. But you don’t own me.”

Rindou’s eyes dropped to his mouth again—red, slick, glinting with cherry gloss and wicked arrogance.

“I don’t want to own you,” he muttered, his voice sharp like a blade at Sanzu’s throat. “I want to ruin you.”

The words hit like a pulse between Sanzu’s ribs. He let out a breathless chuckle, his lashes lowering, the smile on his lips dangerous.

“Then do it,” he whispered.

But neither moved.

The space between them crackled with too much heat, too much pride, too much restraint. Rindou’s fist pressed harder into the wall, and Sanzu just leaned in, lazy and deliberate, daring him to close the gap.

But he wouldn’t. Because if Rindou kissed him now, there would be no going back. And they both knew it.

The alley fell silent—too silent. The kind of silence that builds in the pause before lightning hits.

Rindou didn’t think.

He moved.

One hand gripped Sanzu’s jaw, the other fisting his shirt, and his mouth crashed onto Sanzu’s with the force of everything he’d been holding back: jealousy, anger, want, frustration, need.

Sanzu gasped—a sound too soft to be a protest—and Rindou devoured it. Their lips clashed, hard and unyielding, bruising, electric. The lollipop hit the pavement between them, forgotten, shattering on impact as if it knew it had lost the battle.

Their mouths fought—tongues clashing, teeth grazing, cherry and smoke mixing like some forbidden alchemy. Sanzu tasted sweet and sharp, like sugar laced with something dangerous. Rindou tasted like rage and heat and goddamn arrogance. It was messy. Loud. Real. Sanzu moaned into the kiss. It slipped out like it didn’t belong to him—raw, involuntary, a betrayal of pride. He did something that he didn’t do to Mucho

And Rindou felt it. Every inch of it.

He smirked against Sanzu’s mouth, triumphant and wicked. That sound… that hadn’t come out of Sanzu when Mucho kissed him. No, this was different. This wasn’t a kiss between friends testing boundaries.

This was a fucking war.

Sanzu pushed back, teeth biting at Rindou’s bottom lip. Rindou growled low in his throat and shoved him harder into the wall, one thigh pressing between Sanzu’s legs, pinning him in place.

“I hate you,” Sanzu whispered, breathless against Rindou’s mouth.

Rindou’s eyes burned. “Good,” he growled. “Hate me harder.”

They kissed again—slower this time, more deliberate, like they were learning each other’s mouths by memory. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t soft. But there was something desperate in it, like they were both trying to chase a high neither of them would admit to needing.

Sanzu’s hands curled into Rindou’s jacket. Rindou’s fingers were on his waist, dragging him forward, and Sanzu let him.

The space between them didn’t exist anymore. Only heat. Only breath.

Only the taste of cherries on each other’s tongues and the knowledge that this—whatever this was—wasn’t ending tonight.

When they finally pulled apart, Sanzu’s lips were swollen, red like sin, eyes half-lidded and dazed. Rindou stared at him like he wanted to burn the image into his mind.

Neither of them spoke. Because they both knew words would break the spell.

Rindou leaned in again, just once, lips brushing Sanzu’s ear as he whispered:

“Next time, lose the lollipop first.”

And then he walked away, leaving Sanzu breathless in the dark—back against the wall, knees weak, heart hammering like a warning he had no intention of listening to

The water was hot—too hot—but Rindou didn’t care.

Steam fogged up the mirror and coated the tiles, curling around him like the thoughts he’d been trying to shut out since he stormed back from the alley.

But Sanzu wouldn’t leave his mind.

He tilted his head back under the stream, letting the scalding water rush over his face, neck, chest—trying to burn the memory out of him. It didn’t work.

The kiss played again, like a film on loop. The sharp scrape of teeth. The low, accidental moan. That damn cherry lollipop and the way Sanzu had looked at him like he wanted to say something but didn’t. He tasted like sugar and venom, like rebellion made flesh.

Rindou pressed a palm against the wall, jaw clenched, breathing hard. Water slid down the planes of his chest, his abs twitching as he tried to focus on anything—anything—but Sanzu’s lips.

But then came the image: Sanzu on his knees. Those pale eyes flicking upward, mouth open, obedient not out of submission but out of defiance. Like he was daring Rindou to do something reckless. Something unforgettable. Something irreversible.

Fuck.

Rindou exhaled a curse into the foggy air, squeezing his eyes shut.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. He wasn’t supposed to care. Sanzu was a first-year, a problem child, sharp-tongued and too smart for his own good. Dangerous in ways that didn’t involve fists. The kind of danger Rindou wasn’t used to handling.

And that should’ve been enough to keep him away.

But no—Sanzu had kissed him back like it mattered. Like he wanted it. Like he needed it just as much. And that cherry-flavored kiss had carved its place into Rindou’s mouth like a brand. Sweet and intoxicating.

And then he thought of Mucho again—touching Sanzu, tasting him. Rindou’s stomach turned.

He wasn’t the possessive type. He didn’t do obsession. But there was something primal crawling beneath his skin now. Something ugly. Something territorial.

Because he got a taste. He got the moan. And no way in hell was he letting someone like Mucho take more than that. Not when Sanzu had looked at him with heat behind his lashes.

Rindou wasn’t a man who liked to share. Especially not this. Especially not him.

The water had long since run cold, but Rindou didn’t notice.

He was too lost in the thought of Sanzu—his lips, his taste, that infuriating smirk.

He ran a hand through his soaked hair and stepped out of the shower, steam billowing around him like smoke off a battlefield.

If Sanzu thought this was over, he was wrong. Rindou had no idea what this was becoming—but one thing was clear:

He wasn’t done tasting

The knock wasn’t polite. It was calculated. Sharp. Controlled rage hiding under the veneer of confidence.

Then came the kick.

“Open the door, Baji,” Rindou called, his voice low and dangerous.

The door cracked open to reveal Baji, confused, shirt half-on, hair wet like he just woke up from a nap he didn’t mean to take.

Before he could get a word out, Rindou shoved the door wide and stepped in with the kind of presence that forced space to shape around him. “Out.”

“What the fuck—?”

“Out,” Rindou repeated. His tone left no room for negotiation.

Baji blinked, glanced over at Sanzu, who sat on his bed shirtless, smoke curling from his fingers, a lazy smirk plastered on his face like he’d been expecting this exact kind of chaos.

“Fine. But I’m not cleaning up the blood if one of you snaps,” Baji muttered, grabbing his phone and slipping past Rindou, brushing his shoulder hard on the way out. “You both need therapy. Not each other.”

Rindou didn’t answer. He just closed the door behind him with a soft click. Now it was just the two of them.

Sanzu exhaled a thick cloud of smoke, letting it float lazily toward the ceiling. “You know,” he said, voice low and indifferent, “I don’t remember inviting you in. Or getting the memo that you were into breaking and entering.”

Rindou’s eyes scanned him—slow, deliberate. Sanzu’s bare chest, the slight sheen of sweat near his collarbone, the hickey from Mucho still lingering on his neck like a stain.

That made his jaw clench.

“You were expecting me,” Rindou said flatly, stepping in closer.

Sanzu chuckled. “Was I?”

“You’re always playing with fire,” Rindou muttered. “You just don’t know what happens when it burns back.”

He moved again, slow but sure. The way a wolf circles something it’s not sure whether to hunt or devour. And Sanzu? He didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. He leaned back on one arm, legs stretched out, like he was daring Rindou to close the distance.

The cigarette hovered between his fingers, ash trailing.

“You gonna keep staring or do something with all that rage bottled in that pretty face of yours?” Sanzu asked, voice rough, a little breathy, like he knew what effect he had and loved using it like a weapon.

Rindou’s tongue pressed into his cheek. He hated that. Hated how easily Sanzu made everything feel like a game. But he also couldn’t walk away.

“You let him mark you,” he said. “You let him taste you.”

Sanzu tilted his head, letting the smoke curl past his lips. “And?”

Rindou stepped forward. He was at the edge of the bed now, towering over Sanzu, whose smirk didn’t falter. But there was something in his eyes—sharp, unreadable—that flickered at the tension rising between them.

“I didn’t say I liked it,” Sanzu added quietly.

That did something.

The storm brewing behind Rindou’s cold gaze shifted. And before either of them could pretend this wasn’t leading to something dangerous, Rindou reached down, plucked the cigarette from Sanzu’s hand, and pressed it out in the ashtray beside the bed.

Then, silence.

They were inches apart now. The air buzzed. Heavy with unspoken things, with the heat that came from wanting something you’re not sure you should touch.

Rindou lowered himself slowly, one knee pressing into the bed, eyes on Sanzu’s lips.

“Tell me to leave,” Rindou whispered, voice low, dark.

Sanzu’s chest rose with a sharp inhale. His lashes fluttered, but the smirk never left.

“I won’t.”

Rindou reached out, fingers brushing the edge of Sanzu’s jaw, tilting it up with barely a touch. The movement was slow, reverent. Not rushed. Like he wasn’t sure if he was about to kiss him or ruin him.

His thumb dragged over Sanzu’s lower lip.

“You’ve got a mouth that starts wars,” Rindou murmured.

“And you’ve got hands that think they own things,” Sanzu said, his voice low, smoky. But he didn’t move away. He didn’t tell him to stop. He watched him—unflinching, bold.

Rindou’s hand ghosted down, across his collarbone, pressing into the bare skin of his chest like he wanted to memorize it. His touch wasn’t rough—not yet. It was intimate in a way that made the air around them thinner, more fragile.

“I don’t share,” Rindou said. It was a promise, not a warning.

Sanzu chuckled under his breath. “Then you better hold on tighter.”

Rindou leaned in, lips brushing Sanzu’s temple, then the corner of his mouth. Not quite a kiss, not quite nothing. The breath between them was hot and fast, tangled like their egos, like their hunger for control. Every part of their proximity felt like a spark looking for something to ignite.

And Sanzu, still smug, still cocky even in the face of Rindou’s intensity, whispered, “Is this your way of marking territory?”

Rindou smiled against his skin. “No,” he said. “This is me warning you.”

Sanzu’s laugh was quiet, throaty, full of challenge. “You think I’m afraid of you?”

Rindou pulled back just enough to look into his eyes. “No. That’s what makes this fun.”

Their foreheads touched, breaths mingling, the kind of closeness that wasn’t desperate—but inevitable. Like gravity pulling them toward something they might regret later but couldn’t avoid now.

The silence didn’t last. It cracked under the weight of proximity and the burn of everything they refused to say aloud.

Rindou’s hand moved slowly, sliding up the curve of Sanzu’s neck, fingers wrapping around it—not tight, just firm enough to demand stillness. His eyes searched Sanzu’s, scanning him like a challenge. His thumb pressed against the hollow of his throat, feeling the pulse there thrum hard beneath warm skin.

“You run your mouth too much,” Rindou said lowly, breath grazing the shell of Sanzu’s ear.

“Yet you keep coming back,” Sanzu whispered, head tilting just slightly—provoking, daring.

Rindou didn’t answer. Instead, he leaned in and kissed him—harder this time. There was no slow build, no teasing at first. Just pressure. Possessive. Teeth dragging across Sanzu’s lower lip before sucking it in and releasing it with a quiet pop. Sanzu made a sound—half gasp, half moan—and Rindou swallowed it, deepening the kiss like he needed to erase the ghost of someone else’s mouth entirely.

Sanzu gripped the sheets, letting his body arch into Rindou’s weight as the older boy pushed him back, crawling onto the bed until he was above him. Their knees bumped, their hips almost aligned, the mattress creaked under the tension—not lust, but something else—something volatile, sharp-edged.

Rindou kissed down his jaw, slow and deliberate now, like he had a map in mind and Sanzu was nothing more than a destination he was learning by touch alone. When his mouth met the side of Sanzu’s neck, right where Mucho’s mark still bloomed in faint purple, he paused.

And then bit.

Sanzu hissed out a laugh, not from pain—but from irony. “Marking someone else’s territory?” he asked, breath hitching as Rindou’s tongue swept over the fresh bruise.

“Not someone else’s” he said  “I told you,” Rindou murmured into his skin, “I don’t share.”

“You don’t own me either.”

Rindou pulled back, his hand still lightly wrapped around Sanzu’s throat. “Maybe not yet,” he said, voice calm in a way that was far more dangerous than anger.

Sanzu smirked, even as his eyes darkened. “You’re not the first to try.”

“But I’ll be the last,” Rindou said, brushing his lips just once more over the forming hickey, sealing it like a signature.

Sanzu let out a low hum, somewhere between amusement and surrender—but never submission. His fingers laced behind his head, reclining into the bed, letting Rindou stay right there above him.

And though neither said it, they both knew something had shifted. This wasn’t just rivalry anymore. It was a game with stakes now. And neither of them planned on losing.

Rindou trailed his kisses down Sanzu’s chest, Sanzu tried not to make any sound, he wouldn’t forgive himself if he gave Rindou the satisfaction of thinking that he likes it. But when Rindou’s hands brought down his pants and boxers in one go and wrapped his hand around his cock, he moaned, loud and clear and Rindou scoffed as he kissed Sanzu’s stomach

”Fuck keep on moaning like that, you’d make me cum in my pants” he said cocky 

“shut up” Sanzu said and Rindou moved his hand faster, Sanzu was lost, he didn’t think of anything else, just felt. The way Rindou’s lips left kisses down his chest as his hand was wrapped around his now hard cock

Sanzu refused to be in this state, so he took Rindou by the shirt and pulled him up, grabbing Rindou’s pants and bringing his pants down to his thighs, enough for Rindou’s cock to be seen standing awkwardly in his boxers. Rindou laughed

”You wanna take it off so badly?” Sanzu glared at him, Rindou unwrapped his hand from Sanzu’s cock and took off his shirt, revealing athletic abs, Sanzu saw Baji’s everyday, but fuck Rindou’s were heaven. Rindou, naked, went back to his job, he placed back his hand on Sanzu’s cock and lazily stroked it

His fingers were now in frond of Sanzu’s mouth. Sanzu looked at him

”suck” Rindou ordered and Sanzu scoffed, but he did what Rindou said, he took Rindou’s fingers in his mouth, Rindou nearly moaned at the sight, Sanzu taking his fingers in his hot mouth, his lips sucked on them

Then he took them out and placed them slowly in Sanzu, Sanzu moaned and let his head fall back to his pillows. Rindou worked his fingers in and out in a fast pace, leaving Sanzu a mess, he got sweaty, hair sticking to his forehead

”fuck” Rindou said, his fingers were in the wet heat of sanzu, his other hand still wrapped on Sanzu’s cock

“h-haitani-“

”no, if you gonna moan something, moan my name” Rindou said getting closer to Sanzu as he stared at his lips, Sanzu let out a sigh and when Rindou pushed too hard his fingers inside, he moaned

”Rindou- fuck” he closed his eyes, his neck on Rindou’s display, Rindou kissed his throat and then with his fast and rough space made Sanzu groan

“I’m gonna cum-“

“Yeah? Come for me baby” Rindou said and Sanzu wanted to kill him for calling him baby, but the moment Rindou pushed inside his fingers and his hand on that was wrapped around his dick came up, Sanzu moaned as his cum came out, splashing on his chest

Rindou got out his fingers, placing them on his own cock as he stroked it fast, Sanzu still in the afterglow let Rindou cum on his chest, painting him white

then Rindou leaned forward and licked him clean, his tongue traveling on his tummy to his chest, his tongue swirling around Sanzu’s hard nipples

”you taste good you know that?” Rindou asked

”you’re disgusting” Sanzu muttered, trying to catch his breath

”sure thing babe” Rindou said, licking his fingers last, Sanzu stared at him. Did they really do this? They didn’t even do anything, just, Rindou fingering him, then why the fuck is his heart threatening to leave from his chest? His now licked clean chest from Rindou’s tongue

Rindou fell besides him The room was thick with heat, even after it was over.

Sheets were tangled and clinging to their bodies, half-damp from sweat and cum. The small crack in the window let in cool air, but it did little to chase away the scent—smoke, musk, and something bitterly intimate.

Sanzu lay on his side, one hand behind his head, the other lazily bringing a cigarette to his lips. He exhaled slowly, letting the smoke curl around his face like a halo laced in sin. His breath was steady. Relaxed. Like none of this meant anything. Like he wasn’t just clawing into Rindou’s back minutes ago, letting the older boy pull the moans from his throat like strings on a cursed instrument.

Beside him, Rindou was also smoking—back pressed into the headboard, eyes narrowed as they followed the movements of Sanzu’s fingers more than the smoke itself. His hair was a mess, damp, the ends brushing his brow. His chest rose and fell with something slower than exhaustion, heavier than satisfaction.

“Baji’s gonna lose his shit,” Sanzu said eventually, smirking at the ceiling, “We ruined my sheets.”

Rindou didn’t respond.

Sanzu turned his head lazily to face him, blue eyes like ice melted under firelight. “You don’t have to keep looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re pissed I didn’t sign a damn contract.”

Rindou took a long drag from his cigarette, then reached for the ashtray on the nightstand. His jaw ticked. “You’re good at talking shit after getting finger fucked.”

Sanzu smirked, amused by the bite in his tone. “I like keeping your ego in check. Someone has to.”

But Rindou’s expression didn’t falter. No smirk, no laugh, no comeback. Just a cold, hard stare. He blew out a slow breath of smoke and finally spoke, voice flat but hot with something darker behind it.

“You say this means nothing.”

Sanzu nodded, taking another drag. “Because it doesn’t.”

“You tell me I don’t get a say if you go crawling back to Mucho,” Rindou continued, voice sharp now, his cigarette burning dangerously close to his fingers.

“Exactly.” Sanzu met his stare without flinching. “You don’t.”

Rindou’s jaw clenched. “Like hell I don’t.”

Sanzu’s brows lifted, amused. “Are you jealous, Haitani?”

“I don’t share,” Rindou bit, voice low and mean. “Not with anyone. Not with that smug bastard, and definitely not with you acting like none of this mattered.”

Sanzu chuckled under his breath, cigarette dangling between his fingers now. “Well, that’s your problem. I’m not yours to keep.”

He turned his head, eyes fluttering shut with a smirk still on his lips.

Rindou stared at him a moment longer, the way his lean chest rose slowly, cigarette smoke curling from his lips like a damn challenge. His pale skin still carried the imprint of Rindou’s teeth near his collarbone, and the red mark Rindou had deliberately left over Mucho’s was already beginning to darken.

And yet Sanzu looked like he didn’t give a damn.

“You’re such a pain in the ass,” Rindou muttered.

“And yet,” Sanzu said lazily, “you’re still in my bed.”

They both knew this was far from over. Even if they pretended it was nothing. Especially because they pretended.

Sanzu rolled the cigarette between his fingers, ashes clinging to the edge until gravity gave in. He didn’t care that it burned dangerously close to the sheets. The air between them was already flammable.

“You know,” he said, voice lazy but sharp, like a blade dragged slowly across skin, “we never really named this shit between us.”

Rindou didn’t answer. He sat at the edge of the bed now, one hand running through his messy hair, the muscles in his back taut, like every nerve was coiled tight beneath his skin.

Sanzu shifted, the sheet slipping down his hips. “Are we… what? Fuck buddies?” he asked, drawing out the word like it tasted sour. “Friends with benefits?”

He chuckled then, dark and dry. “We’re not even friends.”

Rindou’s head tilted slightly, and he turned, one cold eye staring back at him.

“Don’t joke about that shit.”

“Why not?” Sanzu flicked ash onto the tray. “It’s the truth, isn’t it? We don’t talk. We don’t hang out. We fuck. Then you light a cigarette like it’ll burn the memory out of your mouth.”

Rindou stood up slowly. His jaw was tight. He paced toward the window, opened it wider, letting the cold air rush in like a slap to both of them.

Sanzu watched him, amused by the silence, by how much noise came from Rindou just trying to stay calm.

“I don’t care what you call it,” Rindou said finally, voice low, cracking like the sky before thunder. “But I’m telling you now—whatever the fuck this is?”

He turned back, eyes dark and hard.

“I don’t fucking share.”

Sanzu blinked, cigarette paused mid-air.

Rindou walked closer, his shadow crossing over Sanzu’s bare chest, his body still humming from the earlier tension. He leaned down, palm slamming beside Sanzu’s head against the mattress.

“You want to play games, go ahead,” Rindou said. “Flirt with Mucho. Kiss him. Let him think he’s winning.”

Sanzu’s lips curled in a mocking smile. “Sounds like jealousy to me.”

“Damn right it is.” Rindou’s voice was gravel. “You think I didn’t want to put his head through that locker because he touched something that wasn’t his?”

Sanzu tilted his head. “You mean me?”

Rindou’s gaze dipped to the fading hickey that he had marked, a bruise over Mucho’s.

He reached out and thumbed it, hard.

“I mean exactly you.”

Sanzu laughed, but it came out breathless, like a challenge he didn’t expect to land. “You’re unhinged.”

“You like it.”

Rindou leaned in, his mouth hovering at Sanzu’s ear now.

“You like the way I lose control when it’s about you.”

Sanzu’s smirk twitched, the flicker of something dangerous igniting behind his eyes. He hated being seen too clearly. Rindou’s breath on his skin made it worse—made it real.

“You still don’t get a say in who I kiss,” he muttered.

Rindou didn’t move, didn’t flinch.

“No,” he said low, “but I’ll sure as hell make anyone regret kissing you.”

Sanzu stared at him. The possessiveness was suffocating, and yet—he didn’t push him away. Didn’t mock him again.

He only flicked the cigarette into the ashtray and lay back into the bed, eyes on the ceiling now, voice soft but laced with venom.

“Good luck with that, Haitani.”

Rindou’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t speak again. He just sat back down, lighting a new cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating the ghost of a smile in his otherwise unreadable expression.

Sanzu turned his head toward the window, wind brushing over his still-bare skin.

They still didn’t have a name for whatever the fuck this was. But Rindou had made one thing clear. He wasn’t going to let go easily.

The three days passed like water down a drain—fast, quiet, and strangely cold.

Sanzu lit his cigarette with his eyes half-lidded, the wind ruffling the messy strands of his pastel-pink hair. He exhaled the smoke with a slow drag, watching the swirl dissipate into the afternoon haze as he sat on the worn bench overlooking the sports field. Same bench, same spot—his little kingdom of solitude among the chaos of university life.

Except everything felt a little different now.

Mucho was back beside him, just like always, both of them tucked into their usual silence, the kind that came not from comfort, but from avoidance. The second-year hadn’t said much. Had barely looked at him.

Sanzu didn’t ask for explanations. He didn’t offer any either.

He flicked ash from his cigarette and caught the flicker of annoyance in Mucho’s jaw as his eyes briefly trailed to Sanzu’s neck. Sanzu didn’t bother to hide it. The new mark—darker, fresher, unmistakably not Mucho’s—sat right over the fading bruise that Mucho had left. Like someone had claimed territory.

Because someone had.

“Want a smoke?” Sanzu asked lazily, holding the carton out.

Mucho took it without a word, lit one for himself. His fingers brushed Sanzu’s, but the warmth there didn’t linger.

Sanzu studied him under heavy lashes. “You’re quiet.”

“You’re louder than usual,” Mucho replied, voice even.

Sanzu chuckled, not denying it. “You mad?”

Mucho glanced at him, smoke curling from his lips. “Should I be?”

“That’s up to you.” Sanzu turned his head, eyes back on the field. The football team was scattered around. Hanma yelling at someone, Baji throwing a ball too hard at Kazutora, Shion laughing like a maniac. All as chaotic as ever.

But no Rindou among them.

He wasn’t allowed back into practice yet. Sanzu knew. He heard Baji and Peh talking about it earlier—something about “disciplinary measures” and “he’s lucky they didn’t kick him off the team.” Apparently, punching a fellow student, especially one not from the same studies, was still frowned upon. Even if that student was Mucho.

“You gonna see him again?” Mucho asked suddenly, tone too casual.

Sanzu tilted his head. “Who?”

Mucho scoffed. “Don’t play dumb.”

Sanzu didn’t answer right away. He took a slow drag, let the smoke fill his lungs, then exhaled.

“I don’t know,” he said finally. “Does it matter?”

Mucho looked at him. Not hard, not soft—just with something unreadable behind his dark eyes. “You said this meant nothing.”

“It still does,” Sanzu replied, tapping ash off the cigarette. “It’s just—things don’t stay neat, do they?”

Mucho laughed, dry and humorless. “Not around you.”

A beat passed.

“Didn’t think he’d leave a mark on top of mine,” Mucho said, quieter now. “That’s a message.”

Sanzu turned to face him, cigarette hanging from the corner of his lips.

“Then read it however you want,” he said, voice clipped but not cruel. “But I didn’t ask for it. I didn’t tell him to fight you. I didn’t even want any of this. Fuck, he just saw me, wanted me and then just kept following me around like a stalker or something”

Mucho nodded, flicked the cigarette into the grass. “Yeah. But here you are.”

Sanzu leaned back, watching the smoke rise. “Yeah,” he repeated. “Here I am.”

They sat in silence again, the air heavy with what they didn’t say. Around them, the world moved—students laughed, balls thudded against the field, someone played loud music on a speaker nearby. It was all white noise.

But inside his head? Sanzu wasn’t quiet at all.

He thought about Rindou’s hand on his throat, the way his voice sounded like gravel and thunder. The way he didn’t ask for permission—only dared Sanzu to stop him. The way Mucho used to look at him, and how it shifted now.

None of this was supposed to matter. It was supposed to be meaningless. Bodies. Tongues. Cigarettes. Kisses that didn’t linger.

And yet… here he was.

Neck claimed like territory, heart untethered, and mind restless. And Mucho, silent beside him, knew it too.

Sanzu didn’t look at him when he said, “I didn’t come here to get caught between two men who don’t know what they want.”

Mucho let out a sharp breath, not quite a laugh. “Then maybe stop being the kind of person people fight for.”

Sanzu smirked at that. But it didn’t reach his eyes.

He was too busy wondering where Rindou was now—and what would happen when their paths crossed again.

Because they would.

And Sanzu wasn’t sure he’d walk away from that next time quite so untouched.

The weight of the cigarette between Sanzu’s fingers felt heavier than usual, its glow slowly dying in the breeze. He should’ve known Mucho wouldn’t just let silence sit between them forever. That wasn’t how this game worked—not with them.

Sanzu barely had time to turn his head before Mucho’s fingers closed around his jaw, firm, steady, possessive in a way that didn’t ask for permission. Sanzu blinked, blue eyes sharp but unreadable, as Mucho tilted his face up to meet his gaze.

“If this means nothing,” Mucho murmured, voice rough, dragging with heat and frustration, “then a kiss doesn’t either.”

Before Sanzu could answer, Mucho kissed him.

It wasn’t like Rindou’s—Rindou kissed like a storm, like a man ready to destroy what he wanted to claim. But Mucho? Mucho kissed like a fire that had always been burning, and now it simply flared too high to be ignored.

It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t soft. It was bruising and hungry. Sanzu felt his own breath hitch, his mind going hazy as the taste of smoke and tension tangled on his tongue.

And the moment he let him—just for a second, lips parting to meet the press of Mucho’s mouth—Mucho shifted. His lips trailed down, slow, unhurried now, toward the edge of Sanzu’s jaw. Sanzu didn’t stop him. He just tilted his head slightly, breath hitched in anticipation.

Then, a sting. Pressure. Heat.

Mucho was marking him again.

A fresh bruise bloomed right next to the one Rindou had left just nights ago. It sat close—close enough to be obvious. Close enough to provoke.

Sanzu’s hand reached up and pressed against Mucho’s chest, not to push him away, just… to feel it. The steady thrum beneath his skin. To remind himself this wasn’t about anything real.

When Mucho finally pulled back, their faces were too close. Their breath mingled. Sanzu looked up at him, pupils slightly blown, lips red.

He let out a laugh. Not the amused kind. The bitter, sharp-edged kind. Two men now. Two fucking hickeys.

One neck.

His.

Sanzu reached up and touched the new mark, almost in disbelief. “So that’s what this is?” he muttered, a smirk tugging at his lips despite the coil in his gut. “A territory war?”

Mucho just looked at him, unflinching. “You letting me kiss you means I still got a stake in this.”

Sanzu scoffed and leaned back, dragging on his cigarette again. “You don’t own me,” he said, voice laced with that signature Sanzu chill. “Neither of you do. I’m not some fucking dog to be fought over.”

Mucho didn’t argue. He didn’t have to. The silence between them was answer enough.

Sanzu could feel it now. The invisible line drawn between Rindou and Mucho, with him caught right in the center. And yet, somehow, still unclaimed. Still wild.

Still… his own.

And even if they both tried to leave marks, the one thing they couldn’t touch was the way Sanzu laughed at them for trying.

“You two wanna fight for a ghost,” he said, mostly to himself. “I’ll just sit back and enjoy the fireworks.”

He stood, flicked the cigarette down, grinding it beneath his heel. Mucho didn’t try to stop him this time. Just watched him go.

And Sanzu didn’t look back. Not because he didn’t care. But because he knew they both would

Sanzu barely had time to register the sharp sound of footsteps closing in behind him when a hand gripped his wrist—tight, unforgiving. His head snapped to the side, ready to snap at whoever thought they could touch him like that, but his words died in his throat.

Rindou Haitani.

His face was unreadable, but his grip said enough. Sanzu’s eyes flicked once—just once—to Rindou’s narrowed gaze, then to the spot where his thumb pressed hard against the thin bone of his wrist.

“What the fu—”

“Shut up,” Rindou muttered, low and volatile.

Then, without warning, he pulled. Sanzu stumbled forward a step, already scowling.

“I’m not some fucking dog—” Sanzu started, but Rindou wasn’t listening. He didn’t care. He dragged him along like gravity had given him permission. His fingers dug into Sanzu’s skin like it was personal. Rindou was dragging his ass in campus, walking fast like a madman, people looked at them with glares or side eyes

And maybe it was personal. They didn’t stop until they were inside Rindou’s dorm, the door slamming behind them with a sharp bang that echoed through the hall.

Sanzu yanked his hand back the second he could, rubbing the sore skin and glaring. “Seriously? You dragging people now? What, did you forget your leash somewhere?”

But Rindou wasn’t biting the bait—not this time.

He took a step forward, gaze locked on Sanzu’s throat. The new hickey sat dark, deep purple, low on his neck. Almost artistic in the way it overlapped with the fading edge of the one Rindou had left.

“Is this funny to you?” Rindou asked, his voice low, barely masking the simmer beneath. “Letting him mark you. Letting him fucking touch what I—”

He stopped himself.

Sanzu cocked a brow, tilting his head so that both marks caught the light. “Touch what, Haitani?”

Rindou stepped closer. Sanzu didn’t back away.

“You didn’t seem to care a few days ago,” Sanzu continued, voice cool. “When I told you this meant nothing. That I don’t do possessive boys with anger issues.”

Rindou’s hand came up—slow, deliberate—and he traced his fingers over the hickey Mucho left, almost like he was erasing it with touch alone. Sanzu stiffened, not out of fear, but defiance.

“You don’t belong to him,” Rindou said.

“And I don’t belong to you either,” Sanzu snapped.

Rindou’s fingers curled under Sanzu’s jaw, lifting it so their eyes locked.

“You keep saying that,” Rindou murmured, tone tightening. “But you let him put his mouth on you. You let him leave this shit. And now you walk around like it’s nothing.”

“Because it is nothing,” Sanzu shot back. “You both are.”

A lie. Maybe.

Rindou’s grip didn’t soften. “Then stop letting us touch you.”

Sanzu didn’t move. He didn’t blink. He just stood there—held in place by the intensity of it all.

And Rindou saw it then. The crack in the mask. The tiny, barely visible tremble in Sanzu’s throat. Not fear. No, never that. But something close to being seen. Too close.

“You don’t get to be jealous,” Sanzu muttered. “Not when you kissed me like that after i told you a hundred times i’m not yours”

Rindou finally let go.

He stepped back like the distance would put the tension to sleep. But it didn’t. It crackled in the air between them, electric and bitter and full of the things they wouldn’t name.

“I’m not fucking sharing you,” Rindou said again, quieter now.

Sanzu scoffed, licking his lips. “Then stop acting like I’m yours to begin with.”

He turned for the door. Rindou didn’t stop him this time. But his eyes followed him all the way out.

Like a warning. Like a promise.

The cigarette burned slowly between Sanzu’s fingers, casting a faint orange glow in the darkness that surrounded him. He was sitting on the stone ledge behind the university’s old science building—his usual hiding spot when he didn’t want to be found. It was well past midnight. Campus was quiet, the windows of dorm buildings dark save for a few stubborn night owls or people making questionable decisions behind drawn curtains. The air was still, thick with the scent of rain that hadn’t fallen yet and the smoke that curled lazily from his mouth.

He exhaled, slow and tired, eyes fixed on the horizon even though there was nothing to see.

His mind was a mess.

Not the chaotic kind of mess he was used to—one with adrenaline, with energy, with mischief and madness. No, this one was different. It sat heavy in his chest, dull and irritating, like static that wouldn’t stop humming in the back of his skull.

He didn’t feel anything for Mucho. He knew that.

They were… friends. Kind of. The kind of friends who shared cigarettes and traded low smirks, who got too close and kissed too deep but never talked about what came after. It wasn’t real. It never was.

Sanzu took another drag, eyes half-lidded.

Mucho was easy. He didn’t ask for more than what Sanzu gave. He didn’t demand things. Didn’t stare like he wanted to know what was underneath Sanzu’s skin. That was why it worked. Why they worked.

And still—when he let Mucho kiss him, when he let those hands pull him in and leave marks on his neck—he felt nothing.

That should’ve been a good thing.

But now… now there was Rindou.

Rindou Haitani, with his sharp tongue and sharper eyes. With the way he looked at Sanzu like he knew him. Like he owned him. Like he had the right.

Sanzu rubbed a hand over his face, cigarette dangling between his lips. He remembered how it felt—Rindou’s lips on his throat, the heat of his breath, the weight of his jealousy. It hadn’t been subtle. Rindou didn’t do subtle.

He was possessive in the worst way.

He fought Mucho over him. Dragged him into alleyways. Stared like he wanted to devour him and burn anyone else who dared touch.

And maybe… maybe that’s what made it harder.

Because even though Sanzu didn’t want to be anyone’s, there was something in the way Rindou touched him. Like he wasn’t just another body. Like he was something rare. Something worth keeping.

That terrified him.

Because Rindou didn’t love him. That much was obvious. This thing between them—whatever the fuck it was—wasn’t gentle. It was smoke and teeth, tension and hunger. It was a fire that scorched instead of warmed. A storm with no calm.

And still—Sanzu let him in.

Every single time.

He flicked ash to the ground and stared at the ember burning closer to the filter.

He didn’t know what to do.

Mucho would be fine. He’d move on, find another warm mouth, another willing partner. They’d still smoke together. Maybe laugh. Maybe ignore what never needed to be acknowledged. But Rindou…

Rindou was the wild card.

Sanzu didn’t know how to navigate that. He didn’t want feelings. Didn’t do them. He didn’t even know if he had them. Or if what he was feeling now was just the echo of something deeper that he kept trying to suffocate.

He took one last drag, cigarette now nothing but ash and filter, and flicked it into the dirt.

The night was still quiet. Still waiting. And Sanzu, for once, had no plan.

No smirk. No lollipop.

Just the cold creeping into his hoodie and the weight of two pairs of hands on his neck—one fading, one fresh—and no clue which one he wanted to feel again.

The sky above him was still dark, streaked with the faintest hints of blue on the edge of morning. Sanzu had lost track of time, but he didn’t move from the cold ledge. He sat, arms resting loosely on his knees, the sharp smell of smoke clinging to his hoodie and the bitter taste still on his tongue. But he felt clearer now.

At least a little.

The silence helped. The lack of people. The lack of eyes. Just him and his thoughts—and those were loud enough.

He sighed, tugging the sleeves of his hoodie down over his hands and pressing his thumbs against his lips.

He had to end it with Mucho. Not everything. Just the fucking.

They could go back to how they were. Before the heat and the hickeys, before the lips trailing down his neck and the quiet teasing touches between cigarettes. Before they blurred the lines. It had always been easy with Mucho. Friendly. Cool. They could sit shoulder to shoulder and pass a drink, crack jokes about professors or watch the football team break each other’s bones. That was all they needed to be.

He didn’t want to ruin that. He didn’t want to lose that.

He could walk up to Mucho and just say it—blunt, simple, the way he always was. “Let’s stop the sex.” And he knew Mucho wouldn’t get weird. He’d probably nod, call him an asshole, and still ask for a cigarette ten minutes later.

But Rindou…

Fucking Rindou.

Sanzu scoffed, shaking his head. That bastard would practically throw a parade when he found out he wasn’t sleeping with Mucho anymore.

He could already see that smug little smile curling on his lips, the arrogant glint in those sharp, narrow eyes.

Like he won.

Won what, though?

Sanzu had never agreed to be anyone’s anything. He wasn’t a prize, and he wasn’t some territory to be fought over.

Still, Rindou had acted like it. Possessive. Jealous. Brutal. That stupid fucking fight had made everything worse. Because now, everyone knew—that something was going on between the three of them. And worse, Rindou had left a mark. A fucking claim.

And what did Sanzu do? He let him. He fucking let him. Touch him, mark him, they didn’t even have sex, just Rindou fucking him up with his fingers, his fingers! And he felt that he was melting that moment

Sanzu rubbed the side of his neck absentmindedly, feeling the dull ache where the newest hickey still sat, pressed over the fading imprint Mucho left behind. As if Rindou wanted to erase him. As if he could.

It irritated Sanzu. Infuriated him.

Because it was working.

He thought about that alleyway—the kiss, the way Rindou pinned him like a threat and a promise all at once. He remembered the taste, the heat, the feeling of losing control for a moment.

Rindou didn’t just want him. Rindou wanted to own him. And Sanzu… didn’t know if he hated that.

And that—that was the fucking problem.

He wanted to tell Rindou to back the fuck off. That they were nothing, that he didn’t belong to him, that he could do whatever the hell he wanted with whoever he wanted. But then he’d picture those eyes again—dark, dangerous, wanting—and he’d hesitate.

He hated that hesitation.

The Sanzu he knew didn’t hesitate. He took. He left. He didn’t look back. But now?

Now he was fucking thinking. Thinking too much. And he hated it.

He stood up from the ledge, brushing ash and dirt off his jeans, stretching his back. The wind cut through the early morning air, and he tugged his hoodie tighter.

He’d tell Mucho tomorrow. Clean break. Nothing personal. Just done.

And Rindou?

Sanzu didn’t know. He didn’t know if he was ready to cut him off. He didn’t know if he wanted to. But one thing he did know, crystal clear in the haze of his restless brain, was this:

He wasn’t anyone’s fucking property. And if Rindou Haitani thought he could keep him like a trophy on a shelf, he had another thing coming.

Sanzu popped a new lollipop into his mouth—grape this time—and began the slow walk back to his dorm.

Morning was breaking. And the war in his chest was just beginning.

The next day broke colder than expected, and the sting of early morning hit Rindou Haitani hard. His hoodie was slung over his head, airpods jammed in, though no music played. He just didn’t want anyone to talk to him. Or look at him. Or breathe in his direction.

Except, of course, Shion had other plans. The guy never shut up.

“Yo, Rindou, did you see that girl from sports science class yesterday?” Shion’s voice cut through the air like a blade of chaos. “The one with the ponytail—swear to god, she’s been giving me looks.”

Rindou didn’t lift his head from the desk.

“You sure she wasn’t looking at the exit behind you?” he muttered, eyes closed, arms folded, long fingers twitching as if resisting the urge to grab Shion by the face.

Shion laughed like it was the best joke he’d heard all week and clapped him on the back. Rindou’s jaw ticked.

“Man, you’re cranky today,” Shion said. “You need to get laid—oh wait, you already did. Twice. Heard about the Sanzu-Mucho-Rindou triangle—shit’s like reality TV, and I live for that.”

Rindou lifted his head slowly, gave Shion a look sharp enough to slit throats. “You talk like that again and you’ll be the next triangle. You, me, and your fucking grave.”

Shion didn’t even flinch—because Shion didn’t think, he talked.

“You’re mad because Mucho’s still in the game?” he grinned. “I’d be too, man. Sanzu? That guy walks like he owns every room and breathes smoke like a goddamn rockstar. I’d be possessive too.”

“I’m not possessive,” Rindou said flatly.

“Sure you’re not.”

“I’m not.”

“You punched a guy in front of the entire team because he left a hickey.”

Rindou rolled his eyes and leaned back in the lecture chair, one leg swinging lazily, arms crossed. He glanced at the professor scribbling notes on the board about muscle recovery and endurance physiology, then back at Shion.

“You keep talking and I’ll test your recovery time firsthand.”

Shion let out another damn laugh. Loud. Obnoxious. Everyone in a ten-meter radius turned to look.

“Okay, okay,” Shion raised his hands in mock surrender. “But if you do kill me, just make sure it’s dramatic. Like—put me through the weight racks. Leave a mark.”

Rindou groaned and let his head fall back against the seat. He hated mornings. He hated sports theory. And most of all, he hated how right Shion was—about everything.

Because Rindou was possessive.

He didn’t like how Sanzu still sat next to Mucho like nothing ever happened. He didn’t like the cigarette passing or the casual glances. Didn’t like the way Sanzu let Mucho touch him even now, after Rindou had already marked him like a warning to every other bastard with hands.

But worst of all? He didn’t like the fact that Sanzu didn’t care.

That he could just sit there, unbothered, playing with lollipops and fire, like none of it mattered.

And maybe it didn’t—to Sanzu. But to Rindou? It was driving him fucking insane.

He clenched his jaw as the professor’s voice faded into the background again. His mind was full of last night’s mess. Of how Sanzu had looked up at him with that smug little smirk, all cigarette smoke and hickeys and chaos.

Rindou wanted to bite it out of him. To see how long Sanzu would keep that sharp mouth once he was fully his.

Shion nudged him again. “Yo, you listening?”

“No.”

“We’ve got a partner lab next period.”

“Guess I’m failing.”

“You’re with me.”

“Definitely failing.”

Shion laughed again. Rindou just stared ahead, teeth grinding. He needed to figure this shit out. Fast. Or he was going to start another fight he couldn’t punch his way out of.

The bell rang, sharp and final, echoing across the outdoor courtyard that connected the sports complex to the main academic halls. Students scattered like ants, some groaning, some talking too loudly, the air still heavy with post-lecture fatigue.

Rindou walked beside Shion in silence, his hood still up, his hands shoved into the pockets of his track pants. His mind had drifted the entire class—he couldn’t remember a single slide from the presentation, just the way Sanzu had looked that morning in the courtyard. Unbothered. Unclaimed. Licking cherry off his teeth.

Shion rambled about protein powders or a fight he almost got into last week. Rindou didn’t care.

And then he saw him. Mucho.

Leaning back against the brick wall that lined the edge of the east wing, legs spread in that confident, laid-back way that said I don’t give a fuck, a cigarette between his lips—no. Not just a cigarette.

Sanzu’s cigarette.

Rindou knew it by the slight bite in the filter, the brand, even the way it burned. And on Mucho’s neck—fresh. Bold. A hickey that hadn’t been there during the fight. A hickey that said I’m still in this game.

Rindou stopped walking. His breath stilled.

“Yo?” Shion looked at him, confused. “What—”

Rindou was already walking.

Direct. Slow. Focused.

He cut through the crowd like smoke cutting through fog, hands still in his pockets, jaw tight. Mucho saw him too, cocked his head, that familiar grin tugging at the corner of his mouth like this was some inside joke Rindou didn’t get.

He pulled the cigarette out of his mouth and let out a stream of smoke—right as Rindou stepped up.

“Didn’t know you were into secondhand,” Rindou said, voice low and venom-laced. “Or maybe you like leftovers.”

Mucho chuckled, casual. “You look pissed, Haitani. Something crawl into your bed and say no?”

Rindou’s eyes dropped to the hickey again. That fucking mark. Bold. Intentional.

He wanted to knock it off his neck with his fists.

Instead, he stepped closer—too close for campus etiquette, too close for the onlookers already beginning to slow their steps.

“Or maybe,” Rindou said, voice a near whisper now, “you’re just real comfortable walking around with shit that doesn’t belong to you.”

Mucho didn’t flinch. In fact, he smiled wider, tapping the ash off the end of the cigarette.

“Sanzu isn’t a thing you own, Haitani,” he said coolly. “Maybe if you spent less time punching and more time talking, he wouldn’t be so happy to let me taste him.”

Rindou’s body went still—his hands clenched in his pockets, knuckles whitening. Every part of him screamed for violence, for the adrenaline of blood and bone. But not here. Not now.

He leaned in, their foreheads nearly brushing.

“Keep tasting him,” he said, voice razor-thin, “and I’ll carve a new smile into your throat.”

Mucho’s grin twitched—but not with fear. He was the kind of guy who liked getting under skin, especially when the skin belonged to someone as tightly-wound and territorial as Rindou.

“Whatever you say, lover boy,” he said, popping the cigarette back in his mouth. “But next time you see Sanzu, you ask him who he came back to last night.”

Rindou’s teeth ground together.

He stepped back slowly, eyes still burning into Mucho’s.

Shion finally caught up, blinking at the tension in the air. “Yo—what the fuck is going on?”

Neither answered. Rindou turned on his heel without a word, shoving past a group of first years in his path. He didn’t need to hit Mucho again. Not yet.

But the next time he saw Sanzu, he’d make sure there were no more marks left by anyone else.

Especially not by someone like Mucho

Mucho exhaled a long drag of smoke as Rindou stormed off, and the smirk on his face curled deeper—amused, calm, victorious. He watched the back of the blond disappear into the crowd like a fuse burning too close to the dynamite.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

The hickey on his neck throbbed faintly from pressure more than sensation—it wasn’t even Sanzu’s handiwork. Some second year whose name he’d already forgotten had sucked too hard last night, drunk and eager after Mucho let her think she was the only one in the room he noticed.

It had meant nothing.

Just like everything else.

Because Sanzu had already come by his dorm late last night—quiet knock, cigarette behind his ear, hair damp from a shower—and told him, with his usual calm cruelty, that they were done with the fucking. Just friends. That was it.

“Still cool?” Sanzu had asked, voice blank, like it didn’t matter either way. “You got what you wanted, didn’t you?”

And Mucho—he had just laughed. Not because he found it funny, but because he wasn’t surprised.

Sanzu was always going to walk away first.

They sat on the edge of his bed for a few minutes after that, smoking the same cigarette back and forth, no lingering touches, no softness. Just routine. And then Sanzu left like he always did, door clicking shut behind him without a glance back.

Mucho hadn’t been mad.

Hell, he expected it.

But Rindou? That was different. Rindou was the tightly wound coil Sanzu hadn’t learned how to cut yet. Jealous, cold, possessive—the guy had “mine” written all over him when it came to Sanzu, even if he didn’t know how to say it.

So Mucho figured—if Sanzu wasn’t his anymore, he’d still make the game fun.

That hickey? Perfect bait.

Rindou took one look at it and practically vibrated with fury. The guy was wound so tight, all it took was one wrong twitch of a muscle for him to snap.

Mucho flicked the cigarette to the pavement and crushed it beneath his shoe.

Teasing him wasn’t even hard. Sanzu didn’t belong to anyone—and he made that clear to both of them—but Rindou acted like he had a claim stamped on the back of Sanzu’s neck. That sort of obsession? Dangerous. And kind of entertaining.

“Fucking idiot,” Mucho muttered to himself with a snort, hands digging into the pockets of his jacket.

He turned and started walking toward the cafeteria, ignoring the way students still buzzed about the earlier tension. Someone whispered “Was that about Sanzu?” and it made his grin widen.

He didn’t need to sleep with Sanzu to keep being a thorn in Haitani’s side. All he needed was that dangerous knowledge—that Sanzu let him once, and Rindou would never stop feeling threatened by it.

And if teasing him kept Rindou close to the edge?

Even better.

Sanzu stepped out of the lecture hall, blinking at the sudden change in lighting. The corridor was quieter than usual—just the shuffle of students, low conversations echoing off the old, waxed floors, the smell of coffee and dry-erase markers lingering like campus perfume.

He stretched lazily, cigarette already in his fingers before he even made it halfway down the hallway. His psychology professor had droned on about emotional projection and attachment theories—ironically fitting, considering the circus that had become his life lately.

He was just reaching for his lighter when he saw him.

Rindou.

Storming down the hall like he owned the place. Shoulders stiff, jaw clenched, his pace too fast and too angry to be casual.

What the fuck?

Sanzu’s brows lifted. The psychology wing was a good ten-minute walk from the sports building, where Rindou’s classes normally were. He had no business being here. None. And yet there he was—storming in like a missile with a target in mind.

Sanzu.

Great.

He stopped, cigarette half-lit, watching the blond cut through the students like a wolf in a flock of pigeons. Girls turned to stare—Rindou was always the type that made heads swivel—but his eyes were locked, sharp and narrow, on one person only.

Sanzu rolled the cigarette between his fingers and let out a sigh.

When Rindou finally reached him, he didn’t say a word at first. He just stood there, chest rising and falling, sweat on his brow like he’d jogged the whole way. Sanzu didn’t flinch—he tilted his head, slowly, eyes dragging up and down Rindou like he was just another dumb headline in the university newspaper.

“The hell are you doing here, Haitani?” Sanzu drawled, lighting the cigarette. “Lose your ball and followed it all the way to psych?”

“You think this is funny?” Rindou snapped.

There it was.

That fury—banked under his skin like oil near a flame. His voice was low, strained, holding back more than it let out. Sanzu exhaled slowly, smoke curling from his lips, then leaned against the wall like he was settling in for a show.

“Kind of depends,” Sanzu replied. “You came all the way here just to bitch at me? You get lost or did your ego need a walk?”

“He’s got your mark on his neck,” Rindou said. His tone was sharp. Accusatory.

Sanzu blinked. “Mucho?” The fuck was this asshole talking about? He literally called shit off

”I called shit off between us, doesn’t mean we won’t stay friends-“

Rindou didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. His eyes darkened, flicking down to Sanzu’s neck—probably still bearing the new hickey, now faintly purple and fading around the edges.

“And yet,” Rindou continued, voice dangerously quiet, “he’s walking around campus like he’s still got your fucking scent on him.”

Sanzu let out a short laugh. “Wow. You came all the way here for that?”

“Yes.”

The honesty made Sanzu pause.

Rindou stepped in closer now. Not touching, but crowding. Just enough that Sanzu had to tip his chin up to meet his eyes, cigarette still balanced between his lips. They were too close for casual conversation, too quiet for a public hallway.

“Rindou,” Sanzu said slowly, like tasting his name. “Are you jealous? Again?”

“I’m territorial,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Same thing.”

“No,” Rindou said, leaning in, voice dropping to a whisper, “Jealousy’s for people who don’t already have what they want.”

Sanzu held his gaze for a beat, then gave a soft, humorless laugh.

“You think you have me?”

“I kissed you,” Rindou said. “I marked you. You moaned into my mouth like you fucking meant it.”

Sanzu scoffed, flicked ash off his cigarette, eyes glinting.

“I also told you this means nothing.”

“And yet you stopped sleeping with him,” Rindou shot back.

Silence.

Sanzu’s smirk faltered—just for a second.

Rindou saw it. Took it like a win. He stepped back, cocky and stormy all at once.

“Guess you don’t know what you want, huh?” Rindou said, voice low. “But if you’re gonna keep walking around like you’re not already tangled up with me, maybe stop letting him leave fingerprints all over what’s mine.”

And with that, Rindou turned and walked off, not even looking back.

Sanzu stood there in the hallway, cigarette burning, the ghost of Rindou’s voice coiled around his ribs like a chain.

What’s mine.

Fuck.

The knock came just as Rindou flicked ash into the cup he used as an ashtray. Midnight. The dorm was thick with smoke, dim with only the hallway light leaking in through the cracked door. Shion snored behind him, half-sprawled across his bed, mouth open, utterly dead to the world.

Rindou didn’t move at first. He just stared at the door. Something told him who it was. He knew.

The second knock was sharper. Rindou got up, cigarette between his fingers, cracked the door open—and there he was.

Sanzu.

Hair tousled, pale eyes gleaming under the hallway fluorescents, wearing that usual bored expression he used to mask whatever the hell was going on inside him. But this time, there was something else. A fire banked low in those icy eyes. Controlled. Dangerous.

Sanzu looked past him into the room, spotted Shion. Without a word, he walked in. Rindou barely had time to step back.

Sanzu stood over Shion, nudged him hard with his booted foot. “Out.”

Shion groaned in confusion, half-lifted his head.

“I said out.”

Rindou didn’t stop him. Couldn’t. Shion, confused and still half-dreaming, sat up with a loud yawn and mumbled something about being cockblocked in his own damn room, then stumbled out, dragging his blanket with him.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Sanzu turned.

His face was calm, but his eyes were burning.

“I belong to no one,” he said, his voice even, but heavy. “You got that?”

Rindou stood across the room, cigarette still smoldering between his fingers. “Is that why you came here at midnight?” he asked, quietly.

Sanzu stepped forward. “Don’t twist this. I came to say something, not to fall back into your fucking arms.”

Rindou tossed the cigarette into the cup.

Sanzu’s eyes didn’t leave his. “I can still fuck Mucho if I want. Even if I let you—”

Rindou crossed the room in two steps and slammed Sanzu against the door so fast it stole the air out of his lungs.

Sanzu gasped—eyes wide—as Rindou pinned him, forearm across his chest, close, hot, angry. Their chests pressed together. The silence between them buzzed like electricity.

“Say it again,” Rindou growled. “Say it like you mean it.”

Sanzu bared his teeth. “I’m not yours.”

Rindou’s hand slid from his chest down to his ribs, fingers digging in—not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to own. “Then why the fuck do you always run to me?”

Sanzu exhaled, sharp and shaky. His hands fisted at his sides, tension trembling through him. “Because you make it impossible not to.”

Rindou leaned in. Close enough to feel every breath, every twitch. His mouth brushed against Sanzu’s jaw. “You think I give a shit about rules? About definitions? About what you call this?”

Sanzu didn’t answer.

Rindou’s lips grazed the shell of his ear. “You don’t get to walk in here and talk about fucking Mucho just to spite me.”

“It’s not about you,” Sanzu said, but his voice faltered.

“Everything about you right now is about me,” Rindou whispered.

His hand slid under the hem of Sanzu’s shirt, palm flat against his stomach. Heat. Pressure. Claiming.

Sanzu’s breath hitched. His fingers twitched at his sides like he was fighting the urge to grab Rindou by the shirt and drag him closer—or shove him away.

“You piss me off,” Sanzu muttered, biting back a sound that wasn’t quite a groan when Rindou’s mouth traced the edge of his jaw. “You don’t even like me, Haitani.”

“I don’t like anyone,” Rindou murmured against his skin. “But I want you. And I don’t share.”

Sanzu’s head thunked back against the door, teeth gritted. “Possessive bastard.”

“Damn right.”

Silence pulsed between them, thick and hot.

Then Sanzu let out a breath, low and shaky, lips brushing Rindou’s ear.

“I’m not yours, Rindou.”

“Not yet,” Rindou said, hand tightening slightly on his waist, “but you keep walking into my room like this… and you will be.”

The door was cold against Sanzu’s back, but it was nothing compared to the heat radiating off Rindou in front of him.

They were locked in a breathless standoff—close enough to feel each other’s heartbeat, every inhale, every shifting muscle.

Sanzu’s eyes flicked to Rindou’s mouth and then back up to those sharp violet eyes. He scoffed softly, trying to reclaim ground.

“This whole thing,” he said, voice low, “it started out of nowhere. We weren’t friends, Rindou. We weren’t anything. Just… fuck buddies out of nowhere. You wanted me out of nowhere”

Rindou huffed a laugh through his nose, a short, humorless sound. “Is that what you think?”

“It’s what it is,” Sanzu snapped, lifting his chin, refusing to let Rindou see the hesitation building beneath the surface. “You can’t expect loyalty from someone you never even liked.”

Rindou’s gaze sharpened. “I don’t like anyone,” he echoed, “but I told you—I don’t share.”

Sanzu leaned forward, their noses nearly brushing, eyes burning with stubbornness. “So what if I wasn’t just fucking Mucho? What if I was whoring around with other people too, huh?”

The words hung in the air like a match dangling over gasoline.

And then Rindou snapped.

He kissed Sanzu hard—brutal, hungry, furious. There was no hesitation, no softness. It was a collision of teeth, breath, frustration. Sanzu’s hands pushed against his chest for a second—reflex—but then curled into his hoodie, pulling him closer.

Rindou’s hands gripped Sanzu’s thighs suddenly and lifted him like he weighed nothing. Sanzu gasped as his back hit the bed, bouncing once, cigarette long gone, his breath stolen.

Rindou stood above him, shoulders heaving slightly, staring down at him with wild eyes.

“You wanna whore around?” Rindou said, voice low and sharp. “Then why the fuck do you always end up in my bed?”

Sanzu licked his lips, flushed and breathing hard, jaw tight. “Because your bed has better sheets,” he bit back, even as his legs curled instinctively around Rindou’s waist.

“You’re a damn brat,” Rindou growled, climbing over him, straddling his hips. “But you’re my brat.”

“You don’t get to decide that,” Sanzu said, but his voice trembled slightly under the heat of Rindou’s glare.

Rindou’s hands pinned Sanzu’s wrists above his head, holding him down, not with force, but with weight—with intention. Their bodies aligned perfectly, breaths syncing, tension crackling like static in the air.

“I don’t care what label you put on this,” Rindou said, forehead against Sanzu’s. “I don’t care if we’re friends or enemies or just two assholes who can’t stop touching each other. But I’m not watching you let anyone else put their mouth on you again.”

Sanzu stared up at him—mouth slightly open, eyes narrowed, defiant—but something flickered beneath the surface.

“You’re obsessed,” he whispered.

Rindou smiled slowly, eyes dark and dangerous.

“Maybe,” he said, brushing his lips against Sanzu’s neck, right over the new mark Mucho had left. “But if anyone’s gonna ruin you, Sanzu, it’s gonna be me.”

The room was silent, save for the sound of their shallow breaths, the slight creak of the bed beneath them, and the muffled laughter of some idiot students in the hall.

Sanzu didn’t say anything.

He just closed his eyes and tilted his head to the side, giving Rindou access—offering up that pale skin again.

And Rindou—possessive, vicious, unrelenting—pressed another kiss to his neck, right where no one could miss it.

This one was going to bruise.

The heat in the room didn’t die down. If anything, it coiled tighter around them—heavy, simmering, unspoken.

Rindou hovered above him, knees planted firmly on either side of Sanzu’s hips, still pinning his wrists. His hoodie had bunched up around his forearms, exposing lean muscles and veins that tensed beneath Sanzu’s stare.

“You’re heavy,” Sanzu muttered, turning his head to the side, breath fanning across Rindou’s cheek.

“You love it,” Rindou shot back, his voice low, gravel-thick. He leaned in closer, mouth brushing Sanzu’s jaw.

“I tolerate it.”

“Bullshit,” Rindou muttered, mouth dipping just enough to ghost over Sanzu’s lips. “You show up to my dorm at midnight just to kick my roommate out and mouth off at me? That’s not tolerance, Haruchiyo.”

Sanzu’s breath caught when Rindou used his real name—like he always did when he was trying to make him feel something dangerous. He tried to tug his wrists free but Rindou didn’t let up. He only leaned in further, the weight of him more insistent, more possessive.

Sanzu grit his teeth. “Let me go.”

Rindou’s lips barely moved when he spoke next.

“Say please.”

Sanzu’s eyes narrowed. “You’re such a fucking prick.”

“And you’re a mess,” Rindou murmured, lips dragging down to the curve of his throat. “You think I didn’t notice how you showed up with nothing under that damn hoodie? You came here asking for this.”

“I came here to remind you I belong to no one.”

Rindou laughed, rough and low. “Then why are you still under me?”

He shifted his hips just enough to make Sanzu inhale sharply, body twitching under the friction. Rindou leaned closer, nose skimming along Sanzu’s cheek.

“You keep saying it means nothing,” he said, “but you never leave.”

Sanzu’s lips parted like he wanted to say something cruel—something final—but all that came out was a shaky exhale. Rindou took the opportunity and kissed him again, stealing the sound right from his mouth.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet. It was a challenge, a battle fought between mouths, between clenched teeth and half-swallowed groans. Sanzu bit back and Rindou growled, the grip on his wrists tightening before letting go and traveling down, palms dragging over ribs, waist, hips.

Their legs tangled, clothes rumpled between them, and Sanzu’s hands finally moved—one fisting in Rindou’s hair, the other gripping his shoulder like he was trying to pull him closer and push him away at the same time.

When they finally broke apart, both were breathless. Rindou rested his forehead against Sanzu’s again, his hands splayed across the bare skin of his sides.

“I don’t care what you call it,” Rindou whispered, voice hoarse. “But I’m not gonna sit back and watch someone else touch you. I won’t.”

Sanzu looked up at him, cheeks flushed, lips kissed raw. “So what? You want to chain me to your bed? Tattoo your name on me?”

Rindou smirked. “Don’t tempt me.”

Sanzu rolled his eyes, but the tension in his body had shifted. The anger was still there, but it had softened into something more familiar—more dangerous.

Something neither of them wanted to name.

He reached up, thumb brushing the edge of Rindou’s jaw. “You’re insane.”

Rindou kissed the corner of his mouth. “Only about you.”

Sanzu lay back, head resting on Rindou’s pillow, cigarette smoke curling lazily from his lips. His hair was a mess—his chest rising and falling slowly, his skin still warm from where Rindou had touched him minutes ago.

“You never answered my question,” he said, eyes following Rindou as the other pulled on a fresh shirt from the small closet by the bed. “The girl from Koko’s party. You let her suck your face off, didn’t you?”

Rindou paused, shirt half-over his head. His voice was muffled when he said, “Are you jealous?”

Sanzu scoffed, flicking ash into a cup on the nightstand. “I don’t do jealous.”

Rindou tugged the shirt down and turned, smirking as he walked back to the bed, his lean torso moving with predatory grace. “Sure sounds like it.”

He stopped at the edge of the bed, pulling the cigarette from Sanzu’s mouth and taking a slow drag before tossing it out the window behind him. The room filled with silence and tension as Sanzu looked up at him, brows furrowed just slightly.

“I’m not jealous,” Sanzu repeated.

Rindou crouched beside the bed, eye-level now, arms resting on the edge of the mattress. “Then why ask?”

Sanzu hesitated, then shrugged. “Just making conversation.”

“Bullshit,” Rindou said softly, his fingers tracing the hem of Sanzu’s hoodie, sliding up slowly until his palm pressed against warm skin. “But fine. You want the truth?”

Sanzu’s throat bobbed as he nodded once.

Rindou leaned in, mouth brushing his ear. “Because no one else has bite like you.”

Sanzu shivered—visibly, involuntarily. He hated that Rindou could affect him so quickly, so deeply.

“Besides,” Rindou added, voice lower now, almost smug. “You think I want soft hands and fake moans when I’ve already had you?”

Sanzu’s breath caught as Rindou’s fingers slid higher, dragging the hoodie over his chest, revealing bruises, hickeys, skin marked with possession and nights that blurred together. Rindou sat back, yanked his own shirt off, and Sanzu’s mouth parted slightly.

There he was—sculpted shoulders, cut waist, the kind of body earned from constant motion and punishment on the field. His tattoos peeked from beneath his ribs, curling like secrets, and his arms flexed slightly as he moved over Sanzu.

“You gonna stare all day or say something?” Rindou teased, gaze locked on him.

Sanzu licked his lips, voice just above a whisper. “You’re not as ugly as you act.”

Rindou laughed, low and hot. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

He pressed a kiss to Sanzu’s neck, to the hollow of his collarbone, and the mood changed again—slowed, intensified. Every inch of skin he touched felt like a claim, a warning.

“Still think this means nothing?” he asked between kisses.

Sanzu arched his back, hissed between his teeth. “I don’t do meaning.”

“Yeah,” Rindou whispered, mouth at his throat. “You just do me.”

The air in the dorm room was heavy with warmth and sweat, thick with the scent of cigarettes and skin. The sheets were a mess—wrinkled, kicked down to their waists, one of Rindou’s pillows on the floor. Outside the window, the campus was still and dark, painted in midnight tones. Somewhere, a drunk student was yelling in the distance, but it felt worlds away from where they were.

Sanzu lay on his back, chest still rising in uneven waves, his fingers lazily tracing patterns on Rindou’s arm. That arm—strong, inked, still wrapped firmly around his waist like Rindou refused to let go even in sleep.

He glanced to his side.

Rindou had fallen asleep with his head half-buried in the crook of Sanzu’s shoulder. His usually sharp features were softened, mouth slightly open, lashes long against flushed skin. He looked… young like this. Younger than usual. Sanzu stared at him for a long second, unsure what it made him feel.

He hated how comfortable it was. How natural it had felt to fall asleep wrapped in his warmth.

Rindou hadn’t even argued this time. No snide remarks, no smug comments. He’d just… melted. After being a complete beast, all bite and teeth and possessive hands—Rindou had come undone in the quietest way. And Sanzu had stayed.

He ran a hand through his own messy pink hair, then down Rindou’s back, fingertips brushing over ridges of muscle and warmth. The hickeys on his chest still throbbed faintly, reminders of the storm they’d both barely come down from. He could still feel Rindou’s mouth everywhere.

“You’re a fucking mess,” Sanzu muttered under his breath, voice barely audible.

Rindou didn’t answer, but his arm tightened around him instinctively, pulling him an inch closer.

Sanzu could’ve pulled away. Should’ve, probably. He usually did. But his body was sore in that strangely satisfied way, his skin burned in places that Rindou had claimed. And if he was being honest, the silence in this room was easier to take than the one waiting back in his own dorm.

His eyes drifted to the ceiling. Thoughts came in hazy waves—of Mucho, of cigarettes shared, of teasing that didn’t mean anything. And then of Rindou, glaring, grabbing him, pinning him down like he was something he owned.

“This doesn’t make you mine,” he murmured, like a confession to the dark.

But even as he said it, his hand curled lightly into Rindou’s hair, soft and damp at the roots.

Sanzu hated the silence that followed. It felt too final. So he turned slightly, whispering toward Rindou’s ear.

“I still don’t do feelings.”

Rindou stirred, not fully awake, but enough to mutter one thing:

“Yeah, well… good thing I do enough for both of us.”

Sanzu froze. His chest tightened—not in panic, not exactly—but in that way it does when something hits too close.

He didn’t reply.

He just lay there, staring at the ceiling again. In Rindou’s arms.

And he didn’t leave.