Archive of Our Own ^beta

The bar was dim, buzzing with low music and humid chatter, strings of fairy lights flickering lazily above. It was their regular bar, one of those places where everyone knew everyone, and Fuse had claimed the largest booth as if he owned it. His drink - something citrusy and neon - was mostly melted ice now, but he hadn’t stopped talking long enough to notice.

“So,” Fuse said, drawing out the word like a final, damning verdict. “He says - get this - ‘I think you’re amazing, but I’m not in a place to commit.’” He paused, then looked around the table, one brow raised. “Two days after we broke up, he posted a story... holding hands with someone else. Like I wouldn’t see it. As if I’m not literally alive and on Instagram.”

Tess winced in sympathy, swirling his untouched drink. Kita muttered something under his breath into the rim of his glass, eyes still fixed on the email glowing on his phone screen. Tun, always the optimist, offered a small hum and placed a calming hand on Fuse’s forearm like he might combust.

Fuse did not combust. He exploded.

“I swear, I’m like a limited time promo!” he snapped, thumping a hand on the table. “They all love me for, like, three weeks. I’m fun. I’m exciting. I’m their little emotional bouncy castle. And then poof! Gone. They find someone ‘serious’ - and I’m back to being the guy they text at 2am because I’m ‘good energy.’”

Across the table, Up raised a brow and took a long, deliberately slow sip of beer. “You are good energy,” he said, unbothered. “Sometimes. With a big ego. Have you considered turning it into a side hustle?”

Fuse turned on him. “You think this is funny?”

“Yes,” Up said without hesitation. “Tragic and funny. Like a cat in a raincoat.”

Kita looked up, finally, tired but trying to be affectionate and supportive. “You could just block him. Change your number. Or take a break from dating altogether?”

“I don’t want to block him,” Fuse snapped. “I want him to see me thriving. I want him to be haunted by my joy. I want him to feel a phantom ache every time he hears my name. I want him to cry into his pillow at 4am and wonder why he let me go.”

There was a pause.

“...So you want revenge,” Tess said slowly.

Fuse slammed his glass on the table. “Yes! Finally! Thank you.”

Tun looked alarmed. “That’s not healthy.”

Up looked thrilled. “That’s amazing.”

Kita put down his phone and massaged his temples like a school counselor facing his worst case student. “Okay. Before this turns into an actual crime - what kind of revenge are we talking about here?”

Fuse leaned back against the booth, arms crossed, lips pursed. “Nothing illegal. Probably. I just... I don’t want closure. Closure is for people who write notes and cry in bookstores. I want something better. I want to make him regret it. Actually, I want all of them to regret it. All of my stupid, trash, good for nothing exes.”

“Post thirst traps,” Up suggested.

“Already did that. I looked great,” Fuse said. “The most they did was send a fire emoji and then unmatch me.”

“Maybe they’re threatened by your glow up?” Tun offered.

“Or maybe they’re just trash,” Kita muttered.

Fuse slumped forward dramatically, forehead landing on his arms resting on the slightly sticky surface of the table. His hair flopped over his eyes, and his voice came out muffled. “Why do I always end up as the fun one, but never the one one?”

The others exchanged a look. This wasn’t the first time they’d heard this particular monologue.

“You are the one one,” Tess said gently. “For someone. Just not them.”

Fuse rolled his head sideways so he could glare at him. “That’s worse. That’s like saying I’m the best singer in a soundproof room.”

“Okay, metaphor boy,” Up said. “So what’s the plan then? You gonna toilet paper the last guy’s apartment? Leave a fish under someone’s car seat?”

“No. It has to be smart,” Fuse said, lifting his head with a spark in his eye that made the others collectively brace themselves. “Something strategic. Classy. Psychological warfare. You know, the sexy kind.”

“Sexy psychological warfare?” Kita repeated. “What are you watching these days?”

“I want to rattle their egos,” Fuse continued, undeterred. “Make them realize they lost something great. That they don’t get to replace me with some basic yoga guy who owns matching linen sets and thinks olives count as dinner.”

“...Are you okay?” Tun asked.

“No!” Fuse snapped. “But I’ll feel better once I ruin their lives just a little.”

Silence fell again. Then Tess, with the resignation of a man who’d already seen Fuse go through three near-breakdowns in the past half year, said, “You know who might actually help you with this?”

Fuse perked up. “Who?”

Kita snorted before Tess could answer. “Don’t say it.”

Tess shrugged. “Aou.”

“Absolutely not,” Fuse said immediately.

“He’s strategic,” Tess argued. “You said you wanted someone smart. He helped me rewrite the final act of my last script and made it, like, forty percent more devastating.”

“I would rather eat my own socks than ask Aou for help,” Fuse muttered. “He hates me.”

“He doesn’t hate you,” Tun said gently.

Fuse looked at him. “Tun. Last time we were in the same room, he called me a ‘walking buzzword in expensive jeans.’”

“Well,” Kita said, sipping his drink, “you were rambling on about social media trends for, like, half an hour to him.”

“That’s not the point!” Fuse waved his hands. “He’s smug. And mean. And smug. And! He's not even here right now.”

“He’s also available,” Tess said. “He's not here because he's rotting at home watching stupid movies to get ideas to get over his writer's block so he can finish his script. Which means, he's probably bored. And definitely smart in a way that could benefit you.”

Fuse opened his mouth. Closed it. Thought about it. Then muttered reluctantly, “...He is good at planning stuff.”

“You know he once got his neighbor evicted for playing saxophone at night?” Up added, a little too gleeful. “He orchestrated the whole thing with noise complaints and passive aggressive notes. It was beautiful.”

Fuse stared into the middle distance, a new possibility blooming slowly in his mind. “...How much do you think he’d charge?”

Tess blinked. “You’re going to hire him?”

“I’m desperate, not stupid,” Fuse muttered. “If I’m selling my pride, I want good returns. I don’t like owing people.”

Kita sighed, returning to his phone. “If this ends with someone crying on live tv, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Fuse smirked, the glint of a plan beginning to form. “Don’t worry. I won’t cry.”

Up lifted his glass. “To sexy psychological warfare.”

Tess groaned. Tun clinked his glass with a soft “cheers”.

And Fuse, now upright and buzzing with purpose, was already opening LINE. His thumb hovered over one name. The name he swore he’d never message unless it was to report him to the authorities.

Aou.

Online.

Fuse narrowed his eyes, then typed:
“What would it take for you to help me ruin someone’s life?”

Aou didn’t even look up from his laptop when Fuse dropped into the seat across from him. The café was small and quiet, the kind of place people went to not be spoken to, which made it the worst possible choice for what Fuse was about to do.

“Absolutely not,” Aou said before Fuse had even opened his mouth.

“I didn’t say anything yet,” Fuse replied, narrowing his eyes.

“I could feel your intentions from the door,” Aou said, still typing. “They radiated stupidity.”

Fuse exhaled hard through his nose. “I need a favor. You didn’t reply.”

“That’s cute.” Aou took a sip of his coffee. Black, no sugar. He really was a menace. “And no. I’m not ruining anyone’s life.”

Fuse leaned forward, lowering his voice like he was about to pitch a drug deal. “I need someone with zero morals and a very good poker face.”

That made Aou glance up, just barely. “So naturally you came to me. I’m touched.”

“I’m being serious.”

“That’s the most concerning part.”

Fuse dropped his phone on the table and folded his arms. “Look. I want to make my ex - exes - suffer. A little. Just a little bit. For fun. You’re the most strategic person I know.”

“Wow, what a bleak sentence,” Aou said. “I’m flattered and horrified.”

“You’re bored,” Fuse said flatly. “Tess told me you have, like, writer’s block or something. And you’re a control freak. And you like manipulating people. This is, like, your thing.”

“I’m a scriptwriter,” Aou said. “Not a supervillain.”

“Same difference.”

Aou finally closed his laptop, slowly, like he was annoyed that Fuse had successfully derailed his afternoon. “You want me to... what? Plot your revenge?”

“Yes.”

“And you think this is a good idea because...?”

“Because I’m angry, and I have unresolved issues, and you’re kind of evil.”

“I’m not evil,” Aou said, mildly offended.

“You got your neighbor evicted over jazz.”

“No. I got my neighbor evicted over playing jazz badly.” Aou leaned back, arms crossed. “What’s in it for me?”

“I’ll pay you.”

There was a pause.

Aou raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re offering to hire me?”

“You have that whole writer’s block thing, right? You’re not doing anything,” Fuse said. “This could be fun. A challenge.”

Aou gave him a long, unreadable look. “You’re serious.”

“Deadly.”

“That’s worrying.”

“Come on. Think of it like a script. You love building narratives. Plotting motives. Emotional damage arcs.”

“Fuse,” Aou said slowly. “You’re asking me to become the writer of your romantic revenge fantasy.”

“Exactly.” Fuse pointed at him. “You get it.”

Aou stared at him, then exhaled a sharp laugh and shook his head. “No.”

Fuse’s face fell. “What? Why not?”

“Because I don’t take bribes from emotionally unstable guys in designer jeans.”

“I’m not emotionally unstable,” Fuse said, wounded. “I’m just passionate.”

“You just described every man who has ever stormed out of therapy.”

Fuse frowned. “Okay, but like... what if it’s not about the money? What if it’s about the art?”

“Oh, so now it’s art.”

“It is if you do it.” Fuse leaned in again, clearly trying to read Aou’s expression. “Look, you hate me. That makes you objective.”

“I don’t hate you,” Aou said, which somehow sounded less like reassurance and more like a threat.

“You called me a human personality quiz that thinks in hashtags.”

“You were quoting astrology memes at Tess for an hour.”

“It was a relevant conversation.”

Aou sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “No. Still no. There is no version of this where I come out looking sane.”

Fuse leaned back, frustrated. “Fine. Whatever. I’ll just go to Up and let him do it. We’ll probably end up setting something on fire, but at least he won’t give me a lecture about it.”

Aou didn’t respond. He just looked down at his laptop again, reopened the screen, and resumed typing with the elegance of someone trying to ignore a raccoon clawing at their window.

Fuse stood up, dramatic and offended. “You know what? Forget it. I’ll figure it out myself. Who needs a tactician anyway?”

“Definitely not you,” Aou muttered.

Fuse didn’t bother replying. He stalked off with purpose - the kind of purpose that usually led to terrible decisions.

Aou kept typing. For about forty seconds.

Then he stopped.

He stared at the blinking cursor in his script document. Nothing came to mind. He reread the same paragraph four times. It wasn’t bad exactly - it just felt dry. Shallow. Predictable.

He glanced towards the door Fuse had exited through, then looked back at his screen.

Strategic chaos. An unhinged protagonist. Moral grey areas. Emotional whiplash.

It was kind of tempting.

And he was bored.

Fuse wasn’t expecting the message when it arrived three hours later. He was still sulking at home, half-watching a crime documentary and half-googling “legal but satisfying revenge ideas.”

[Aou]:
I have questions. Mostly for research. Don’t read into it.

Followed by:
How many exes are we talking? Names, types, weaknesses. Also do you still have any shared passwords.

Fuse stared at the screen, then grinned.

Five minutes later, he was typing out an alarming amount of detail.

They met the next day at the same café. This time, Aou had a notebook open and was already scribbling things as Fuse slid into the seat across from him.

“Wait, you’re actually doing this?” Fuse asked, skeptical.

“I’m still deciding,” Aou replied without looking up. “This is a consultation.”

Fuse blinked. “Oh. Okay. Sure.”

Aou finally looked up at him, pen tapping against his notebook. “Here are my terms. I get full creative control. You don’t get to veto anything unless it’s actually illegal or emotionally scarring. If this ends in a flaming disaster, I’m not taking responsibility.”

Fuse nodded quickly. “Fine.”

“You pay me in advance.”

“Done.”

“And no feelings.”

Fuse choked. “What?”

“No feelings,” Aou repeated. “No pulling out halfway through trying to get back together with one of them. No getting weird. This is serious business. Not a romcom.”

“Obviously,” Fuse said, way too quickly.

Aou stared at him for a moment longer, then clicked his pen and returned to the notebook. “Great. Now tell me which one pissed you off the most. We’ll start there.”

Aou's plans came with bullet points, sub-bullets, and contingency flowcharts.

It was horrifying.

Fuse had expected... chaos. Maybe a few morally grey ideas, some unhinged brainstorming over iced coffee. But Aou showed up with a literal folder. Tabs and all.

“You colour-coded my exes,” Fuse said, holding the folder like it might bite him.

“I grouped them by psychological weakness,” Aou replied, utterly serious. “Blue is insecurity. Yellow is jealousy. Red is ego. I don’t waste time.”

Fuse blinked. “You’re terrifying.”

Aou sipped his coffee. “Thank you.”

They started with the easiest one - Yoga Boy, who still followed Fuse on Instagram and according to Fuse used sharing playlists as his love language when dating.

"Do you still have access to his Spotify?" Aou asked, tapping something into his notes.

Fuse grinned. “Unfortunately for him, yes.”

Ten minutes later, the playlist “Our Songs<3” had been renamed to “Oops! All Red Flags.” The cover image was changed to a blurry photo of the ex’s worst haircut, and the description now read: Warning: May contain manipulation and avoidant tendencies.

Next up was Art, the gym bro, who had never changed his Instagram password since dating Fuse. A rookie mistake.

“Do not do anything illegal,” Fuse warned, watching Aou crack his knuckles.

Aou rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to rob his bank account. I’m just editing his bio.”

Minutes later, it now read:
part-time gym rat | full-time disappointment

“I'm a big fan of your work, actually.”

Aou shrugged with a smile. “Thank you. I accept compliments in the form of iced matcha.”

For Ex #4, Pon who never put effort into anything, they took a more visual approach.

There was a brief debate about whether reposting couple photos was “too obvious,” but Aou had a workaround. They used a shot of Fuse and Pon at a park, faces close but not touching. Aou added a caption:

throwback to when i thought mediocre kisses meant real feelings #deluluera

It was a little unhinged. It was also satisfying and glorious.

And it worked - Pon viewed the story immediately. So did several of his friends. But no reply.

Fuse was grinning for hours.

“You know what’s the worst part?” he said later, kicking his feet up on Aou’s coffee table, completely at home. “I wasn’t even that in love with him, thinking about it now. I just hate how replaceable I felt afterwards. Like I’m... I was the warmup round.”

“Then stop dating men who think human connection is a tutorial level,” Aou said, motioning for him to get his feet off the coffee table as he dropped onto the couch next to him.

“You say that like I have options.”

“You do. You just have bad taste.”

“Rude.”

“True.”

The edible arrangement was Aou’s idea.

Fuse would’ve just posted a picture and moved on, but no - Aou insisted on going tactile.

“It needs to land,” he’d said, standing over the order form like a director over a set piece. “Something visually aggressive, but legally harmless. You said he dumped you on your birthday.”

So, a perfectly innocent bouquet of pineapple slices, melon balls, and strawberries was assembled into letters that spelled out: YOUR LOSS. And drizzled in a very thin, basically invisible layer of chili oil that his zero-spice-tolerance-ex would no doubt appreciate.

"It looks oily though."

"He'll think it's a sugar glaze or something. He looked like an idiot with no braincells on the picture you showed me."

It was sent anonymously. Of course.

“It’s so passive-aggressive,” Fuse murmured as they confirmed the address.

Aou smirked. “It’s not passive.”

After a week and a half, Fuse was buzzing. Not just with petty satisfaction - but with a kind of manic thrill he hadn’t felt since... well, any of his relationships, if he was being honest.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” Aou said as he watched Fuse refresh his Instagram for the tenth time.

“He left me on read for two days when I asked if we were still exclusive. This is justice.”

Aou tilted his head. “You sure you’re not still into him?”

Fuse scoffed, dramatic. “Please. If he was on fire, I’d toast a marshmallow.”

Then came the message.

From Ex #2. The one who claimed he “wasn’t ready to commit,” but had moved on with alarming speed.

He replied to Fuse’s latest post - specifically staged to make him look as hot as possible - with:
you look good. miss u sometimes lol

Fuse showed the message to Aou without a word as they were waiting in line to grab street food.

Aou looked at it. Looked back at him. “You want to twist the knife, don’t you?”

“I want to twist the entire cutlery drawer,” Fuse said.

Aou nodded. “Then we escalate.”

They ended up in Aou’s apartment - because, of course, it had better lighting.

“We’re doing a soft launch,” Aou explained as he adjusted the curtains to catch the golden hour sun just right. “Enough intimacy to imply something, not enough to confirm it.”

“You’re weirdly good at this,” Fuse muttered.

“You asked for a strategist. This is a crafted image.” Aou gestured to the couch. “Sit there. Slight lean. Like I’m next to you, just out of frame.”

Fuse sat. “Okay, and... hand?”

“Reach out,” Aou said. “Like you’re holding someone’s hand, but not trying too hard. Wrist relaxed. Slight thumb squeeze.”

“That’s... specific.”

“It needs to look real,” Aou said, already moving closer. “Give me your hand.”

Fuse hesitated for half a second too long before holding it out. Aou took it without comment - his grip warm, firm, strangely grounding. He positioned their hands gently, his fingers brushing over Fuse’s like he was adjusting a lens.

Fuse stared at their joined hands. They looked good together. Aou’s hand was soft, warm, long fingers. His touch was confident, unfazed.

“Your heartbeat’s fast,” Aou said idly after the thumb of his other hand had brushed over Fuse's pulse point to readjust the position of their hands, not looking up.

“I’m just... committed to the bit,” Fuse replied, though his voice cracked halfway through.

Aou finally looked up. The room suddenly felt smaller.

“Caption?” he asked, still calm.

Fuse stared at him. “What?”

“The post. What do you want it to say?”

“Oh. Uh...” He fumbled. “Something like... ‘upgraded.’ Or... ‘my new lover treats me better.’ Or something equally petty.”

Aou raised a brow. “‘New lover’?”

“I mean, that’s the vibe, right?”

“If we’re doing ‘lover,’ I’m going to have to wear a button-up shirt.”

Fuse made a face at him. “Fuck you.”

“You started this.” Aou snapped the photo without warning, then let go of his hand and checked it. “Perfect.”

Fuse leaned in to look. He ignored the lingering warmth in his hand. The shot was simple - just their hands, Fuse’s thumb grazing the side of Aou’s. The warm light made it look intimate. Unstaged. Real.

His stomach flipped. He looked away. “Yeah. That’ll work.”

Aou glanced at him, as if noticing something. But he didn’t say anything. Just slid the phone back across the table.

“You can post it,” he said. “I don’t care.”

“Sure,” Fuse mumbled.

He stayed for a little while longer as they shared a delivery pizza and discussed their next plans. As he sprawled out on Aou’s couch with a full stomach and a warm feeling in his chest, Aou disappeared into his kitchen to grab them both a drink.

“You know,” Fuse said, “you’re disturbingly good at this.”

“I’m just applying story structure to real life,” Aou said from the kitchen. “You’re the protagonist. They’re the antagonists. I’m the narrator with a god complex.”

“Sounds healthy.”

Aou returned with two drinks and sat on the arm of the couch, handing one to Fuse. “I’m not the one crying to Spotify playlists about my situationships.”

“I’m not crying,” Fuse said, mock-offended. “I’m thriving. This is what healing looks like.”

“You’re setting your healing process to movie soundtracks.”

“Exactly.” Fuse paused. “Do you think I’m crazy for doing this?”

“Yes,” Aou said immediately. “But I get it.”

That made Fuse go quiet. Not in a heavy way, just a little thoughtful. He watched Aou’s profile as he sipped from his drink, the sharpness in his features, the precise way he did everything, like he was always working ten steps ahead.

“Why’d you say yes?” he asked finally.

Aou didn’t look at him. “Bored.”

“Liar.”

“And curious,” Aou admitted. “I wanted to know why they left.”

Fuse blinked. “So you could make fun of me?”

“At first, yeah.”

“I knew it.”

“But also, you’re not that bad.”

Silence. Just for a second too long.

Fuse looked away, cheeks warm.

Then he laughed, light and nervous. “You’re actually almost sweet under all the sarcasm. It’s disgusting.”

“I’m doing this for the narrative,” Aou said, turning back to his plans. “Don’t make it weird.”

“Too late,” Fuse said.

Fuse uploaded the picture to his Instagram feed and his story when he arrived home with the caption:
upgraded - better hands, better taste.

His ex didn't interact with the post. Which was, honestly, better than a reply. What Fuse didn’t expect was the other responses, even though he probably should have. Friends texting. One girl from university messaging, “omg who is he??”. He ignored most of it.

But he did look at the photo again. Several times.

The next ex had been different.

Fuse hadn’t just liked him. He had let himself believe in the longterm with him. The future plans, the key copy, the quiet reassurances after bad days. They had lasted longer than the others. Long enough for Fuse to get comfortable. Long enough that when it ended, it actually hurt.

It wasn’t explosive or dramatic. It was the quiet kind of breakup - the kind where the other person pulls away slowly enough that you start thinking the distance is your fault.

“I’m just not ready to settle down,” he had said, not even making eye contact. “It’s not you. You’re... you’re amazing.”

Then he started dating someone else within a month.

The café was all clean lines and aesthetic plants. Outdoor tables with string lights. The kind of place that always showed up in people’s social media date-with-my-one-and-only-posts.

Aou, naturally, showed up looking like a problem.

He looked good. Too good. His hair was styled, just messy enough to look effortless. Slim dark button up, collarbones peeking out like they had a contract to be visible. Sitting at the table near the railing, scrolling calmly through his phone like this was a regular Saturday and not a scheduled hit.

Fuse sat down across from him, heart tapping an uneven rhythm under his ribs. “You look like a drama lead.”

“I’m method acting,” Aou said. “You’re welcome.”

Fuse swallowed whatever comeback was trying to climb up his throat. No use giving Aou more ammunition. Not when he looked like that.

“Okay,” he said, trying to sound breezy. “He’s usually here around five. You ready?”

Aou glanced up. “Always.”

“Don’t be weird.”

“I am incapable of that.”

Fuse gave him a look. “You know what I mean.”

Aou leaned forward, propped his chin on his hand. “You mean: don’t act too much like a boyfriend, or you’ll start to enjoy it.”

Fuse’s brain short-circuited for a half-second. “No. I mean- shut up.”

Aou smirked. “So touching is fine?”

“What-”

“Public affection. The illusion. It needs to be believable.”

Fuse cleared his throat. “Uh. Yeah. Whatever. Sure.”

Aou didn’t move right away. Just studied him for a moment. Then he reached across the table and - with the casualness of someone doing something completely normal - took Fuse’s hand.

Fuse tensed. He hoped it didn’t show.

“I’m going to need you to stop vibrating,” Aou said, voice low. “You’re going to blow our cover.”

“I’m not vibrating.”

“You’re definitely vibrating.”

Aou rubbed his thumb once - just once - over Fuse’s knuckles, like he was smoothing out the nerves. Then he glanced to the side, posture relaxing.

“Three o’clock,” he murmured. “Green shirt. That him?”

Fuse followed his gaze. The bottom of his stomach dropped. “Yeah.”

“Cool,” Aou said, already moving into character.

It was terrifying how quickly he flipped the switch. One second, he was smug and sarcastic and deadpan and mocking - the next, he was warm and affectionate, like they were actually a couple.

He leaned forward with a quiet laugh, like Fuse had just said something private and ridiculous. He kept their hands joined, casually resting them on the table. Then he said, loudly enough to carry, “Babe, you always do this when you’re flustered.”

Fuse blinked, caught off guard. “Do what?”

“Overthink your drink order.”

“I don’t-”

“You absolutely do,” Aou said, smiling now, gentle and sweet. “It’s cute.”

Fuse forgot how to breathe.

A few feet away, his ex slowed down. Looked over. Hesitated.

Aou didn’t look at him. He was too busy brushing a strand of hair from Fuse’s forehead.

Fuse felt his ears heat. His voice dropped to a hiss just barely above a whisper. “Okay, you’re laying it on thick.”

“It’s called immersion,” Aou whispered back, eyes still playful.

The ex finally walked by their table. He didn’t stop, but his glance lingered.

Aou glanced up, then turned back to Fuse, and said, “You want to split a slice of cake, or are you going to pretend not to have a sweet tooth again?”

Fuse stared at him. “What is your deal?”

“Method acting.”

“I didn’t ask for boyfriend improv theatre.”

“You hired me,” Aou said calmly, voice still low in case the ex could hear them. “This is the full package.”

Fuse hated how good he was at this.

Across the café now, his ex had gone stiff. His eyes locked on the scene unfolding like he’d just been slapped with a reality he wasn’t ready for.

Aou couldn't hold back a smirk. “You didn’t say he was that short.”

Fuse bit his lip to stop a laugh.

“Do you want to kiss me?” Aou asked, eyes flicking to the side of the café the ex was at for a moment.

Fuse must have misheard. “What?”

“I mean, not actually. But for the image. For him.” Aou looked back, expression unreadable. “It would sell the fantasy.”

“I- uh. No. This is fine,” Fuse said quickly. His cheeks burned.

They didn’t need to kiss. They were doing enough. More than enough. Aou’s hand had moved from holding Fuse’s to rest casually on his thigh, absentmindedly rubbing lazy circles with his thumb, their legs pressed against each other under the table. The physicality was… a lot.

Aou smiled like he knew exactly what was happening. “You’re flustered.”

“I’m not.”

“You know, for an actor… you’re kinda bad at acting.”

“Screw you,” Fuse hissed, but there was no heat in it.

After another few minutes of unnecessary touches, staged laughs, and way too much direct eye contact, Fuse’s ex got up and left. Didn’t even order anything. Just stared and walked out with that look - tight-jawed, eyes calculating, trying to decide if what he’d just seen was real.

It was perfect.

Outside the café, Fuse exhaled hard. The sun had dipped low, casting the street in soft orange light.

“Okay,” Aou said. “That went well.”

Fuse shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. “You really leaned into it.”

“I’m a professional.”

“You called me ‘babe.’”

“You loved it.”

Fuse rolled his eyes. “I blacked out halfway through to survive your acting.”

“You’re welcome.”

They walked in silence for a bit, the evening quiet except for the sound of passing bikes and a dog barking somewhere far off.

“You were kind of nice in there,” he said finally, glancing at Aou. “You know. In a deeply unsettling way.”

Aou didn’t look at him. “I play my part.”

“I noticed.”

They reached the corner. Aou paused.

“This is where we split.”

“Yeah.”

A beat.

Then Aou smiled, a little lopsided. “Sweet dreams, babe.”

Fuse stared after him as he walked away, casual and unbothered like he hadn’t just delivered a fully improvised performance worthy of an award and a lawsuit.

That night, Fuse lay in bed and did not stalk his ex’s socials.

He was too busy thinking about the café. About the way Aou had called him babe. The hand holding. The fact that Aou had smelled good and dressed nice. He could still feel the warmth of Aou’s hand against his own and on his thigh.

None of this had been necessary.

It shouldn’t have meant anything.

But it kind of did.

And that was the problem.

Fuse rolled onto his side and grabbed his phone, screen lighting up his face in the dark.

Aou had sent him a photo of the café with a single word:
Iconic.

Fuse stared at it for a long time before replying.

[Fuse]:
You’re annoying.

Aou’s reply came instantly.

[Aou]:
Babe, we’ve been over this... :/

Fuse turned off his phone.

The plan was simple.

Another ex, another run in, this time at a mid-range Italian place with dim lighting and enough foot traffic to make a coincidence believable.

“He usually goes here on Fridays with coworkers,” Fuse explained as they arrived. “They drink cheap wine and talk about crypto.”

“Sounds like hell,” Aou said, holding the door open.

“Yeah, well. So was dating him.”

They were seated near the back, a cozy booth by the window. Fuse pretended not to notice Aou had again dressed slightly nicer - white shirt, dark jeans, hair swept back a little, the faint cologne Fuse was starting to associate with heart palpitations. He looked like a date.

He wasn’t. This wasn’t a date.

Except it started to feel like one.

They ordered drinks and one shared pasta dish - under the pretense of looking authentic if the ex walked in - but half an hour passed. Then forty-five minutes.

No sign.

Aou checked the ex’s Instagram on Fuse’s phone. “Nothing?”

“Nope,” Fuse said, staring at the door like he could will it open. “He probably flaked. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Aou shrugged, unbothered. “Guess we’re just here eating pasta alone together, like sad Italian widows.”

Fuse huffed a laugh. “Speak for yourself. I look amazing. I’m the trophy widow.”

They clinked glasses. The wine was cheap, and the pasta came out lukewarm, but it didn’t really matter. The ex wasn’t coming, and neither of them seemed in a hurry to leave.

They ended up talking.

Not planning. Not scheming. Just... talking.

Fuse twirled a fork absentmindedly. “You know how everyone thinks I’m the fun one?”

Aou leaned back, watching him. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It kind of is,” Fuse said, tone light but eyes focused. “Like, people love me when things are casual. When it’s light and easy and not serious. But the second I want something more, I become... too much. Or not enough. Depends on the guy.”

Aou didn’t respond right away.

“That last one,” Fuse continued, picking at the plate. “He used to say I was like... a spark. Bright, chaotic, exciting. But you can’t build anything longterm out of sparks. They go out too fast.”

Aou made a quiet noise. “That’s not how sparks work.”

Fuse looked up.

“Sparks start fires,” Aou said. “If you know what you’re doing.”

Fuse blinked at him. It wasn’t romantic, the way he said it. Just matter-of-fact. But it landed somewhere deep in his chest anyway.

A moment passed.

“You’re really good at this,” Fuse said suddenly.

“At pasta?”

“No. At being a fake boyfriend.”

Aou raised an eyebrow. "I'm sensing a dig at me coming."

“I’m serious,” Fuse said. “You’re annoying and a little dramatic and smug as hell, but when you’re on, you’re... actually kind of perfect.”

Aou took a sip of wine. “Thanks, I think?”

“How are you so good at it?”

Aou’s expression didn’t change much, but something behind his eyes flickered - thoughtful. His voice was quieter when he answered. “It’s easier when it’s fake.”

Fuse ignored the strange twist in his chest. “Why?”

Aou shrugged. “Less risk. No expectations. No mess.” He tilted his head. “That’s why you hired me, right? Safe chaos.”

“Okay, sure. But like... you’ve obviously thought about it. The way you act. The things you say. Like, you know how to do all the boyfriend things. You’re good at listening. And remembering stuff. You’re actually... not terrible company. Which begs the question.” Fuse leaned in. “Why are you single?”

“Trying to get personal, are we?”

“It’s a valid question,” Fuse said. “You’re smart, strategic, suspiciously good looking when you’re not being annoying - and you act like you’ve studied romantic comedies for sport.”

“I have studied romcoms for sport,” Aou said. “But that doesn’t mean I believe in them.”

That surprised Fuse. “You don’t?”

Aou was quiet for a beat longer than usual. Then he said, “I didn’t use to believe in real love.”

Fuse blinked. “Wait, seriously?”

“I write romcoms, yeah,” Aou said. “I like watching them, too. I love the tropes. The grand gestures. The banter. The tension.” He paused. “But it always felt like fiction. You know? Like something that happened to other people.”

“Why?”

Aou looked down at his glass. “Because I never saw it work. Not really. Everyone I know treated love like a game or a performance. Conditional. Shortterm. Something you’re in until it stops being fun.”

Fuse’s chest tightened. That sounded... familiar.

“And then,” Aou continued, “Tess fell in love with Tun.”

Fuse smiled at the mention. “Yeah. They’re pretty disgustingly good together.”

“Exactly,” Aou said. “It’s not performative with them. They take care of each other. They’re kind. And boring sometimes. But it never feels temporary. That’s when I thought... maybe it’s not all fake.”

Fuse rested his chin on his hand, watching him. “So you’re a skeptic with a romantic streak.”

“I’m a realist who occasionally writes fake happy endings,” Aou said. “There’s a difference.”

Fuse didn’t say anything right away. He just nodded, slow, thoughtful.

Aou met his gaze, calm as ever. “Still doesn’t mean I think it’ll happen to me.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. I’m...” Aou shrugged. “Not the type people fall for. I’m the guy who helps other people get together. I write the love story. I don’t get to be in it.”

Fuse didn’t know what to say to that. For once, he didn’t have a comeback. There was a moment of silence. But not an uncomfortable one. He looked at Aou again, and everything suddenly felt different. Or maybe not different - maybe it had always been this way and he was just noticing it now. Aou wasn’t playing a part anymore. He was just... here. Relaxed. Leaned back in the booth, elbow propped, eyes soft in the amber glow of the restaurant’s hanging light.

And he was listening. Really listening. Not like his exes used to - not distracted, not waiting for a turn to speak, not filing away comments for future manipulation. Aou remembered the names. The timings. The details. He put effort into this. More than he had to. More than anyone ever had. He was kind. In his own sarcastic way. And smart. And yeah, fine, he admitted it, unfairly good looking.

And for the first time, Fuse thought: maybe it wasn’t just the plan.

They stayed until the restaurant started dimming lights and stacking chairs.

Outside, the air was cooler now, and the street was quiet. They walked slowly. No need to rush.

“You know,” Fuse said, “this whole revenge thing? It’s kind of working.”

Aou gave him a sidelong look. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” Fuse smiled. “I don’t care if he saw us or not. Tonight was still better than any date I had with him.”

Aou didn’t answer right away.

“You’re welcome.”

Fuse bumped his shoulder against Aou’s. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

Aou just smiled.

Tess' apartment smelled like popcorn and something vaguely spicy that Up had brought and refused to explain. The curtains were drawn, pillows were scattered across the floor, and the projector screen on the wall flickered with the opening credits of a very questionable action-comedy.

Tun and Up were already sprawled out on the floor with a bowl of chips between them. Kita sat against the wall, typing something on his laptop with the focus of someone desperately trying to meet a deadline but pretending he was still socially present.

Fuse arrived with Aou trailing behind him, both carrying extra drinks. 

“Look at the lovebirds,” Up announced the second they walked in.

Fuse groaned. “We’re not-”

“Save it,” Tess said, grabbing a drink. “We all know what this is.”

“What is it?” Aou asked, deadpan.

“Whatever it is, it’s suspiciously couple-coded,” Kita muttered, without looking up.

“And you both showed up with matching drinks," Tess added.

Aou glanced at the bottles in his and Fuse’s hands. “Coincidence.”

“Lies,” Tun said with a soft grin.

Fuse kicked off his shoes and dropped onto the couch, already exasperated. “Can we just watch the movie and not dissect my entire fake love life tonight?”

“No promises,” Up said. “You’ve been softlaunching Aou all over your socials. We’re allowed to comment.”

Fuse opened his mouth to protest but Aou beat him to it, sliding in beside him on the couch with the ease of someone who belonged there. “He’s shy about us,” he said smoothly, dropping his voice just enough to be annoying. “Doesn’t want to make it too obvious.”

Fuse shot him a look. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what, baby?”

The room exploded.

“What the fuck,” Kita said, horrified.

“Baby?” Tess wheezed.

Fuse buried his face in a cushion. “I hate all of you.”

“Don’t be like that, babe,” Aou added, and somehow it was worse the second time. His tone was playful, barely hiding a smile. But Fuse wasn’t smiling. Not really.

It wasn’t that he was embarrassed - well, okay, he was. But not in the usual way. Something about hearing Aou call him that in front of everyone made his skin buzz. It didn’t feel like the usual performance. Or maybe it did. Maybe that was the problem.

He managed a weak laugh, flipping Aou off under the blanket they were now sharing, but his hand stayed there, pressed lightly against Aou’s thigh. Not that either of them moved it.

The movie started. A bad action flick with explosions and a barely coherent plot. The kind of film Tess loved watching ironically but secretly kind of adored.

Halfway through, everyone had shifted positions. Up was lying flat with a throw half over his face. Kita had given up pretending to work. Tun had migrated to lean against the couch armrest with Tess tucked into his side.

And Fuse was... very aware of Aou. Of the way their legs were touching. Of the way their arms brushed every time they reached for popcorn. Of the fact that Aou hadn’t stopped calling him babe - he just kept doing it quietly, in small nudges and muttered comments like “babe, they’re not even trying to explain the plot” or “babe, you dropped popcorn down your shirt”.

It was fake. It was for show. A running bit to annoy the others.

But his brain wasn’t buying it.

By the end of the movie, he couldn’t even tell what the plot had been. Something about spies. Probably. Maybe a hostage situation. His focus had narrowed to the warmth of Aou beside him, the comfortable weight of his presence, the way he’d started handing him snacks without asking and casually stealing sips from Fuse’s drink like it was a habit.

It was past midnight when the group started packing up.

Tess yawned into his hoodie. “Movie night again next week?”

“I’m busy,” Kita mumbled. 

“I’ll cook,” Tun offered.

Up was already halfway out the door. “If these two aren’t engaged by then, I’ll be disappointed.”

“Bye, Up,” Fuse called flatly.

“Goodnight, baby,” Up shot back imitating Aou’s voice, grinning as he disappeared down the stairs.

When the door finally shut behind them, the hallway felt quiet. Fuse and Aou stood side by side outside the apartment, shoes on, jackets halfway on, but not really moving.

“I swear they’re going to start a betting pool,” Fuse said.

“They already have,” Aou replied.

Fuse let out a long sigh.

They stood in silence for a moment. The hall light buzzed faintly. Their shoulders were inches apart. Fuse could still feel the pressure of Aou’s arm against his during the movie. It had left an impression. Like heat soaked into skin.

Then Aou said, casually, like he was commenting on the weather, “You know, I’ve thought about it. You’re not the fun one.”

Fuse turned his head slowly. “What?”

“You’re actually not that bad,” Aou said, turning to face him, looking at him now. “Maybe even the one someone should be lucky to keep.”

His voice was light, but serious, not joking, not sarcastic.

The air shifted.

They were standing too close now. Fuse could see the slow blink of Aou’s eyes, the way his mouth curled slightly like he wanted to say more but wasn’t sure how. The hallway was too quiet. The space between them too small.

Fuse didn’t move. And Aou didn’t either, not really. But they somehow gravitated towards each other. Aou leaned in, just slightly. Not enough for it to mean anything, not enough for it to be a definitely, just a maybe. Just enough for Fuse to tilt his chin. Just enough for breath to mingle.

And then Aou pulled back.

“That’s not part of the plan,” he said quietly.

Fuse swallowed. “...Right.”

There was an awkward pause for a second.

“I’ll text you tomorrow,” Aou said, already turning away.

“Yeah,” Fuse replied, still rooted to the spot. “Okay.”

He stood there for a long moment after Aou walked off. The hallway felt even quieter now. Colder. Or maybe that was just him.

Fuse tried to go back to normal. Whatever normal even was.

Aou showed up at his place two days later with the same color-coded plans as always. Fuse let him in and offered him an iced drink with a weird heaviness in his chest.

They tried to plan something - a last dig at the DJ ex who still owed Fuse money and once said he didn’t "believe in monogamy... or furniture”. Aou pulled up a spreadsheet. Fuse scrolled through old photos. They talked. But the energy was off. Fuse laughed at the right moments. He made a snide comment about playlist sabotage. But the sparkle was gone. The rhythm they’d fallen into - the jokes, the shenanigans, the thrill - it wasn’t landing anymore.

Aou was mid-sentence, explaining some deeply elaborate social media bait trap, when Fuse zoned out.

“You’re ignoring me,” Aou said after a pause.

Fuse blinked. “Huh?”

“I said, if we want to use the fake vacation photos, we’ll need a different location tag than Bali. That guy’s already following a Pilates instructor who just posted from there.”

“Oh. Right. Sure,” Fuse mumbled.

Aou narrowed his eyes. “That was the worst fake agreement I’ve ever heard.”

“Sorry.” Fuse scratched the back of his neck. “I’m... tired.”

“You don’t look tired. You look guilty.”

“I’m not guilty.”

“You’re doing the face.”

“What face?”

“The face you made when you accidentally texted Tess ‘happy birthday’ two weeks early and pretended it was a joke.”

“I was trying to be ironic.”

Aou gave him a flat look. “Fuse.”

Fuse sighed. He poked at the corner of Aou’s notebook with his nail. “I think I’m done.”

“With what?”

“With... this.” He gestured loosely at the folders, the plans, the entire petty operation that had kept them orbiting each other for weeks. “The whole revenge thing. It’s not fun anymore.”

Aou’s expression didn’t shift, but something subtle cooled behind his eyes. “Oh.”

“I’m not mad at them now,” Fuse said quickly. “I mean, I still think they suck. But... I don’t want to keep thinking about them, you know? They’re not worth the energy.”

Aou nodded slowly. “Right.”

“I thought doing all this would make me feel better, and it did for a while. But now-” Fuse hesitated. “Now it just feels like noise.”

Aou was quiet. He didn’t meet his gaze. He flipped a page in the folder absently, like it mattered. 

“So, what? You want to end it here?”

“I… yeah. I guess.” He didn’t mean for it to sound like that - like he was quitting them - but that’s what it sounded like in the quiet room.

The silence that followed wasn’t exactly awkward. But it wasn’t the comfortable quiet they’d built, either. It felt like something unfinished, like a door slowly closing and neither of them was reaching for the handle.

“I guess I thought we’d at least get through the yellow-tabbed ones,” Aou said finally, his tone too light to be casual.

“You can still use the plans for a script or something,” Fuse offered, but the second it left his mouth, it felt wrong. “Sorry. That sounded-”

“Professional,” Aou said. “Practical.”

Fuse frowned. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“It’s fine.” Aou stood. “You’re right. If it’s not fun anymore, no point dragging it out.”

“Aou-”

“Really. Don’t worry about it. I appreciate your efficient thinking.” He gathered his things quickly. “Let me know if you need anything.”

He didn’t say “babe” this time. He didn’t smirk, didn’t tease. Just walked out like this had always had an expiration date - and maybe it had.

The next week, Fuse met Tess for coffee at a café near his place.

They were supposed to be talking about a costume pull for one of Tess’ short films, but after the fourth time Fuse trailed off mid-sentence, Tess gave him a look.

“You want to talk about it?” Tess asked.

Fuse blinked. “Talk about what?”

“You’ve been weird.”

“Thanks.”

“Not bad weird. Just... like you’re thinking too hard.”

“I’m always thinking too hard.”

“No, you never think.”

Fuse made a face at him but didn’t answer.

Tess drank from his coffee then sighed when Fuse didn’t say anything. “Is the plan over?”

Fuse looked up. “How did you-?”

“You and Aou haven’t been weirdly in sync lately. No staged couple energy. No strange glances. No social media updates.”

“That obvious, huh?”

Tess gave him a look. “You’re not mad at your exes anymore, are you?”

Fuse exhaled. “No.”

He crossed his arms and looked out the window like the answer might be hiding out there.

“I’m mad at myself,” he said finally. “For not realizing what I actually want.”

Tess nodded once. Said nothing. Just gave him that soft, annoying, all-knowing look that made him feel like an open book.

Fuse rubbed the back of his neck. “He took it the wrong way. When I said I wanted to stop. I think he thought I was just bored of him or something. That it was about the fun running out.”

It occurred to him only then how ironic that was - how many times he had been on the receiving end of being told by an ex that they had gotten bored of him, that he wasn't fun anymore.

“Was it?”

“No.” Fuse shook his head. “It was about it starting to feel... real.”

“Mm.”

“And that’s not fair,” Fuse continued, mostly to himself now. “Because it wasn’t real. That’s what we agreed on. It was a plan. A game. Strategy. Shenanigans. Fake affection, fake dates.”

“But?”

“But it stopped feeling fake a while ago. To me. And I didn’t say anything. I just kept letting it happen because I didn’t want to scare him off. I think.”

Fuse sighed, then let out a dramatic whine. “But then, also, I don’t even know if he’s interested in me like that at all, or if he was just acting for the whole, you know, fake boyfriend thing. I mean we had this moment, where I thought maybe… but then the rest of the time he seems so… unaffected.”

He groaned and ran his hands through his hair in frustration.

Tess leaned his elbows on the table, resting his chin in his hands. “You know, for a guy who’s usually allergic to emotional maturity, you’re handling this better than I thought you would. But you’re still a little dumb.”

“Thanks. I think?”

“What are you going to do about it?”

Fuse didn’t answer right away.

He thought about the first time Aou called him “babe” as a joke. About the fake hand-holding. The stolen sips of his drink. The way Aou remembered his exact coffee order, how he adjusted lighting for photos, how he could break him down and build him back up with one sentence.

He thought about the night on the couch. The hallway. The almost.

And he realized: he didn’t want to go back to before.

Not really.

Not when he had finally found something that didn’t feel temporary.

Something that didn’t feel fake.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” he admitted. “But I think I have to do something.”

Tess smiled. “Then go do it, dumbass.”

Aou’s building was quiet at night - quiet in the way that made Fuse’s nerves louder. He stood outside the door for maybe a full minute, hand hovering like the knock required courage he didn’t have. This was stupid. He hadn’t texted. Hadn’t warned him. He was just going to show up and blurt out something potentially friendship-ending at 10:30pm on a Tuesday. Amazing choices, really.

But he couldn’t sit with it anymore. Couldn’t go one more day pretending he was fine watching Aou go back to being “just a friend” - if that’s what they ever were.

So he knocked.

The door opened halfway through his third knock.

Aou blinked at him, barefoot, in sweatpants and a hoodie with the sleeves pushed up, glasses sliding slightly down his nose, like he’d just been mid-writing something dramatic. His hair was still fluffy from a shower. He looked like sleep and comfort and everything Fuse had been trying not to want.

Fuse forgot his entire internal monologue.

“You’re here,” Aou said slowly.

“Yeah.”

A beat passed.

“You okay?” Aou asked.

“No,” Fuse said. “I mean - yes. I just- Can I come in?”

Aou stepped back without question.

The apartment was warm and smelled faintly like coffee. The living room was dimly lit by the floor lamp in the corner next to the dying overgrown fern squished between the couch and the bookshelf. Aou's laptop was still glowing on the coffee table, script notes scattered across the couch. A half-eaten cookie sat on a napkin.

Fuse didn’t sit. He stood there in the middle of the living room, heart punching through his chest like it had something to prove.

Aou didn’t press him. Just waited, leaning against the edge of the couch, arms crossed.

“I’ve been trying to not feel things,” Fuse said.

Aou raised his brows, then took off his glasses and set them down on the coffee table before returning to his original position. “That’s vague.”

“Shut up.” Fuse took a shaky breath. “You made me realize something.”

Aou tilted his head.

“I kept going for the same kind of person,” Fuse said. “Guys who liked me because I was bright and fun and didn’t ask for too much. Guys who got to enjoy me without keeping me. Who liked the way I made them feel but never really wanted me. I kept going after people who only liked the fun parts of me. Who wanted sparks but didn’t know how to keep a fire going. And then you-”

He stopped. Swallowed.

Aou’s posture relaxed slightly.

“And then you happened,” Fuse said. “And we made this stupid plan, and it was petty and ridiculous and it should’ve made me feel worse- but it didn’t. It made me feel… seen. You did. Like I wasn’t just noise in someone else’s story. Like I mattered. Like I wasn’t just the warm-up.”

Silence.

Fuse stepped forward.

“You remembered everything I said. You paid attention. You made me laugh. You held my hand like it meant something. And it messed me up because it was supposed to be fake, but it didn’t feel fake. Not to me.”

Aou didn’t move. His face was unreadable. 

“I thought I was doing this to get over my exes,” Fuse continued. “And I was, in the beginning. But you- You walked in with color-coded plans and weaponized sarcasm and made everything more complicated. And I still liked you anyway. You made me realize I was looking for the wrong kind of love. And now I want this. Not some fun, exciting, spark whatever situationship mess with a boring loser, where the only interesting thing about him or his life is me. And not the plan. Not revenge. You. I want you.”

Aou was still silent.

Fuse’s heart was going to fall out of his chest.

Then Aou finally spoke, voice maddeningly calm.

“You’re an idiot.”

Fuse blinked. “Excuse me?”

Aou took one slow step forward. “You are-” another step, so he was standing right in front of him, touching Fuse’s collar, adjusting it just slightly, “-the most dramatic, emotionally dense idiot I’ve ever met.”

And then he leaned in and kissed him. It was deliberate - like he’d been waiting for the right second and had just found it.

Aou’s hands slid up to cradle Fuse’s face, thumbs brushing along his jaw like he needed to anchor himself there. The kiss was soft at first, slow - not tentative, just intentional, like he was trying to memorize it. Fuse melted into it instinctively, hands curling into the fabric of Aou’s hoodie. His heart stumbled, caught off guard by how much he’d wanted this and how easy it was. The kiss deepened, just a little, when Aou tilted his head. His lips parted just enough for Fuse to feel his breath, for their tongues to meet once, twice. And it would’ve been dangerous, if it hadn’t felt so safe.

When they pulled apart, they didn’t move away.

Aou stayed close, still holding his face, eyes dark and steady.

“I knew you were catching feelings,” Aou said, voice low.

“I wasn’t exactly subtle,” Fuse said quietly.

“No,” Aou replied. “But you were kind of cute about it.”

Fuse huffed a laugh, cheeks burning. “I’m serious.”

“So am I.” Aou’s thumb traced a line beneath his cheekbone. “I wouldn’t have done any of this if it was just for fun. I was trying to be chill about this.”

“That was your version of chill?”

“You showed up at my door like the third act of a romantic drama. You ruined my whole strategy.”

“You had a strategy?”

Aou gave a half-shrug. “I was going to wait. Give you time. Let you figure it out.”

“You thought I’d figure it out on my own?”

“I hoped.” A beat. “You’re not always the fastest.”

“That’s rude,” Fuse muttered.

“But accurate.”

“But you said-”

“I said it wasn’t part of the plan,” Aou said, gaze flicking down to his lips. “Plans change.”

Fuse stared at him. “I thought you were mad at me about ditching the plan! Or not even interested in me!"

One of Aou's hands curled into the hair at the back of Fuse's head, threading the strands gently, and Aou smiled. "Like I said. You're not always the fastest."

Fuse couldn't help but pout. "You’re still annoying.”

“I’m aware.”

Aou kissed him again. Messier, a little needier, less about the slow reveal and more about everything they hadn’t said. He pulled him closer by the waist this time, and Fuse let him, hands sliding up his back, burying into his hair.

Eventually, they broke apart again, breathing uneven.

“I think I’m still mad at you for calling me an idiot,” Fuse said, forehead resting against Aou’s.

Aou grinned now. “Well, you were.”

“I was lovesick.”

“Same thing.”

Fuse groaned and tried to bury his face in Aou’s neck, which only made Aou laugh - quiet and real and close to his ear.

“I still want to ruin one of your exes for fun,” Aou said, after a moment.

Fuse smiled into the crook of his neck, lips pressing against the warm skin there, before lifting his head slightly to speak. “That’s hot.”

Aou pressed a kiss to his temple. “I’ll write a better ending for you.”

“You already did.”