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“Jamato.”
Spoke didn’t realize he’d spoken until Jamato paused mid-tinker. The faint scrape of metal against stone stopped, and Jamato turned just enough to look at him. A soft, questioning pull to his brow, the kind of look that said you good? without needing the words.
The mask hid half his face, but Spoke knew him too well for it to matter. Every tiny shift in his expression was familiar. Maybe that was why it made something in Spoke’s chest go stupid and tight. Being seen that clearly felt like sitting under a spotlight.
He glanced away, letting his gaze land on the strands of Jamato’s silver hair catching warm flickers of candlelight. The glow softened the dark streaks into shadow. The whole huge chamber around them—pillars disappearing into darkness, candlelight trembling on stone walls—made Jamato look almost unreal.
Spoke swallowed. He hated how dramatic his brain got around this dude.
Jamato tilted his head slightly, curious in that calm, quiet way of his. He rested his hand on the half-finished contraption between them. “What’s up?”
“Nothing,” Spoke said automatically, then immediately winced. “I mean—no, wait. Something. I just—uh.”
God. He wanted to punch himself.
Jamato watched him without blinking, the kind of patient that felt more like pressure. Like he was seeing straight through him. He always had. It was unsettling at first. Addicting after.
Spoke forced himself to look at him again. “I’m glad we’re friends, bro.”
Jamato blinked once—a tiny pause, like he was checking whether Spoke was screwing with him. His eyes held on him just a beat too long. Then something in his posture eased, the smallest shift, like he’d figured out what Spoke was actually trying to say.
A quiet oh, so that’s where this is going flickered across his face.
He let out a soft breath that almost counted as laugh, and nudged Spoke’s shoulder. “What… brought that on?” he asked, voice warm but a little puzzled, like he was trying to meet Spoke exactly where he was instead of brushing it off.
Spoke shoved him back. “Bro, shut up. I’m—being genuine.”
“I know.” Jamato’s tone stayed light, but the edge of teasing had faded. His eyes stayed on him, thoughtful, a little cautious—like he was feeling his way through the moment too. “Just making sure you’re not about to drop something heavier.”
“Dude—”
His voice cracked mid-growl. Ridiculous.
Jamato’s laughter thinned into something quieter, the teasing softening at the edges. He shifted a little closer on the stone floor, just enough that the scattered metal bits between them caught the candlelight in brief glints.
When he spoke again, his voice came out quieter, like he was letting the words slip out before he second-guessed them. A small, unguarded thing.
“...Me too,” he said.
The words dropped between them like it weighed something.
The response hit Spoke harder than it had any reason to. An annoying burst of heat crawled up the back of his neck almost immediately.
He didn’t know why his chest pulled tight. Maybe he’d expected Jamato to joke it off. Maybe he’d braced for some sarcastic jab that would’ve made the whole thing easier to laugh at.
Or maybe it was just weird—having someone see him that clearly without trying to pry him open.
Maybe a part of him never really believed Jamato thought of him that way, too.
Spoke averted his eyes and muttered something that might’ve been “cool” or “yeah” or maybe just a static-filled throat sound. Close enough.
Jamato let out a soft huff of air, and Spoke could tell he hadn’t meant to make it deeper than it was. He was just responding. Being a normal person.
Which somehow made it ten times harder to deal with.
A restless jolt went through Spoke’s spine. Before he thought about it, he shoved Jamato sideways, the emotional equivalent of shaking off static.
Jamato yelped—actually yelped—and toppled over with a thud that echoed off the stone.
“Hey!” he protested, pushing himself up on his elbows, indignant in the most unthreatening way possible.
Spoke turned back with a smirk already loaded, trying to ride the tail-end of adrenaline like it was intentional. The comeback formed automatically, but the words snagged when he actually looked at Jamato.
Something in Spoke’s brain stalled.
Jamato was half-lying on the floor, coat fanned out behind him like he’d been dropped there by accident. Dust shook loose from his hair as he lifted his head, eyes already locked onto Spoke with a startled, slightly awkward focus—like he wasn’t sure why Spoke was staring, but he didn’t want to make it weird.
The candlelight cradled him in soft gold, but the angles it revealed were anything but gentle. His mask split the glow cleanly, casting half his face into deep shadow and sharpening the familiar lines into something almost predatory. Even his harmless, human-blunt teeth caught the light in a quick flash that looked too sharp, too bright. His grey pupils gleamed through the mask’s darkness, bright and unblinking, like he was lit from the inside.
It was the kind of sight that would’ve sent a shiver down anyone else’s spine, made them take a careful step back.
But Spoke only saw the open smile behind it, the warmth lighting his eyes from within.
Jamato looked… relaxed. His eyes were crinkled, his grin broad and unguarded. He looked—happy.
Spoke must’ve stared too long. Jamato raised an eyebrow as he sat upright, brushing dust off his sleeve. There was a flicker of something—just a tiny, almost imperceptible hesitation—in his stance, like he wasn’t sure how to meet Spoke’s gaze in this quiet, soft moment.
“What?” he asked, crossing his legs with casual ease, voice light. “Is there something on my face?”
Spoke snapped his jaw shut, grin sliding in by instinct. “Nah. You just looked stupid, lying there like a flipped beetle.”
Jamato huffed, rubbing dust off his arm. “Great. I’m glad my suffering is entertaining.”
The brightness in his eyes wasn’t mischief so much as a soft, lingering fondness—like he was still riding the warmth of what Spoke had said earlier, even if he didn’t know how to hold it.
With a quick jab of his elbow, Jamato gently nudged him in the ribs. “No thanks to you,” he said—then paused, a touch awkward, eyes flicking away briefly before meeting Spoke again. His smile curled wider, softer, still teasing but a little unsteady, like he wasn’t entirely sure if this was just a joke or not. “My closest, most precious friend.”
Spoke’s brain short-circuited. Heat detonated across his face.
“You— you can’t just—!” he sputtered, hands flailing for a comeback that didn’t exist.
Jamato laughed, warm and breathy, shoulders loosening like he hadn’t expected to enjoy this part so much. Spoke groaned, turned away, and folded his arms like a barrier between himself and imminent social death.
"You're so corny, bro," Spoke muttered.
He ignored Jamato's mock-offended "Hey!" In response, but he couldn’t stop the stupid smile tugging at his mouth.
Jamato leaned sideways and bumped their shoulders, just hard enough to make Spoke jump a little. Spoke turned back around to glare at him, but Jamato just kept smiling, keeping his shoulder pressing against Spoke's for a second more before leaning back slightly, though not enough to break contact. A silent hey, don’t disappear on me now.
“There he is,” Jamato said, amusement lingering in his voice.
Spoke just rolled his eyes, turning his attention to the scattered metal pieces across the floor around them.
Jamato didn’t baby him. Didn’t poke where it hurt. Just… stood his ground beside him in that easy, uncomplicated way he always did. It was irritatingly reassuring.
Spoke huffed out a breath, more of a release than a sigh. The knot in his chest loosened just enough that he could breathe normally again.
Jamato didn’t move away, either. He just sat there, shoulder against Spoke’s, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
In the flickering candlelight, with shadows stretching long across the stone floor, Spoke was struck by a simple, stupid truth:
He trusted this guy. More than most. Maybe more than anyone.
Not in a dramatic, life-changing way—just in the steady, everyday sense. The kind of trust you don’t notice forming until it’s already there, solid as bedrock.
He cleared his throat, forcing the warmth in his chest to behave. “Don’t get weird about it,” he muttered.
Jamato snorted softly. “If anyone’s going to be weird about it, pretty sure it’s you.”
Spoke elbowed him, lighter this time. Jamato shoved him back, just as light. Matching him with ease.
The tension broke cleanly, like a held breath finally let go.
For a moment, it was just the two of them sitting in a half-lit space, surrounded by scattered tools and dusty air—comfortable, stupidly normal despite everything.
Easy. Solid.
Exactly what it was supposed to be.