Archive of Our Own ^beta

The campus café had terrible lighting and even worse acoustics, but it was the usual spot. A booth in the back corner—scarred tabletop, peeling faux leather seats, the kind of place no one cared about enough to kick them out even when they loitered for hours. It fit them perfectly.

Leo sat near the edge of the booth, a plastic straw between his teeth and his phone screen dark on the table. Elira was mid-story—something about a chaotic group project and someone’s missing presentation slides—while Finana kept interrupting with increasingly dramatic gasps. Across from them, Uki and Shu exchanged glances in a language no one else quite understood. Lucien and Cassian were arguing about a movie neither of them had actually finished.

It was easy. Familiar.

And then Claude walked in.

He was late, as always. Hoodie zipped up, black mask covering half his face, only his hair visible—silvery blonde with soft lavender tips peeking from under the hood. He moved like he didn’t need permission to exist in any space. Leo watched without meaning to.

Claude nodded at the group, muttered a “yo,” and slid into the only open spot—next to Leo.

Leo froze for half a second, and no one noticed. Or if they did, they didn’t say anything.

“Nice of you to show up,” Elira teased. “We’re talking about Cassian’s terrible taste in films.”

“It’s not terrible, it’s subjective,” Cassian defended, poking at a forgotten slice of cake.

Claude pulled down his mask just enough to sip from a can of iced coffee he pulled from his hoodie pocket. Leo didn’t mean to look—but he caught it anyway. The glimpse.

A faint scar cutting through the right corner of Claude’s lip. Small, maybe an old injury, almost pretty in how out-of-place it was on an otherwise flawless face. Just below his mouth on the left side, a tiny dark mole marked his skin like punctuation.

Just one moment. Claude sipped, then the mask was back in place.

Leo’s mouth felt dry.

He hadn’t seen that before. Claude always wore the mask, even when everyone teased him about it. Said it was “for the aesthetic.” Leo had assumed it was part of the look—like the slouchy clothes, the messy hair, the sleepy eyes. He hadn’t known about the scar. Or the mole. But now he couldn’t stop thinking about them.

He didn’t say anything. Just looked away, straw back between his teeth.

Claude bumped his shoulder lightly against Leo’s. “You good?” he said, voice low, muffled through the mask.

Leo looked up, startled. “Yeah.”

Claude’s eyes held his for a beat too long, unreadable behind the fringe of his hair.

Then he turned back to the conversation, throwing in a lazy insult at Cassian that made the others laugh.

Leo didn’t join in. He just listened.

Watched the way Claude spoke with his eyes more than his mouth, how he leaned forward when Shu talked, how his hands moved when he was animated, fingers expressive even when his words were few.

He wondered what Claude’s mouth looked like when he smiled for real.

He wondered why the sight of that scar had lodged itself in his brain like something personal.

Leo barely heard Finana call his name.

He smiled too late, gave some vague response, and the group moved on.

But his gaze drifted again.

And for the first time, he realized Claude Clawmark didn’t just walk into rooms.

He shifted them.

***

Claude sat cross-legged on the floor of Uki’s dorm room, hood half up, mask still on.

Someone had ordered takeout. The smell of fried food filled the room—greasy boxes stacked on the desk, chopsticks sticking out at odd angles. Finana was curled up in a beanbag, half-asleep from sugar. Elira and Shu were trying to sync a Bluetooth speaker to someone’s playlist, failing miserably. Uki watched them from his bed with a patient sort of amusement.

Leo sat on the rug, across from Claude. Not close. Not far.

He told himself he wasn’t watching Claude.

But every time Claude reached up to adjust his mask, Leo felt the flicker of heat crawl up his neck. He’d seen what was underneath. Just once. But it was enough.

He imagined that mole sometimes. The line of that scar. How it would feel under his mouth, if Claude would taste like peppermint or something darker. He didn’t know why it lodged in his chest like a splinter—just that he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Claude leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees as he picked at the box of fries between them. Leo’s gaze caught on the hem of his sleeve, how it slipped up to reveal the delicate bones of his wrist.

“I can feel you staring,” Claude murmured, not looking up.

Leo jolted. “Wasn’t.”

Claude hummed. Didn’t press.

Uki looked over. “You two want in on the movie or are you just gonna vibe in that corner and flirt with eye contact?”

Leo flushed. “We’re not—”

Claude tossed a fry at Uki. “You’re projecting.”

The others laughed.

But Leo didn’t. He just looked at Claude again, careful this time. Watched the way his mask shifted when he smirked. Imagined what that looked like without it.

He wanted to see it again. Not just by accident.

He wanted Claude to take the mask off for him.

The thought felt dangerous. And worse—intimate.

Later, when the lights were low and someone had put on a horror movie no one was actually watching, Claude stretched out on his side, elbow propped on a pillow, facing Leo.

Leo was pretending to scroll on his phone.

Claude said, low and almost teasing, “What, you don’t like scary movies?”

Leo didn’t look up. “Not scared.”

Claude’s voice dipped further, playful. “Then why do you keep glancing at me instead of the screen?”

Leo’s eyes flicked up. Claude’s were half-lidded, mouth just visible under the edge of his mask, eyes glittering with something unreadable in the dark.

Leo didn’t answer.

He just shrugged, and looked away.

But Claude was right.

The movie wasn’t the reason his pulse wouldn’t settle.

***

Elira’s place was packed with too many people, half-drunk bottles crowding the counters, and music loud enough to keep things moving, but not loud enough to matter.

Claude sat on the arm of the couch, a red cup in hand, eyes glazed with lazy disinterest as he took slow sips. Leo was across the room, laughing at something Cassian said, but his gaze kept drifting back.

He wasn’t even trying to hide it anymore.

Claude wasn’t doing anything special. Just sitting there. But it was the way he held space—long limbs relaxed, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, fingers tapping idly against his knee. The mask was on, as usual. The hood was down.

Leo watched him tilt his head back to take a sip, and something about the line of his neck made Leo’s stomach tighten.

He didn’t understand why he kept looking.

Or why Claude hadn’t told him to stop.

Halfway through the night, Claude disappeared into Elira’s bedroom. Leo found him sitting on the bed, alone, scrolling through his phone.

“You hiding?” Leo asked, stepping inside.

Claude didn’t look up. “Nah. Just bored.”

Leo hovered in the doorway.

Claude gestured vaguely at the bed. “You can sit. I don’t bite unless you ask nicely.”

Leo rolled his eyes but crossed the room. Sat down beside him. Not touching—but close.

The silence was easy. They scrolled. Listened to the muffled bass of music through the walls. Somewhere down the hall, Uki was arguing with Shu over who last washed the mugs.

Leo tilted his head slightly, looking at Claude from the side. The mask covered most of his face, but the slope of his cheekbone, the stray piece of hair falling into his eyes—it was unfair.

“Why do you wear that all the time?” Leo asked before he could stop himself.

Claude’s thumb paused on his screen. “What, the mask?”

Leo nodded. “Yeah.”

Claude shrugged. “Habit, I guess. People like it more when they don’t see everything.”

Leo swallowed. “I liked it better the other way.”

Claude looked at him then. Really looked. Eyes sharp, unreadable.

Leo forced a casual tone. “That day in the café. You weren’t wearing it.”

Claude didn’t answer. But he was still watching him.

Leo bit the inside of his cheek. His fingers were curled tight in his lap, knuckles pale.

Claude leaned back, arms behind him, relaxed posture but sharp attention.

“Thought you were staring at my mouth,” he said after a long pause.

Leo’s breath caught.

“I wasn’t—” he started, then stopped himself.

Claude turned his head slightly. The curve of his scar peeked beneath the edge of the mask.

Leo didn’t know what gave him away.

Maybe his stillness. Maybe the way he was holding his breath.

Claude let out a soft laugh. Not mocking. Almost… curious.

“You’ve got a thing for it?” he asked, voice too casual.

Leo looked away. “No.”

Claude didn’t press. Didn’t tease. He just leaned forward, arms resting on his knees.

And after a beat, their shoulders touched.

Not a mistake.

Leo didn’t move away.

They sat like that until someone called for them from the hallway, voices distant but familiar.

Claude stood, stretching lazily.

“You coming?” he asked.

Leo blinked. “Yeah.”

But for a few seconds more, he stayed seated, staring at the spot where Claude’s thigh had rested against his.

As if that brief, simple touch had told him something his own thoughts hadn’t caught up to yet.

***

It was a game night that turned into a sleepover.

Uki’s dorm was too small for all of them, but that had never stopped the group before. By 1AM, the air was heavy with the smell of takeout and fabric softener, half the lights were off, and a lazy, collective sleepiness had taken over the room.

Most of them had claimed spots on the floor, tangled in blankets and spare pillows. Leo found himself wedged on the far end of the futon with Claude beside him—one of those quiet arrangements no one questioned.

Claude didn’t wear his mask that night.

Leo had noticed the moment he walked in.

It was subtle. Claude didn’t say anything, just strolled in hoodie-first, hands in his pockets, mouth bare. Leo’s stomach had knotted when he saw it. The scar was more noticeable in soft light. So was the mole. Like something handwritten, intimate. Unedited.

He tried not to stare. Failed completely.

“Want the wall side?” Claude asked, gesturing at the futon.

Leo shook his head. “You can take it.”

Claude shrugged and sat, stretching out like he didn’t care who saw. Leo settled in beside him, careful not to let their knees touch. There was a faint rustle of fabric as Claude leaned back on one elbow.

Outside, it was raining. The room was warm with body heat and quiet breath.

Uki dimmed the last lamp. “Everyone shut up. I have class at nine.”

A few sleepy grumbles, a tossed pillow, and then silence.

Leo stared at the ceiling.

Claude shifted beside him. Not a lot. Just enough that their shoulders brushed. The contact was featherlight, but Leo felt it like a current.

He closed his eyes.

But sleep didn’t come.

A few minutes passed—maybe more. Then a whisper.

“You awake?”

Leo turned his head. Claude was already watching him. His face was mostly shadow, but the scar caught a streak of streetlight bleeding through the blinds.

Leo’s voice came out quieter than he meant. “Yeah.”

Claude’s arm was warm against his. “You’re tense.”

Leo let out a soft laugh. “It’s a futon. Not exactly ergonomic.”

A pause. Then Claude’s fingers touched his forearm—just a brush, like a test.

“Want to switch sides?” he asked.

Leo’s breath hitched. “Why?”

Claude tilted his head. “You said you liked it better without the mask. Thought maybe you wanted a closer look.”

It was teasing. Barely.

Leo didn’t move. “That’s not what I meant.”

Claude smiled. This time, Leo saw all of it. The scar stretched, just slightly. The mole curved under the edge of his lip like punctuation.

“Didn’t say you meant it,” Claude murmured. “Just noticed.”

Leo didn’t answer.

Claude’s hand didn’t leave his arm.

The silence felt different now—charged. Leo didn’t know who moved first, or if it even counted as moving. One second they were still, and the next Claude’s mouth was inches from his. His breath smelled faintly like mint and something sweet.

Leo didn’t close the distance.

Claude didn’t either.

But neither of them moved away.

When sleep finally came, Leo’s fingers were curled in the edge of Claude’s hoodie. Claude’s hand had drifted just high enough on Leo’s waist that Leo could still pretend it didn’t mean anything.

It was nothing.

Just heat.

Just curiosity.

That’s what Leo told himself.

Even when Claude stayed close the entire night.

Even when he didn’t wear the mask the next day, either.

***

Claude didn’t wear the mask all week.

Not at the café. Not at Elira’s movie night. Not even when walking across campus, hoodie pulled low against the wind.

Leo didn’t comment on it. Didn’t let himself wonder if it had anything to do with what he’d said that night on Elira's room—I liked it better the other way. But he noticed. Every single time.

And now they were alone.

It was raining again—second time that week. The sky hung low and gray as they ducked under the overhang outside Leo’s dorm, the sharp smell of petrichor rising from the pavement.

Claude shook the water from his hair, fingers raking through silver strands.

Leo tried not to watch him do it. Failed, again.

Claude caught him this time.

“What?” he asked, amused.

Leo shrugged, half-smiling. “Nothing.”

Claude stepped closer. Not much. Just enough that Leo had to tilt his chin slightly to meet his eyes.

He wasn’t sure when standing this close had stopped being weird.

Maybe it never had. Maybe he’d just stopped caring.

Claude glanced up at the clouds. “You gonna invite me up?”

Leo blinked. “What?”

Claude looked back down. “Your place. Or am I just walking you home in the rain for fun?”

Leo hesitated. Not because he didn’t want it. But because there was something in Claude’s tone—too casual. Too practiced. Like this was just another night for him.

Leo wanted it to be different.

But he stepped back anyway. Opened the door. Let Claude follow.

Inside, everything felt louder. The wet squelch of their shoes. The faint hum of the fridge. The tiny click as Leo shut the door behind them.

Claude pulled off his hoodie, shaking out the damp. He was wearing a black T-shirt underneath—simple, fitted, the sleeves hugging his arms just enough to make Leo look longer than he meant to.

Claude noticed.

“Thirsty?” he teased.

Leo rolled his eyes. “You’re not that hot.”

Claude took a step closer. “No?”

His voice was soft now. Barely there.

Leo’s back hit the wall, more out of instinct than panic. Claude wasn’t even touching him. But it felt like he was.

They stood there, neither speaking.

Then Claude reached out—fingers brushing Leo’s jaw, slow and deliberate. His thumb hovered just under Leo’s mouth. Right where the mole would be, if things were reversed.

Leo’s breath caught.

“You keep looking here,” Claude said quietly. “Like it’s driving you insane.”

Leo didn’t respond.

Claude leaned in.

Not sudden. Not forceful. Just inevitable.

Their mouths met like a secret.

Soft, barely parted. Warm. Not a collision—more like gravity. Like something that had already been happening for a while and just now decided to make itself visible.

Claude kissed like he didn’t care who moved first. Like it didn’t matter.

Leo kissed back like it was the only way to get air.

When they pulled apart, neither of them said anything. Leo’s hand was still fisted in Claude’s sleeve. Claude’s fingers had settled lightly at Leo’s waist.

Leo opened his mouth. Closed it.

Claude leaned in again. “Wanna do that again?”

Leo nodded.

So they did.

Twice more.

Then they sat on the floor, backs to the wall, breathing steady. Not talking. Not touching. Like nothing had happened.

But Leo could still feel it.

The echo of Claude’s mouth.

The softness of it. The scar. The mole.

The line they had just stepped over without meaning to.

And no one said a word.

***

They didn’t talk about it.

The kiss.

Or the second one. Or the third. Or the fact that Claude came over two more times that week and left later each night.

The first time, they kissed against the kitchen counter, slow and lingering, hands resting in cautious places like a dare neither of them had voiced. The second time, Claude kissed Leo on the couch, lying half on top of him, Leo’s fingers curled into his shirt like he was afraid to let go.

Neither of them said anything after.

Leo thought maybe Claude would make a joke. Ask What are we doing in that half-laughing voice he used when he wanted to sound like he didn’t care.

But Claude didn’t ask. And Leo didn’t offer.

So they kissed again.

And again.

One night, Leo fell asleep beside him on the bed, their legs tangled under the same blanket, their hands brushing every so often like accident and ritual. When Leo stirred around 3AM, Claude was still awake, scrolling his phone in the dark. The glow lit up the soft curve of his face, the scar catching faint light like something purposeful.

“You’re up,” Claude murmured, voice thick with exhaustion.

Leo hummed.

Neither of them moved.

Claude didn’t wear his mask anymore—not around Leo. And Leo hadn’t brought it up again, but sometimes he caught Claude watching him, as if he was the one being seen for the first time.

They didn’t talk about that either.

That weekend, Leo had a group project meeting that ran late, and Claude texted him one word:

come

No punctuation. No time. Just the word. And Leo went.

Claude’s dorm was dim and messy as always, blankets draped across the edge of the bed, the faint smell of citrus and laundry detergent curling in the air. Claude was sitting at his desk, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, spinning a pencil between his fingers.

“Rough day?” he asked.

Leo shrugged. “Long.”

Claude stood. Crossed the room in two strides. “C’mere.”

Leo went.

The kiss was slow this time. Familiar. Claude’s hands settled low on Leo’s back, and Leo leaned into him like it was the easiest thing in the world.

When Claude pushed Leo gently onto the bed, hovering above him, Leo didn’t resist. Just pulled him down.

They didn’t do anything more than kiss.

But it felt like more. Each time, it crept further. Fingertips skimming under shirts. Claude’s mouth pressed to Leo’s throat. Leo’s fingers sliding into Claude’s hair, pulling just slightly. Claude humming into his mouth like he liked that.

Afterward, they lay side by side, staring at the ceiling.

The silence didn’t feel awkward.

It felt like a waiting room.

Leo turned his head. Claude’s eyes were open. Watching the same ceiling.

He wanted to ask. What are we doing?

But he didn’t.

Because if he asked, Claude might answer.

And Leo wasn’t ready to hear anything that would make this real.

He just wanted the quiet. The warmth of skin. The press of lips. The closeness that asked nothing and said everything.

Claude turned to him slowly. Reached over. Brushed Leo’s hair back with two fingers.

Still didn’t say anything.

Leo let his eyes fall closed.

He could live in this space for a while longer.

As long as Claude didn’t ask him to define it.

As long as Claude kept coming back.

***

Another day. 

A text. It was nothing new.

you up?
1:23AM.

Leo had been staring at his ceiling, overthinking himself into silence. The message came like a rope thrown across water. He didn’t reply.

But twenty minutes later, he was knocking on Claude’s door anyway.

Claude opened it without a word.

He wore an oversized shirt and nothing underneath but boxers, hair messy, no mask. His mouth was bare and tired-looking, scar catching the hallway light like something vulnerable.

Leo looked at it. Of course he did.

Claude stepped back to let him in. Leo walked past, heart already straining somewhere between chest and throat.

The door clicked shut behind him.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.

Claude’s fingers brushed Leo’s waist as he passed. Leo turned, breath catching—and then Claude kissed him.

It was instinct now.

They moved to the bed like they'd done this a hundred times before. Lips parting, hands wandering. Nothing rushed, nothing frantic. Just a slow unraveling. Leo straddled Claude’s lap, Claude’s hands firm on his hips. Their mouths moved lazily, syncing in that quiet, addictive rhythm they'd learned by repetition alone.

Leo’s fingers found the side of Claude’s jaw.

He lingered there—thumb brushing along the curve of Claude’s scar. It was the first time he really touched it. Soft. Deliberate. Reverent.

Claude’s breath hitched. He didn’t stop him.

Leo kissed him again, slower now. Then again—mouth softer this time, lingering just under the corner of Claude’s lips. Right at the scar.

Then lower.

He kissed the mole.

Just once.

Claude stilled under him, eyes dark, mouth barely parted.

Leo didn’t explain. Couldn’t.

He just looked at him—face flushed, pupils blown wide. Silent. Wanting.

Claude cupped the back of Leo’s neck, thumb stroking just behind his ear, like he needed to anchor him there. “What was that?” he murmured, half breathless.

Leo swallowed. “I think about it,” he said, almost too quietly.

Claude’s brow lifted slightly.

Leo didn’t backpedal.

“I don’t know why,” Leo added. “But I do.”

Claude’s fingers curled tighter in his hair. “Yeah?”

Leo nodded.

Claude kissed him again—rougher this time. Deeper. Like he wanted to erase the space between them.

They didn’t talk anymore.

They just kissed. Again and again. Until Leo was breathing through Claude’s mouth, until he was trembling just from the way Claude’s hands moved under his shirt. Until Claude laid him down and pressed him into the mattress like he meant it.

And still—neither of them asked what this was.

Later, when the sky was starting to pale and Claude’s breath was warm against the crook of Leo’s neck, Leo stared at the ceiling and thought—

I should stop.

I’m going to want too much.

But Claude’s arm tightened around his waist like he could hear the thought.

“Don’t go weird on me,” Claude mumbled.

Leo blinked. “What?”

“You always get quiet like that. Thinking too much. Don’t.”

Leo smiled faintly. “How do you know I’m thinking?”

Claude nosed against his throat. “You breathe different.”

Leo didn’t answer.

But he didn’t leave, either.

And Claude didn’t let him.

***

The weather turned warmer that week.

The group had claimed a patch of grass outside the art building—half-shaded, blankets spread, takeout containers and speaker playing something low and lo-fi. Shu was sketching in a spiral notebook, Finana was painting her nails with Uki’s help, and Cassian was mid-rant about a professor who’d given him a “biased” B+.

Claude sat with his back against the trunk of a tree, one knee up, his hand lazily tugging at a weed poking through the grass.

Leo was beside him, legs stretched out, sunglasses slipping down his nose. He wasn’t listening to the conversation. He was watching Claude’s hand—specifically the one not currently uprooting weeds. It sat palm-up on the blanket between them, loose, open.

An invitation, if Leo wanted it.

He did.

He laced their fingers slowly, not looking as he did it. Just slipped his hand in and let it settle.

Claude didn’t flinch. He never did.

His thumb brushed the back of Leo’s hand once, absent but warm. Leo exhaled, tension draining from his shoulders.

Across the circle, someone new sat down—introduced by Seible. His name was Yuuto. Film major. Hair that curled around his ears, easy grin, the kind of guy people liked right away.

He said hi to everyone.

Then his eyes landed on Leo.

“You’re in that film theory class, right?” Yuuto asked.

Leo blinked. “Yeah, with Dr. Ren.”

“I thought I recognized you. You asked that question about diegetic sound the other day. That was smart.”

Leo laughed a little, awkward. “It was mostly me trying not to fall asleep.”

Yuuto leaned forward on his elbows. “Still. You’ve got a good voice for class. You make boring stuff sound kind of—”

He didn’t finish.

Because Claude sat up.

Still quiet. Still lazy in posture.

But his hand left Leo’s.

And instead, settled around Leo’s waist.

Not tightly. Not aggressively. Just there. Possessive in the way only Claude could make subtle.

Leo stiffened a little, but Claude just looked at Yuuto and said, in a tone light as air: “You in Ren’s class too?”

Yuuto glanced at Claude’s hand. Then smiled, polite but less bold. “Not officially. I just sat in that day with a friend. Different track.”

Claude nodded once. “Cool.”

Then he looked away.

But he didn’t move his hand.

Leo didn’t say anything until Yuuto eventually shifted conversation to someone else. When Claude’s thumb started tracing slow, mindless patterns just under the hem of Leo’s shirt, Leo let his breath out quietly.

“I wasn’t flirting,” he said under his breath.

Claude shrugged. “Didn’t say you were.”

Leo looked at him. “But?”

Claude’s mouth twitched—just barely. “He was.”

Leo didn’t know what to do with the flutter in his chest. It felt a little too soft.

So instead, he turned his hand palm up again. Claude took it like it was routine.

Afterward, when most of the group had wandered off for food or bathrooms, Leo lingered behind to pack up the trash. Claude stood beside him, waiting in that way he always did—unmoving, unhurried, just presence.

When Leo tried to lift one of the heavier containers, Claude took it wordlessly.

“I had it,” Leo said, but there was no bite to it.

Claude just looked at him. “I know.”

He didn’t ask why Leo hadn’t gone with the others.

Leo didn’t explain that he still felt a little unsteady from earlier—from the way Claude touched him like it meant something.

And Claude didn’t say he’d noticed the shift in him, quiet as it was. He just stayed close. Like always.

They walked home together. The afternoon was thick with the smell of sun-warmed grass and melting tar. Claude carried most of the weight.

Leo carried that strange, fluttering ache in his chest the whole way.

***

The next time Yuuto showed up, it wasn’t by accident.

Elira had organized a group café run—half study session, half excuse to sit in a place with air conditioning. They took over two big tables by the window, laptops and iced drinks scattered in chaos.

Yuuto slid in next to Leo.

Claude watched it happen from across the table, straw between his lips, expression unreadable.

Leo didn’t move.

But he was aware—painfully aware—of the way Claude’s gaze dragged slowly from Yuuto’s hand (too close to Leo’s laptop) to Leo’s face.

“Didn’t think you’d come,” Leo said lightly, pretending to type.

Yuuto grinned. “Shu told me about it. Figured I’d be productive for once.”

“You’re just here to flirt with Leo,” Finana stage-whispered across the table.

Leo choked on his drink.

Yuuto laughed. “Can’t help it. You guys are all too pretty.”

Claude didn’t laugh.

Instead, he stood up, slow and casual. Walked to Leo’s side. Stood behind his chair for a second too long.

Then he reached down—and tugged lightly on the collar of Leo’s shirt.

Leo tilted his head, instinctive.

Claude slipped a wireless earbud into his ear.

“Listen to this,” Claude said, voice low. “Tell me if it slaps.”

Leo blinked. “I—okay?”

Claude hit play on his phone.

A song started—low bass, soft vocals, not something Claude usually shared. Not something he shared at all.

The rest of the group went back to their own conversations, attention drifting. But Leo didn’t miss the way Yuuto’s gaze shifted slightly. Or how Claude didn’t move away from behind his chair.

Instead, he reached down again—this time, fingers brushing lightly through the ends of Leo’s hair.

Not possessive.

Just…intimate.

Leo said nothing.

He just listened.

Later, when they packed up, Claude took Leo’s half-empty drink without asking and carried it. Leo didn’t argue. He just glanced up once, and Claude nudged his shoulder like they were both in on a joke no one else could hear.

Yuuto caught up as they left the café. “You free Friday?” he asked Leo.

Leo hesitated.

Claude said, “He’s got plans.”

Leo hadn’t agreed to anything.

But Claude’s voice left no room for correction.

Yuuto blinked. “Right. No problem.”

He peeled off a minute later with a two-finger salute.

Leo turned to Claude. “I didn’t say I had plans.”

Claude handed him the drink. “You do now.”

Leo stared at him.

Claude didn’t flinch. “Unless you’d rather go with him.”

Leo didn’t answer. But he drank the rest of what Claude had carried for him, and didn’t let go of Claude’s sleeve until they reached the dorms.

***

It was Cassian, of course.

They were at Elira’s again, sprawled across beanbags and floor cushions for what was supposed to be a Mario Kart and mochi night. Half the group was already fighting over who got to play next. Claude was curled up on the couch, long legs taking up more than his share of space.

Leo sat beside him.

Not near him.

Beside him.

Pressed thigh-to-thigh, Claude’s hand loosely hooked around the fabric at Leo’s waist—like it wasn’t a conscious choice anymore. Like holding onto Leo had become as natural as breathing.

Leo wasn’t even thinking about it.

Until Cassian said, “Okay, what the hell is going on with you two.”

The room stilled.

Not in a dramatic way.

But just enough.

Claude didn’t move.

Leo froze.

Elira glanced up from her switch. Uki raised an eyebrow.

“Nothing’s going on,” Leo said, too quickly.

Cassian pointed with a fry. “You’re literally in his lap.”

“I’m not,” Leo snapped, even though, okay—technically his thigh had slid over one of Claude’s at some point. But it was casual. Comfortable.

Claude didn’t look bothered. He just tilted his head. “Why do you care?”

Cassian blinked. “Because you’re both acting like this is normal and it’s not?”

“Maybe it is for us,” Claude said, sipping his drink.

Cassian made a face. “That’s not an answer.”

Claude smiled. “It wasn’t a question.”

Leo looked down at his hands—at how Claude’s fingers were lightly brushing the hem of his sleeve, rubbing back and forth like it helped him think.

He felt warm. And not from embarrassment.

It was… something else.

After a few beats, the moment passed. Shu threw a pillow at Cassian. Finana challenged Elira to a rematch. The tension loosened.

But it stuck in Leo’s chest.

That moment of being seen.

Later, when everyone had gone home, Claude walked Leo back to his dorm. It was late. The street was quiet, only their footsteps echoing.

Leo didn’t say anything until they reached the door.

He turned to him, hand still tucked in his coat pocket. “Do you think they know?”

Claude looked at him. “Who?”

“The others.”

Claude shrugged. “Probably.”

Leo frowned. “Does that… bother you?”

Claude stepped in. Not close enough to kiss. Just close enough to be felt.

“No,” he said, voice low. “Does it bother you?”

Leo opened his mouth.

Didn’t answer.

Instead, Claude reached up—brushed something from Leo’s hair, fingers lingering just behind his ear.

“I like it better when you stop pretending you don’t want me to do that,” he murmured.

Leo flushed. “I’m not—”

Claude leaned in.

Not a kiss.

Just his forehead resting against Leo’s temple.

The gentleness of it a little too much.

Leo closed his eyes.

It wasn’t nothing.

It hadn’t been for a long time.

***

Time passed.

It wasn’t just physical anymore.

Leo could feel it, even if neither of them had said anything out loud.

It had started that way—fleeting touches, stolen kisses behind closed doors, the kind of closeness that didn’t need explaining as long as they didn’t look too closely at it. There was comfort in the simplicity, in the way they could laugh and tease and fall into bed without naming what it was.

But things had shifted.

Subtly. Quietly.

It was in the way Claude started staying after, not just to sleep, but to exist in Leo’s space—scrolling through his phone on the floor while Leo dozed off mid-conversation. Or how he always seemed to know when Leo needed company without asking.

Like that time Leo mentioned offhandedly how he used to like the sound of rain as a kid, and two nights later Claude dragged him onto the balcony at 2 a.m., just to sit in silence under the overhang and listen to the drizzle on the concrete.

It was how Claude always noticed. Always stayed.

Maybe it had started as something casual.

Now, Claude was the one Leo turned to when the days got too loud. The one his eyes found first in a crowd. The one who didn’t just show up—but stayed, like it mattered to him.

So when Leo had a bad day—one of those quiet, heavy ones he didn’t know how to name—it wasn’t surprising that Claude showed up.

It wasn’t planned. Wasn’t supposed to be a sleepover. Just one of those nights where Claude knew without needing to be told.

Claude had come over late—just after midnight, hoodie zipped up, plastic convenience store bag in one hand. He held it out to Leo without a word: canned coffee, melon pan, a pack of sour gummies Leo liked even though he always complained about them.

“You had a weird day,” Claude said simply, stepping inside.

Leo blinked. “I didn’t tell you that.”

Claude kicked off his shoes. “Didn’t need to.”

They didn’t kiss.

Claude didn’t push.

***

Claude showed up again—this time, a Tuesday, right in the middle of midterms.

Leo had barely slept in two days. He looked like it. Hair unbrushed, sweatshirt inside out, caffeine jitters in full force. His desk was a disaster—papers, pens, cold coffee, two untouched granola bars, and a cursed spreadsheet open on his laptop.

He didn’t notice the knock at first.

The second one was firmer.

He opened the door with half a groan. “If this is someone selling Bibles, I swear to—”

Claude.

In his hoodie, hair damp from the rain, holding a Tupperware container and a drink tray with two iced coffees.

Leo blinked.

“You look like shit,” Claude said casually, stepping past him into the room.

Leo closed the door. “Thanks?”

Claude dropped the container on the desk, nudging aside a pile of flashcards. “Eat.”

Leo sat down, too tired to argue. Opened the lid. There was rice. Tamagoyaki. A few neatly arranged strawberries. It looked… made.

“You cooked?”

Claude shrugged, sipping his coffee. “I know how. Doesn’t mean I like to.”

Leo stared. “Why?”

Claude didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he sat down on the edge of the bed, watching him pick up the chopsticks. “You forget to eat when you’re anxious.”

Leo looked up. “How do you even know that?”

Claude smiled faintly. “You do this thing where you open a snack, don’t touch it, and then start chewing your lip instead.”

Leo froze.

Claude leaned back on his palms. “So I figured you wouldn’t cook. Or order. Or eat anything that didn’t come in a bag.”

Leo looked down at the food again.

It wasn’t perfect. The rice was a little dry, the egg unevenly cut. But it was warm. Real.

Something in Leo’s throat tightened.

“Don’t do that,” Claude said quietly.

“Do what?”

“Get emotional.”

Leo scoffed. “I’m not.”

Claude stood again. Crossed the space between them. Hooked two fingers under Leo’s chin, tilting his face up gently.

“You are,” he said, more softly this time.

And then he kissed him.

Not rushed. Not heated.

Just slow.

Like breathing.

Like gratitude.

Like Claude had waited all day to do that and would’ve waited longer if Leo needed him to.

When they pulled apart, Claude rested their foreheads together.

Leo’s voice came small. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

“I know.”

Leo’s hand found the hem of Claude’s shirt. Tugged it lightly. “But you did.”

Claude didn’t reply. He didn’t need to.

Leo leaned into him.

And when they sat back down, Leo finally ate.

Claude stole a strawberry.

And for a while, the room was quiet in a good way.

***

The pattern reversed the next week. Claude had a fever.

Not a dramatic one—just enough to drag under his eyes, to dull the teasing edge of his voice, to make him sleep past noon and ignore three group chat pings without explanation.

Leo noticed immediately.

Claude never ignored messages. He didn’t always reply in full sentences, but he never left them sitting.

At 2:38 PM, Leo stood in front of Claude’s door with a plastic bag hooked around his wrist and a quiet hum of worry beneath his ribs.

Claude opened the door in an old hoodie that definitely wasn’t his—some giveaway from a campus event, oversized and wrinkled like it had been grabbed off the floor. His hair stuck up in flattened tufts. His eyes were dull. No mask. No charm. Just Claude, drawn-out and tired.

Leo held up the bag. “Soup.”

Claude blinked, slow. “Soup?”

“You didn’t answer my texts.”

Claude leaned on the doorframe. “Didn’t know I was contractually obligated to check in every hour.”

“You kind of are,” Leo said flatly.

Claude stared at him for a second. Then stepped aside.

Leo walked in.

The room was dim. Curtains drawn. It smelled faintly of cold medicine and laundry. Claude shuffled in behind him and collapsed into the desk chair with a groan, hoodie sleeves pulled down past his fingers.

Leo set the soup on the desk. “Sit up properly.”

Claude grumbled.

Leo didn’t move.

So Claude did.

Leo unpacked the rest of the bag—tissues, an electrolyte drink, lozenges. All placed carefully beside him.

Claude watched him like he wasn’t sure what to do with it—with Leo, quiet and methodical and so obviously worried.

“You really didn’t have to,” Claude said.

Leo shot him a look. “You say that like I didn’t want to.”

Claude didn’t answer right away.

Then, after a beat: “You hate soup.”

Leo shrugged. “Not the one I brought. I tasted it first.”

Claude blinked. “You tasted it?”

“I didn’t want it to suck,” Leo muttered.

Claude stared at him. Like he wasn’t sure what to do with that kind of softness coming from Leo.

Leo fidgeted under the weight of it. “Don’t make it weird.”

But Claude stood.

Crossed the space between them.

Took Leo’s hand in his—slowly, gently—like it was something fragile.

He didn’t kiss him. Not this time.

He just said, quietly, “It means more when it’s you.”

Leo’s throat went tight.

Claude gave his hand a squeeze. Then let go.

Leo turned away before he said something stupid. “Eat before I force-feed you.”

Claude sat down again.

He did eat. Slowly. Between coughs and sniffling complaints.

And Leo stayed. Quiet. Tending.

Later, when Claude rubbed at his temple with a groan, Leo moved without thinking.

“You take anything?”

Claude grunted. “Yeah. Didn’t work.”

Leo watched him for a few seconds. Noticed the lines around his eyes, the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers twitched like he wanted to touch something but didn’t know what.

“Let me help,” Leo said.

Claude didn’t move. “You’re not a painkiller.”

Leo huffed. “No, but I’m charming and good with my hands.”

That earned the faintest smirk.

But he shifted. Sat up a little. Pulled his hoodie off, slow and reluctant, leaving his hair slightly tousled, his mouth bare, his scar more visible in the soft light.

Leo didn’t look away.

He moved behind him on the bed and wrapped his legs around Claude’s waist—pulling him gently back, until Claude was sitting between Leo’s thighs, back against his chest.

His hands reached up slowly. Carefully.

Fingers combed through Claude’s hair first, parting it gently, then pressing down with soft, circular motion—temples, the base of the skull, the place just behind the ears. Light pressure. Soothing.

Claude let out a breath.

Didn’t say anything.

But he leaned back into Leo’s touch, spine relaxing into his chest, head tilting slightly like he was giving himself over to the sensation.

“You always do everything,” Leo said quietly. “Let me do something.”

Claude’s eyes were still closed. “You already do.”

Leo smiled against the crown of his hair. “Not enough.”

He worked his fingers into Claude’s scalp again, slower this time. Less technical, more affectionate. Claude’s breathing slowed. One of his hands found Leo’s ankle, holding it lightly, thumb tracing bare skin in rhythm.

“I like when you let me take care of you,” Leo whispered.

Claude didn’t answer.

But after a moment, he turned his face—just slightly—until his cheek brushed against Leo’s wrist.

He kissed it. Just once.

Soft.

Grateful.

Then he rested there, still and warm and real.

Letting Leo hold him.

Neither of them needed to speak to know what they were doing anymore.

They were falling.

And neither of them was stopping it.

After that, it just kept happening.

No big conversation. No labels. Just quiet momentum.

Claude nudged Leo’s knee under tables. Reached for his hand when no one was looking. Leo started bringing an extra coffee without thinking.

They shared earbuds on the train. Claude tapped his thumb to the beat against Leo’s hand. Leo pretended not to notice. Claude pretended not to care if he did.

Study sessions blurred. Leo wound up in Claude’s lap more often than his chair. Claude never said anything. Just held him like it was normal. Like it was already theirs.

No one asked.

Except Yuuto, careful: “Are you two…?”

Claude just said, “Not officially.”

And Leo didn’t correct him.

It wasn’t undefined. Just unspoken.

But it was there, in every glance, every touch, every moment that didn’t need explaining.

And somehow, that was enough.

***

The rhythm changed. Quietly. Naturally. Like the shift from night to morning. 

Leo started keeping an extra pair of slippers by the door, started keeping two cups by the sink instead of one. Claude started texting on my way instead of can I come over?

Small things.

Careless, intimate things.

Things that said you live here now without ever naming it.

Claude was the one who called it first—though not out loud, not in a way that meant anything.

They were sprawled across Leo’s bed, not touching but close, the comforter bunched between them and the late afternoon light pouring in like honey. Leo had a pencil tucked behind his ear. Claude was flipping through one of Leo’s annotated readings, half-smirking at the angry marginalia.

“This is domestic as hell,” Claude murmured.

Leo didn’t look up. “What is?”

Claude gestured vaguely around the room. “You. Me. This.”

Leo blinked.

Claude met his gaze and added, “Not that I mind.”

Leo felt his throat tighten, but not in a bad way.

“Me either,” he said.

They didn’t say anything else after that.

Claude tossed the article aside and reached for Leo’s hand.

Their fingers laced automatically, like they’d been doing it for years.

By the time finals season hit, Claude was basically living in Leo’s room. His charger was always plugged into the wall. His hoodie was always on the chair. Takeout orders came with sides Leo didn’t eat but Claude always finished.

Claude leaned into every touch, stayed a little longer each night, let his fingers find Leo’s when no one was looking—and sometimes when everyone was.

Leo got used to it.

To being known like that.

To being kept.

***

Somewhere along the way, Claude started finishing Leo’s sentences.

It wasn’t planned. Just a habit they fell into.

During group hangs, when Leo trailed off mid-story, Claude always knew what he was trying to say.

“—you know, when I went to grab the—uh,” Leo gestured vaguely.

Claude: “Laundry you still haven’t folded.”

Leo blinked. “That’s not what I was gonna say.”

Claude smirked. “Wasn’t it?”

Leo laughed, shoulders bumping his. “You’re impossible.”

Claude only hummed, and let him keep talking.

It was the kind of rhythm you didn’t earn overnight.

It came from time. From attention. From care.

From Claude watching Leo even when Leo didn’t know he was being watched.

***

Cassian couldn’t help himself. Again.

Different night. Different dorm—Uki’s this time. The lights were low, the air smelled like sweet popcorn and someone's aggressively herbal tea, and everyone was scattered across blankets and cushions, halfway into a debate about whether to rewatch Inception or Spirited Away.

Claude was curled on the floor beside Leo, long legs stretched out, one hand resting easy against Leo’s ankle where it crossed the blanket.

It looked casual. Natural.

But not exactly invisible.

Cassian stared at them, then raised his soda can like a challenge. “Okay. Be honest. Are you guys dating now, or just, like… dangerously close friends?”

Leo sputtered into his water.

It felt like déjà vu—like Elira’s mochi night all over again.

But this time, Claude didn’t even look up. “What’s the difference?”

Cassian narrowed his eyes. “Kissing, probably.”

Claude glanced at Leo, then turned back to the TV without missing a beat. “Then close friends who kiss.”

Leo flushed, but he didn’t pull away.

This time, no one froze. The room didn’t still.

It exploded.

Finana shrieked. Elira gasped in mock betrayal. Cassian looked personally offended.

Claude didn’t flinch.

His hand stayed where it was—solid, steady, like it belonged there.

And Leo didn’t retreat. Didn’t fold up inside himself like he might’ve, weeks ago.

He just leaned closer.

Because now… it wasn’t about being caught off guard.

They weren’t pretending anymore. Not even to themselves.

They just weren’t saying it out loud.

But when Claude picked Leo’s favorite snack without asking, when Leo tangled their fingers without thinking, when Claude brushed Leo’s hair back because it was in his eyes—

The word was everywhere.

Still waiting. Still unspoken.

But warm. Certain.

Like Claude himself.

***

It was a Wednesday night when it hit Leo hardest.

Nothing special. No milestone. No moment.

Just Claude sitting on the floor of his room, hoodie slung low, one leg stretched under the desk, scrolling absently through Leo’s notes on his laptop like they were his.

Leo was lying on the bed, cheek pressed into the pillow, watching him.

And he realized—suddenly, painfully—that Claude felt permanent.

Not in the overwhelming way.

Not in the I need to define this right now way.

But in the quiet sense.

Like Claude had been here for a long time. Like he wasn’t leaving.

Like Leo didn’t want him to.

Claude looked up, sensing it.

He always did.

“What?” he asked, tone lazy but attentive.

Leo blinked. “Nothing.”

Claude gave him a look.

Leo smiled faintly, half into the blanket. “You’re just… here.”

Claude tilted his head. “And?”

“That’s it,” Leo said.

Claude didn’t press.

He just turned back to the screen, and Leo let himself keep looking—at the line of Claude’s jaw, the scar on his lips, the mole under his mouth, the curve of his fingers, the tiny frown of concentration he made when the screen brightness was too high.

Leo thought: I know what this is.

***

By now, everyone treated them as a package.

Shu and Elira always saved them two seats.
Uki referred to them in plural.
Even Cassian had stopped asking.

Claude never made a show of it. He didn’t correct people. Didn’t explain. But if someone offered Leo a spare drink, Claude would take it first to open it. If Leo got cold, Claude would unzip his hoodie halfway and tug Leo in without asking. And if Leo was quiet—too quiet—Claude would brush his thumb over Leo’s wrist, anchoring him with nothing more than a touch.

No labels.

Just understanding.

No declarations.

Just this—steady and wordless and known.

***

Leo liked weekends like this.

No plans. Just leftover pastries on Leo’s desk and Claude stretched out sideways across his bed like a cat in the sun. He stayed over the night. Again.

A playlist murmured in the background. Neither of them said much.

Leo was half-reading, half-watching Claude scroll through his phone, one hand lazily draped across his chest. Claude’s thumb moved slow over the screen, like even that was too much effort today.

Everything about it was ordinary.

But Leo kept looking at him.

And thinking: This is it.

Not the confession—not yet. But the feeling. The stillness. The way Claude had stopped being a presence in his life and started becoming a part of it.

It was the way Claude knew which tea Leo would want before Leo did. The way he never asked before stealing Leo’s socks. The way he’d look up when Leo walked in and smile—not brightly, not dramatically, just… like that was the best part of his day.

Leo hadn’t said it yet.

But the words felt heavy in his chest. Not in a way that hurt. Just full. Ready.

They went on a grocery run that afternoon.

Claude pushed the cart.

Leo walked beside him, quietly tossing things into the basket—things for Claude, for the nights he came over like he always did. Stuff Leo hadn’t even realized he’d memorized: the same brand of milk tea, the particular curry mix Claude liked, grapes because Claude pretended not to care about fruit but always ate half the bag anyway.

At checkout, Claude wordlessly pulled out his card before Leo could stop him.

Leo frowned. “You paid last time.”

Claude looked at him, deadpan. “You bought toothpaste without asking if I needed any. That cancels out.”

Leo rolled his eyes, but he was smiling when he turned away.

The cashier glanced between them.

Said, “You guys are cute.”

Neither of them corrected her.

The groceries were half-put away. Leo’s fridge hummed with too many cans of milk tea. Claude’s hoodie was still damp from the rain where it hung over Leo’s desk chair, forgotten. They’d changed into sleep clothes without thinking. Leo had pulled the blinds. Claude had shut off the kitchen light. It all happened like muscle memory.

Leo handed Claude a mug of coffee, still too hot to drink.

Claude looked at it, then at him. “You brewed this too long.”

“Drink it anyway,” Leo said, curling onto the couch.

Claude joined him. Didn’t argue.

They didn’t turn on the TV. The window was open just slightly, letting in the smell of rain on concrete and the occasional drip of runoff from the eaves. Claude sat sideways with his knees up, mug braced in both hands. Leo’s legs stretched across the cushions, one of his feet nudging lightly against Claude’s thigh.

He watched Claude in the dim light.

The shape of his face. The curve of his scar. The way he looked like he belonged here.

Not just in Leo’s room, but in all the quiet parts of Leo’s life.

Claude caught him looking. “What is it?”

Leo hesitated, eyes flicking away. “Nothing.”

Claude didn’t push.

The quiet settled back around them, warm and undemanding. Leo curled his hands around the mug, watching the steam rise and fade.

“I didn’t think this would happen,” he said, after a long silence.

Claude shifted, carefully setting his mug on the windowsill behind them. His voice was low. “This?”

Leo nodded, barely. “Us.”

Claude didn’t smile—but something in his gaze gentled. He looked at Leo like he was memorizing him.

“You thought I’d be temporary?” he asked, the teasing in his tone barely a whisper.

But Leo didn’t laugh. His voice came quiet, unguarded. “I thought I’d ruin it. Or expect too much. Or ask for more than you could give.”

Claude reached up, fingertips brushing a strand of hair behind Leo’s ear. His hand lingered just a second longer than necessary.

“You didn’t,” he said, soft and sure.

Leo swallowed. His throat was tight. He stared down at his own hands, then slowly reached across the small space between them, laying a hand over Claude’s knee. A grounding touch. Steady. Real.

“I’m in love with you.”

He said it gently. Not like a reveal—more like a truth he’d already been living with. Like something well-worn and familiar.

Claude didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away.

He just leaned in until their foreheads touched, breath mingling between them.

“I know,” he murmured.

Leo let out a breath—half a laugh, half something else. Relief. Maybe a bit of wonder.

“I didn’t mean to,” he added, a quiet confession. “You were supposed to just be the hot guy with the scar who never left my head.”

Claude huffed, smiling against his skin.

“But then you started taking care of me without ever making it feel like I owed you something. You noticed the things no one else did. You never asked for pieces of me—I just started giving them.”

Claude didn’t speak.

Leo’s voice caught, just slightly. “I think I’m in love with you,” he repeated, almost breathless.

Claude held his gaze. Leo leaned in and pressed a kiss—soft, reverent—to the scar Leo had once stared at like it held answers.

“You think?” he murmured, smiling.

Leo scoffed, but it was soft. “I know.”

Claude kissed his cheek. His temple. And then rested his forehead to Leo’s once more, his voice low, like something just for the two of them.

Claude was quiet for a while.

Then, softly, like it had been sitting on his chest for a long time:

“I think I knew when I started noticing the way you looked at me when you thought I wasn’t paying attention.”

Leo’s breath hitched.

Claude didn’t look away. “You always act like you’re the one who feels too much. But I kept catching myself wanting to be seen by you.”

He reached up, fingers brushing Leo’s jaw—like grounding himself there.

“And I kept letting you in,” Claude murmured. “Little by little. Before I realized I’d stopped holding anything back.”

Leo swallowed hard.

“You never asked me to change,” Claude went on, quieter now. “You didn’t try to fix anything. You just saw what was there and stayed.”

Then, a small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Still make shit coffee, though.”

Leo laughed, cracked and breathless. “You asshole.”

Claude kissed his cheek, smiling. “I’m your asshole.”

Leo pulled him down into a kiss—not hurried, not hungry. Just steady. Certain. Like an answer.

Claude melted into it, exhaling like something heavy had finally been let go.

Then, quieter than before, he said it.

“I love you.”

Leo’s smile trembled, eyes wet. “Say it again.”

Claude kissed his lips. Then his jaw. Then his mouth.

“I love you.”

And Leo kissed him back like the words had been his all along. Like home.

***

They didn’t rush.

After Claude said “I love you,” after Leo kissed it back into his mouth like a promise, they stayed close—foreheads pressed, noses brushing, arms winding tight around each other like the only way to believe it was to feel it everywhere.

They didn’t move at first.

Just breathed together. Skin to skin, chest to chest, wrapped in the quiet that followed the words. A hush that wasn’t awkward—just full. Like the moment needed to stretch out around them, settle between their mouths, their hands.

Leo’s fingers curled at the back of Claude’s neck, gentle but unsteady.

He didn’t know why he was trembling. Not exactly. Maybe it was the weight of finally being seen. The press of Claude’s palm on his ribs, grounding. The way his body wasn’t just wanted, but welcomed—like Claude had been waiting for this softness from him, and would wait again, if he had to.

Claude noticed, of course. He always did.

His lips brushed Leo’s jaw, then lingered near his ear. “You don’t have to be nervous.”

“I’m not,” Leo murmured, voice thin. “Just… full.”

Claude leaned back enough to see his face. Leo’s cheeks were flushed, his lashes damp. That wide-eyed look he only wore when he was overwhelmed—not with doubt, but with need.

Leo’s thumb traced along Claude’s hip, breath shaky. “I’ve wanted this,” he said. “But now I want you. All of you. And it’s different. It’s…”

He trailed off.

Claude filled in the silence for him. “It’s real.”

Leo nodded. “Yeah.”

Claude exhaled like he’d been holding the moment in his lungs.

“You can have all of me.”

Leo’s hands slid up Claude’s back, slow and reverent, bunching the fabric of his shirt. He kissed him again—no longer soft, no longer shy. Want poured out of him, insistent and aching. Claude let himself be kissed. Let Leo guide the pace. Let himself be wanted.

When Leo pulled his shirt off, it wasn’t rushed. His hands brushed over bare skin, deliberate and searching. His mouth followed—kisses down Claude’s collarbone, over his chest, slow and certain, like he was learning the shape of him now that he finally could.

Claude shivered under the touch.

He sat back for a breath and cradled Leo’s jaw. “Tell me what you want.”

Leo bit his lip, eyes flicking away. Then back.

“You,” he said. “Close. Slow. I don’t want to feel separate from you tonight.”

Claude’s breath caught, and he kissed Leo so gently it felt like an answer.

“Then let me take care of you.”

Clothes came off in fragments. Softly. No laughter, no fumbling—only silence thick with want, with reverence. They watched each other. Touched without asking. Breathed like every inch of skin was permission.

Leo’s hands were restless, everywhere. Across Claude’s hips, down the slope of his back, over his ribs. Pulling him in close, closer, until there was no space left. He whispered please into Claude’s shoulder more than once, voice shaking.

Claude gave.

Patiently.

He mapped Leo’s body with his mouth—slow kisses pressed to his sternum, his stomach, the insides of his thighs. Every place Leo tried to hide, Claude lingered. Every place Leo felt like too much or not enough, Claude worshipped.

When they finally moved together—skin hot, hearts stuttering—the world narrowed to touch. Heat. Breath. Leo clung to him, fingers tight in Claude’s hair, jaw slack with feeling. Claude kissed him through every sound, every shiver.

“You’re beautiful like this,” he whispered.

Leo gasped.

“You’re mine.”

Leo arched into him, mouth falling open.

And when Leo trembled beneath him, undone and clinging—

Claude kissed his cheek, his temple, his mouth, and whispered:

“I’ve got you.”

He held him the whole way through.

Never letting go.

After, when the room had gone quiet again and the sheets were tangled around them like seafoam, Claude didn’t roll away.

He stayed curled around Leo, their legs twined, one hand splayed over Leo’s chest, thumb stroking slowly as Leo came down.

Leo blinked sleepily, lips brushing Claude’s collarbone. “You’re too good at that.”

Claude laughed into his hair—quiet and warm. “Only with you.”

Leo nuzzled closer, breath slowing. “Stay.”

Claude hadn’t moved at all. But he answered anyway.

“Always.”