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Hiroaki woke up slowly, wrapped in warmth and comfort and the lingering satisfaction of what had been, objectively, an incredible night.
He was in Ojima’s bed. In Ojima’s arms. Wearing Ojima’s shirt—oversized and soft and smelling like him—which Takeshi had carefully pulled over his head after they’d finished, hands gentle despite how thoroughly they’d just wrecked each other.
Hiroaki felt good. Relaxed in a way he rarely was, his usual sharp edges softened by exhaustion and endorphins and the steady rhythm of Ojima’s breathing against his back.
Then someone knocked on the door.
Hiroaki’s good mood immediately soured. Who the hell was knocking this early? What could possibly be so important that someone needed to disturb—
Another knock, more insistent this time.
With a groan, Hiroaki carefully extracted himself from Ojima’s arms—which tightened briefly in protest before releasing him—and padded toward the door. He was still wearing just Ojima’s shirt and his underwear, but whoever was on the other side could deal with it. They were the ones interrupting.
He pulled open the door, ready to snap at whoever—
Tamba Ryuko stood there, looking annoyingly cheerful for whatever ungodly hour it was.
Oh no. Not her. Anyone but her.
Hiroaki and Tamba didn’t get along. At all. Tamba had this remarkable talent for saying the most idiotic things without any apparent self-awareness. You could show her a body with its head bashed in and she’d suggest death by poison with complete confidence. She was infuriatingly stupid, and worse, she never minded her own business.
“Oh, Nakamigawa!” Tamba said brightly. “Do you have a sewing kit? I need to fix—”
“No,” Hiroaki said flatly, already moving to close the door.
But Tamba’s eyes had swept over him—his messy hair, Ojima’s oversized shirt, his bare legs—and her expression shifted to something far too interested.
“Why are you so messy?” she asked, and there was that tone in her voice, that nosy, prying tone that made Hiroaki want to strangle her. “And why are you in Ojima’s shirt? Where is Ojima, anyway?”
“None of your business,” Hiroaki said through gritted teeth.
“It’s just a question! I’m just curious—”
“Well, stop being curious and go away—”
“But seriously, why do you look like—”
“Oh my god, do you ever shut up—”
From inside the room, Ojima’s voice called out, rough with sleep and distinctly annoyed: “Hiroaki, close the damn door and get back here—”
Tamba’s eyes went wide, her mouth forming a little ‘o’ of understanding and delight.
“You know what?” Hiroaki said sweetly, which was never a good sign. “Fuck off, Tamba.”
And he slammed the door in her face.
He stood there for a moment, breathing hard, his good mood thoroughly ruined. Of course Tamba had to show up. Of course she had to pry. Of course she had to—
“Why are you already arguing with someone?” Ojima’s voice came from behind him, exasperated and amused in equal measure.
Hiroaki turned around, ready to launch into a rant about Tamba’s general terribleness, and stopped.
Ojima was sitting up in bed now, and he looked—
God, he looked good. His blue hair was an absolute disaster, sticking up in every direction. He was shirtless, the sheets pooled around his waist, and there were marks visible on his neck and chest—marks that Hiroaki had definitely put there and felt a complicated mix of pride and embarrassment about.
He looked thoroughly debauched and entirely unconcerned about it.
“It was Tamba,” Hiroaki said, forcibly dragging his eyes away from Ojima’s chest. “Being her usual nosy, idiotic self—”
“At this hour?” Ojima stretched, his back arching, and Hiroaki’s train of thought completely derailed. “What did she want?”
“A sewing kit or something, I don’t know, I wasn’t really listening after she started asking invasive questions—”
“Sounds like Tamba,” Ojima said, then yawned. “Come back to bed. ’S too early for dealing with people.”
Hiroaki was about to respond—probably something bratty about how Ojima couldn’t just summon him back to bed like he was a dog—when Ojima turned to reach for his pants on the floor.
And Hiroaki saw his back.
“Oh,” Hiroaki said faintly. “Oh shit.”
Ojima’s back was covered in scratch marks. Deep ones. Long ones. Angry red lines dragging from his shoulders down to his lower back, some of them looking like they might have broken skin.
Hiroaki had done that. His nails. His hands. In the heat of the moment, when everything had been overwhelming and intense and—
Oh god, he’d really done a number on Ojima.
“Takeshi,” Hiroaki said, his voice higher than normal as he moved closer. “Your back—does it hurt?”
“Huh?” Ojima was still fishing around for his pants, apparently oblivious. “Does what hurt?”
“Your back,” Hiroaki repeated, climbing back onto the bed now, abandoning any pretense of staying distant. “I—there are marks—I scratched you really badly, I think—”
Ojima finally found his pants and started pulling them on, still turned away. “Oh, yeah. A little. Nothing major though.”
“Nothing major?” Hiroaki’s voice climbed another octave. “Takeshi, let me see—”
He crawled across the bed, getting closer so he could properly examine the damage. The scratches looked even worse up close—deep enough that some of them were definitely going to bruise, arranged in clear parallel lines that told the exact story of what had caused them.
Hiroaki remembered now. Remembered the moment when things had gotten particularly intense, when Ojima had done that thing, and Hiroaki had completely lost control, his back arching, his hands scrabbling for purchase on whatever they could reach—
Which had been Ojima’s back.
“Fuck,” Hiroaki breathed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—I didn’t realize I was—”
Ojima finally turned to look at him, craning his neck to try to see his own back. “That bad, huh?”
“They look—” Hiroaki gestured helplessly. “—like I tried to murder you. How did I even—my nails aren’t that long, how did I manage to—”
“You were pretty worked up,” Ojima said with a shrug, and then winced slightly as the movement pulled at the scratches. “Ow. Okay, maybe more than a little sore.”
“I’m sorry,” Hiroaki said again, and he hated how worried he sounded, how much it bothered him that he’d hurt Ojima. “I should have been more careful, I shouldn’t have—”
“You weren’t exactly in a state to be careful,” Ojima pointed out, and there was something almost fond in his voice now. “Neither of us were. That was kind of the point.”
“But I hurt you—”
“Yeah, but it was worth it,” Ojima said, then immediately looked away, his ears going red. “I mean—that came out wrong—I just meant—”
“Worth it?” Hiroaki repeated, caught between offense and curiosity and something else he didn’t want to name.
“I mean—” Ojima was definitely blushing now, still not looking at Hiroaki. “It doesn’t hurt that bad. And it’s not like I mind. The marks. They’re—” He cut himself off, looking increasingly flustered.
“They’re what?” Hiroaki pressed, because despite his worry, his curiosity was winning out.
“Nothing. Forget it.”
“Takeshi—”
“It’s embarrassing.”
“You literally just had sex with me. I think we’re past embarrassing.”
Ojima was quiet for a moment, then mumbled something inaudible.
“What?”
“I said,” Ojima repeated, slightly louder but still not looking at Hiroaki, “I kind of like them. The marks. They’re… proof. That it happened. That you—” He gestured vaguely. “—that you wanted me enough to lose control like that.”
Hiroaki stared at him, his face heating up. “You’re—that’s—”
“I told you it was embarrassing,” Ojima muttered, pulling his knees up to his chest defensively.
And suddenly Hiroaki understood. Understood why Ojima was blushing, why he seemed almost ashamed of admitting it. Understood that this was complicated for Ojima in ways that went beyond just physical intimacy.
Ojima had told him, late one night months ago, about his uncle. About the twisted way he’d learned about intimacy, about touch, about desire. About how it can take years of childhood like this. To understand that intimacy could be good, could be wanted, could be about mutual care rather than power and control was a big step for Takeshi.
Last night had been Ojima’s first time choosing it. First time wanting it. First time with someone who actually cared about him.
And the scratches were proof—physical, visible proof—that it had been real, that Hiroaki had wanted him, that it had meant something.
Hiroaki’s throat felt tight.
“Come here,” he said quietly, and it wasn’t a demand or a tease. It was an invitation.
Ojima looked at him uncertainly, then slowly moved closer. Hiroaki pulled him down, arranging them so they were lying face to face, close enough to touch but giving Ojima space to pull away if he needed to.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Hiroaki said, and he meant it in more ways than one. “And I’m not—this isn’t just—” He struggled to find the words, struggled to be vulnerable in a way that didn’t come naturally to him. “Last night mattered. To me. You matter. To me.”
Ojima’s eyes were wide, searching his face like he was looking for any sign of deception.
“I’m bad at this,” Hiroaki continued, forcing himself to be honest even though every instinct screamed at him to deflect, to joke, to hide behind his usual bratty facade. “I’m bad at saying how I feel. I’m bad at being vulnerable. But you—” He reached out, carefully brushing Ojima’s messy hair out of his face. “—you make me want to try. Even when it’s terrifying.”
“You’re not bad at it,” Ojima said quietly. “You’re doing it right now.”
“I’m terrified right now,” Hiroaki admitted.
“Me too.”
They lay there in silence for a moment, just looking at each other, and it should have been awkward but somehow it wasn’t.
Then Ojima spoke, the words tumbling out in a rush like he’d been holding them back: “I- I didn’t actually mind. Painting you, I mean. Even when you were being weird about it. I liked having you there as a subject. I liked looking at you that closely, studying your features, trying to capture—” He cut himself off, then pushed forward. “I liked it. A lot.”
Hiroaki blinked at him, surprised by the sudden confession.
“And I care,” Ojima continued, gaining momentum now. “About you. A lot. More than I probably should. And I’m bad with words, I know I am, I zone out and I say weird things and I can’t always express what I’m thinking, but I care about you and I—” He paused, struggling. “—I appreciate that you’re patient with me. That you don’t get mad when I check out. That you guide me back when I get lost in my head. That you listen when I explain my weird story ideas even when they make no sense—”
“The dead hotpot soul still makes no sense,” Hiroaki interjected, unable to help himself.
“—but you still listen,” Ojima finished. “And you don’t make me feel weird. And you—last night you were so careful with me, even when you were clearly frustrated, even when you wanted more. You kept checking if I was okay. You respected every boundary. You made it good. You made it—”
His voice cracked, and he looked away.
“Takeshi,” Hiroaki said softly.
“I’m trying to say something important and I’m fucking it up,” Ojima said, and he sounded frustrated with himself now. “I’m trying to tell you that you matter to me and that last night was important and that I—”
He stopped, took a breath.
“I love you.”
The words hung in the air between them, raw and honest and terrifying.
“I love you,” Ojima repeated, and this time he was looking at Hiroaki when he said it. “I don’t know when it happened or how, but I do. And I needed you to know that. Even if I’m bad at saying it. Even if I fuck up the delivery. I love you.”
Hiroaki felt something crack open in his chest, something warm and overwhelming and so intense it almost hurt.
“Takeshi—” he started, but Ojima was already moving.
He pulled Hiroaki close, wrapping his arms around him with a possessiveness that would have been alarming if it hadn’t been so clearly founded in affection rather than control. His face pressed into Hiroaki’s hair, and Hiroaki could feel him trembling slightly.
“Sorry,” Ojima mumbled. “That was probably too much. I shouldn’t have just—I’m going to sleep now. Going to stop talking before I make it worse.”
“You didn’t make it worse—” Hiroaki tried to say, but Ojima’s breathing was already evening out, exhaustion from the emotional confession pulling him under.
Within minutes, Ojima was asleep, his arms still locked around Hiroaki like he was afraid he’d disappear.
And Hiroaki—chronic insomniac, perpetually restless Hiroaki—lay there in Ojima’s arms and didn’t even try to extract himself.
I love you.
Ojima loved him.
Ojima, who was patient with his bratty behavior and gentle with his sharp edges and careful with his boundaries. Ojima, who made him laugh and made him think and made him want to be better. Ojima, who’d just confessed his feelings in the most awkward, earnest way possible and then immediately passed out from emotional exhaustion.
Hiroaki felt a laugh bubble up in his chest, fond and exasperated and so full of emotion he didn’t know what to do with it all.
“You’re such an idiot,” he whispered to sleeping Ojima. “The biggest idiot I’ve ever met.”
He reached up, carefully adjusting them so Ojima wouldn’t wake up with a crick in his neck, making sure the scratches on his back weren’t pressed against anything uncomfortable.
“I love you too,” Hiroaki said quietly, knowing Ojima couldn’t hear him but needing to say it anyway. “Even though you’re terrible at speeches and you zone out mid-conversation and you have the worst timing in the world. I still love you.”
Ojima made a soft sound in his sleep, his arms tightening slightly, and Hiroaki felt that warm feeling in his chest expand.
He wasn’t going to sleep—he never really did—but he could lie here. He could watch Ojima sleep, peaceful and trusting in his arms. He could think about what came next, about how they’d navigate this new territory they’d stumbled into.
He could just be here, in this moment, with this person who loved him.
And for once in his life, Hiroaki Nakamigawa felt completely, utterly content.
Even if Tamba was definitely going to gossip about what she’d witnessed this morning with Watari.
But that was a problem for later.
Right now, Hiroaki had more important things to focus on.
Like the way Ojima’s face looked when he slept, all soft and unguarded.
Like the fact that someone actually loved him, scratches and all.
Like the fact that he loved someone back, and it didn’t feel terrifying anymore.
It just felt right.