Archive of Our Own

The first thing Yuma realized when he opened his eyes was that the world was far too bright, and the second thing he realized was that a tiny, rhythmic blacksmith was using his skull as an anvil.

He let out a low, pathetic groan, squeezing his eyes shut against the morning sun hitting the white walls of the studio. 

“Don’t move,” a voice murmured near his ear. “I swear that every time you twitch, I can practically hear your brain rattling.”

Yuma felt the mattress shift as Jo sat up beside him, and the memory of the park—the cold wind, the way Jo’s lips had felt against his—came rushing back in a dizzying blur. It was followed immediately by the memory of the cheap sake he had downed. 

He felt a wave of heat crawl up his neck that had nothing to do with a fever.

“Jo,” Yuma croaked, his voice sounding like he had swallowed a handful of Shinjuku gravel. “I think I’m going to die. Please tell my mom and dad that I really loved them…and tell them to bury me with my vintage Fender.”

“You aren’t dying, you’re just hungover,” Jo said, though there was a softness in his voice that Yuma had not heard in years. Jo’s hand found Yuma’s forehead, his palm cool and steady. “I’m not telling your parents anything, anyway. They’d just laugh at you for being a lightweight.”

Jo got out of bed, the absence of his warmth making Yuma whine into the pillow. 

A few minutes later, Yuma heard the crinkle of a plastic bag and the distinct, savory smell of beef, sprouts, and spicy broth.

“I ordered from the only place that was open this morning,” Jo said, sitting on the edge of the bed. He was holding a container of haejangguk— a hangover soup. “I had to bribe the delivery guy to come out on New Year’s morning, so you’d better eat every drop.”

Yuma forced himself to sit up, his head throbbing with the effort. He looked like a disaster—hair standing in every direction, eyes puffy, and still wearing the heavy grey sweater that Jo brought from the night before.

Jo did not say a word about how Yuma looked in front of him now. Instead, he pulled the small table over to the bed and blew on a spoonful of the hot broth before holding it out to Yuma’s lips.

“I can feed myself, Jo,” Yuma muttered, his face heating up. “I’m about to turn twenty, not five anymore.”

“Well, when you were five, you tried to eat a crayon because it was the same color as a grape,” Jo reminded him, his thumb ghosting over Yuma’s lower lip as he waited. “Just open up, Yuu-kun. Your hands are shaking anyway.”

Yuma obeyed. The soup was spicy and rich, cutting through the dull ache in his stomach. As he ate, the silence in the room was not the heavy, suffocating thing it had been for months.

It was light and easy.

Between spoonfuls, Jo reached out and tucked a stray lock of hair behind Yuma’s ear. 

“You were really loud last night,” Jo said quietly, a small, genuine smirk playing on his lips. “You told a stray cat it had your father’s eyes, and then you cried because you thought the moon was lonely.”

Yuma buried his face in his hands, his eyes turning a bright, painful red. “You’re lying—please tell me that you’re lying.”

“I have it recorded on my phone,” Jo teased, though he immediately leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to Yuma’s temple. “But don’t worry, I’m the only one who’s ever going to see it. It’s my favourite movie now.”

Yuma looked up, meeting Jo’s eyes. The fear was gone, and the wall was gone. There was just the smell of spicy soup, the humming of the city, and the boy who had finally decided to stay.

“Jo?”

“Hm?”

“Thanks for coming to get me.”

Jo set the spoon down and pulled Yuma into his arms, holding him with a protective grip. “Always—for the next fifteen years, and the fifty after that,” said Jo, softly.

“Now, be a good boy and finish your soup, okay?”

 𐙚⋆.˚

An hour after the soup had successfully brought Yuma back to the land of the living, the two of them found themselves squeezed into the studio’s tiny bathroom.

In a twenty-meter apartment, the bathroom was less of a room and more of a tiled closet. Usually, they took turns, one waiting by the kitchenette while the other finished, but this morning, the door stayed open. There were no more schedules, no more polite waiting.

Yuma stood in front of the mirror, squinting at his reflection. His head still had a dull throb, but his heart felt light—dangerously even. Next to him was Jo, who was already at work, his sleeves pushed up to reveal his lean, charcoal-stained forearms.

They stood shoulder-to-shoulder, the rhythmic shush-shush of their toothbrushes filling the small space. 

Jo finished first. He rinsed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and then paused. He looked at Yuma through the reflection—Yuma, who was still vigorously brushing, a small smudge of white foam at the corner of his lips.

Without a word, Jo leaned down. He did not wait for Yuma to look up; he just pressed a firm, minty kiss right onto Yuma’s cheek.

Yuma froze, his toothbrush mid-stroke. When Jo pulled back, he left a messy, white foam stamp right on Yuma’s cheekbone. Jo did not apologize—he just leaned against the doorframe, a rare, mischievous glint in his dark eyes.

“You have a little something on your face,” Jo teased, his voice vibrating with a suppressed laugh.

Yuma rinsed his mouth with record speed, his eyes narrowing. “Oh, you think you’re funny? You think because you’re the one who bought the soup, you get to be a menace?”

“I think I’m taller,” Jo replied simply, tilting his head back with a smug grin that made the beauty marks on his face dance. “Which makes me a difficult target.”

“Is that a challenge, Asakura?”

Yuma did not wait for an answer. He reached out, his fingers hooking firmly into the collar of Jo’s t-shirt—and with a determined grunt, he yanked Jo downward.

Jo, who was caught off guard by the sudden strength, stumbled forward, his hands instinctively reaching out to grip Yuma’s waist to steady himself. This brought them chest-to-chest, the space between them disappearing in a cloud of mint and steam.

Yuma, still holding on to Jo’s collar to keep him at eye level, leaned in and smeared a generous amount of toothpaste foam right onto Jo’s nose with a decisive, messy kiss.

 “Target acquired,” Yuma whispered, his face inches from Jo’s.

Jo did not pull away. He just stayed there, hunched over so Yuma did not have to strain, his hands tightening slightly on Yuma’s hips. The joking atmosphere shifted instantly, and the air turned thick and warm.

“You’re a mess,” Jo murmured, his gaze dropping to Yuma’s lips.

“I learned from the best,” Yuma breathed.

Jo leaned in again, but this time it was not a prank. He pressed a soft, real kiss to Yuma’s lips, ignoring the lingering taste of mint and foam. It was quiet, domestic seal on their new reality—no more sticky notes, no more walls between them. Just the two of them, messy and crowded into a tiny bathroom, finally on the same wavelength.

Yuma finally let go of Jo’s collar, but he did not move away. He rested his forehead against Jo’s chest, listening to the steady, fast thumping of Jo’s heart.

“Hey, Jo?”

“Hm?”

“I think my hair is a disaster. It keeps getting in my eyes when I try to read sheet music.”

Jo reached out, his fingers tracing the messy, shaggy locks at the back of Yuma’s neck. “Mhm, I do notice it. It’s fine, I’ll just get the shears. Can you sit on the stool first?”

“Okay,” Yuma smiled, looking up. “Just…don’t make me look like a mushroom, please.”

“No promises,” Jo joked, but he was already reaching for the towel.

 𐙚⋆.˚

 After the chaos of the toothpaste war, the studio felt warmer. Yuma noticed a shift in his own habits almost immediately.

Back when they were just roommates—back when he was trying to pretend that he did not feel a jolt of electricity every time Jo looked at him—he had been careless. He used to pad around the room in just his boxers, a minimalist habit that always made Jo’s ears turn pink.

But today, everything felt different. 

The air was surely charged, and every inch of his skin felt like a live wire. Yuma pulled on a clean, white singlet before sitting on the stool. It was a small concession to the newness of them—a thin layer of cotton to act as a buffer for the sheer intensity of finally being Jo’s—uhm, boyfriend.

Jo, for his part, had scrubbed his hands until the last of the charcoal dust was gone. His skin was clean, smelling of the woody soap that Yuma always loved, as he approached with the shears.

“Stay still,” Jo whispered.

He stood behind Yuma, his thighs brushing against the back of the stool. He did not use a comb at first; he just ran his clean fingers through the shaggy hair at the base of Yuma’s neck. Without the charcoal stains, his hands looked different—softer, more domestic. Yuma leaned his head back, closing his eyes. The snip-snip of the scissors was rhythmic, a peaceful counterpoint to the city noise outside.

“You’re actually doing a good job,” Yuma noted, his voice low. “I half-expected you to give me a bowl cut as revenge for the toothpaste, actually.”

“I’m an artist, Yuma. I have a reputation to uphold,” Jo teased. His hand lingered on Yuma’s jaw as he tilted his head to get the angle right. He leaned down, his breath warm against Yuma’s ear. “Besides, I like my boyfriend’s face too much to ruin the frame.”

Yuma’s heart did a slow, heavy roll in his chest. He reached up, catching Jo’s wrist. He did not pull him away; he just held him there, feeling the steady pulse in Jo’s thumb.

As Jo moved the shears around the side of Yuma’s head, his movements slowed. He noticed the way the white cotton of the singlet hugged Yuma’s shoulders, a stark contrast to the usual sight of Yuma padding around the room. Jo stopped cutting, resting the comb on Yuma’s shoulder. He leaned in, his chin hooking over Yuma’s collarbone so he could see Yuma’s reflection in the mirror.

“Yuu-kun,” Jo murmured, his voice dropping into that low, raspy register that always made Yuma’s stomach flip. “What’s with the sudden modesty, by the way?”

Yuma’s grip on the edge of the stool tightened. “What do you mean?”

“The singlet,” Jo said, his thumb ghosting over the strap on Yuma’s shoulder. “Since when do you care about layers in this room? You usually treat this studio like it’s your own personal locker room. I guess I’ve seen more of your ribs than I have my own canvases from the day we moved in together.”

Yuma’s face went a dusty, embarrassed pink. He looked at Jo’s reflection—clean-shaven, charcoal-free, and looking at him with a gaze that was far too perceptive.

“It’s different now,” Yuma muttered, his eyes darting away from the reflection. “I just can’t…walk around like that when I know you’re actually looking at me. My heart is already doing enough work today, Jo. If I don’t have at least a layer of cotton between us, I think I’ll actually be dead.”

Jo let out a soft—the kind that Yuma lived for. He set the scissors down on the small table and did not move back. Instead, he leaned down and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to the curve of Yuma’s bare shoulder, right next to the strap.

Yuma’s breath hitched. “Jo—”

“I was always looking at you, Yuma,” Jo whispered against his skin. He moved his lips an inch higher, kissing the column of Yuma’s neck, his clean hands coming up to rest on Yuma’s chest. “Even when I’m pretending to be obsessed with the perspective of a street corner, even when I was hiding behind that big, stupid pillow—I was always documenting the way the light hit you.”

Jo moved to the other shoulder, his kisses soft and reverent, tasting like the beginning of a new year. “I like the singlet as it makes me want to see what’s underneath it even more—but we can wait. We have all the time in the world now.”

Yuma turned on the stool, his knees slotting between Jo’s. He reached up, his fingers finally allowed to tangle in the dark hair at the back of Jo’s head.

“You’re dangerous,” Yuma breathed, pulling Jo down for a kiss that was much deeper and more certain than the one in the bathroom. “How am I supposed to practice my scales when you’re acting like this?”

“You aren’t,” Jo smiled against his lips. “You’re going to sleep. Your headache is still there, I can see it in your eyes—and I’m exhausted from chasing a drunk aspiring musician through a park at midnight.”

Yuma let out a genuine laugh at that, the sound bright and clear that the blacksmith in his head had finally packed up his tools. “Really? Sleeping now? It’s barely hit 1:00 PM.”

Jo did not look even remotely embarrassed. He just shrugged, his hands sliding from Yuma’s chest to settle comfortably on his waist. “Well, I don’t have any class tomorrow, so I can just finish my work later. I want to pay back my sleepless nights. How about you?”

Yuma looked at the messy mountain of MIDI cables on his desk, then back at the bed—the bed that no longer had a giant polyester wall in the middle of it. The prospect of finally closing his eyes without feeling like he was a thousand miles away from the person sitting right next to him was too tempting to pass up.

“Well,” Yuma murmured, a slow smile spreading across his face as he leaned into Jo’s space. “I happen not to have any class tomorrow as well.”

“Then it’s settled,” Jo said.

He did not wait for Yuma to lead the way. He took Yuma’s hand, his fingers interlacing with Yuma’s as he led him toward the bed. Yuma flopped onto the mattress first, his eyes already half-closed, but Jo did not lie down immediately. He stood by the edge for a second, watching Yuma, before Jo reached out and nudged Yuma’s hip.

“Turn around,” Jo murmured.

Yuma blinked, looking up at him, a bit confused. “Huh?”

“Face the wall, Yuma. Turn around,” Jo repeated, his voice quiet but certain.

Yuma did as he was told, rolling onto his side. He felt the bed dip heavily behind him as Jo climbed in. Jo did not hesitate; he slid in close, his chest pressing firmly against Yuma’s back. He was taller, and his body acted like a human weighted blanket, pinning Yuma into the safety of the mattress.

Jo’s arm wound around Yuma’s waist, his hand splaying flat over Yuma’s stomach, pulling him back until there was not a single inch of air left between them.

Yuma let out a long, shaky exhale, his body finally sagging into the contact. “Since when are you the big spoon, hm?”

“Since you decided to start spiraling,” Jo muttered into the back of Yuma’s neck. He nuzzled his face into the hair he had just trimmed, his breath warm and steady. “Just be still. You’ve been shaking with nerves for a year—just let go.”

Yuma did. He let his head fall back against Jo’s shoulder, his fingers reaching down to cover Jo’s hand on his stomach—it just felt right. For all his bravado out in the world, in this tiny room, he just wanted to be held by the one person who actually knew him.

“You’re warm,” Yuma whispered, his voice already trailing off as the exhaustion finally won.

“It’s the heater,” Jo lied softly, though he tightened his grip, pulling Yuma even closer. “Sleep, Yuu-kun.”

“Night, Jojo.”

“It’s 1:00 PM,” Jo reminded him, but he sounded like he was already half-gone, too.

The Shinjuku sun continued to crawl across the floorboards, but the two of them were already dead to the world. No more sketches drawn in secret, no more three-week distractions, and no more yellow sticky notes—just two boys, finally tangled together, paying back every hour of sleep they had lost to the fear of being alone. 

𐙚⋆.˚

The first month of being them was a blur of small, quiet victories. 

The twenty-meter cage did not feel like a cage anymore; it felt like a sanctuary—but eventually, they had to step back out into the world where people still saw them as just the roommates.

Yuma was the one who broke the routine first.

One Tuesday afternoon, driven by a restless sort of longing that his guitar could not satisfy, Yuma caught the train to Jo’s art academy. He did not tell Jo that he was coming. He just stood outside the tall glass doors of the studio building, his hands shoved deep into his coat pocket, watching the art students filter out the paint-stained bags and tired eyes.

When Jo finally appeared, he was walking with a group of classmates, nodding along to a conversation about color theory. He looked exactly as he did—composed, a bit distant, and devastatingly handsome. 

Yuma’s heart did that familiar, uneven skip. He raised a hand, a small, tentative wave.

Jo stopped mid-sentence. His eyes widened for a split second—the only crack in his calm—before he broke away from the group. He did not run, but his stride was long and purposeful as he reached Yuma.

“You’re early,” Jo murmured, his voice low enough that only Yuma could hear. “Or I’m late?”

“Neither,” Yuma grinned, feeling the rush of heat in his chest. “I just wanted to see you.”

Jo did not introduce Yuma to the group of curious students watching them from the steps. He did not offer a name or a label. Instead, he turned back to them and gave a polite, final nod. “I’m heading out first. See you guys tomorrow.”

Then, Jo did the one thing that made the air in the courtyard turn electric.

In full view of his classmates, he reached out and took Yuma’s hand. He did not just brush his fingers against Yuma’s; he interlaced them, his palm warm and firm against Yuma’s. It was a silent, undeniable claim—a signal that the guy in the coat belonged exactly where he was.

Yuma felt the weight of a dozen gazes on them, but for some reason, he did not feel the need to fill the silence with a joke. He just squeezed Jo’s hand back.

As they walked away from the art academy, the feeling of Jo’s fingers locked with his was still sending a hum through Yuma’s entire body—but as they reached the station, the image of those classmates—specifically a girl in a yellow coat who had been leaning just a little too close to Jo’s shoulder—flashed in Yuma’s mind.

“You’re being bold today,” Yuma teased as they stepped onto the crowded train, though his voice had a slight edge he could not quite sharpen out.

Jo did not let go of his hand, even as they moved to the corner of the carriage. He just leaned in, his shoulder pressing against Yuma’s. “I’m just tired of people thinking I’m available, Yuu-kun. I’ve been occupied for a long time. It’s about time they knew it.”

Yuma looked at his shoes, a small, sheepish grin tugging at his lips. “Occupied, huh?”

“Yeah,” Jo murmured, glancing at him. “Why? You look like you’re chewing on something sour.”

“Nothing. Just…” Yuma huffed, leaning his head back against the glass. “That girl—the one with the yellow coat. She was looking at you like you were the final piece of her graduation project. Does she always stand that close to you?”

Jo blinked, genuinely surprised, before a slow, knowing smirk spread across his face. “Are you serious? Himari? She was asking about the next class, Yuma.”

“She was asking about your soul, Jo. I know that look,” Yuma grumbled, finally looking up. “I spent years watching people give you that look while I had to stand ten feet away and pretend I was just the guy who lived next door. It’s different now. I don’t like it.”

Jo’s expression softened. He did not laugh; instead, he squeezed Yuma’s hand, his thumb tracing the knuckles. “Good—because I hated watching you laugh at every girl’s joke for three weeks straight just to see if you could forget about me. Let’s call it even.”

Two weeks later, the tables turned.

Jo’s figure drawing class finished an hour early, and instead of heading back to the studio to hide, he found himself on a train toward the conservatory. He felt a strange, restless pull—a need to see Yuma in his own element.

He found Yuma in the courtyard, surrounded by a group of musicians. Yuma was mid-laugh, gesturing wildly with a coffee cup in one hand while a girl with a cello case leaned in, giggling at whatever he was saying. Yuma looked bright, effortless, and magnetic.

Jo felt a sharp, cold prickle in his chest. It was one thing to know Yuma was popular; it was another to see the way people gravitated toward his light.

He did not wait by the gates—instead, he walked straight into the center of the courtyard. 

Yuma spotted him first. The laugh died on his lips, replaced by a look of pure, radiating shock that quickly melted into a grin. “Jo? What are you doing here?”

The group went quiet, their eyes darting between the messy, energetic guitarist and the tall, silent stranger who looked like he had stepped out of a high-end fashion sketch.

Jo did not say a word. He walked right up to Yuma, ignored the “Who is this?” looks from the cello girl, and reached out to adjust the collar of Yuma’s jacket. It was a domestic, intimate gesture that stopped the conversation dead.

“Class finished early,” Jo said, his voice cool but possessive. “Ready to go?”

Yuma’s eyes were dancing. He knew exactly what was happening. He turned to his friend, his hands instinctively finding Jo’s waist. “Guys, this is Jo—my…well, boyfriend, apparently.”

Jo did not blush. He just took Yuma’s hand and led him away, his stride steady.

“You were staring,” Yuma whispered as they hit the sidewalk, his voice full of mischief. “You had that ‘I’m going to paint over everyone in this courtyard’ look on your face.”

“She was touching your arm, Yuma,” Jo muttered, his grip tightening. 

“She was asking about a chord progression!”

“I don’t care,” Jo said, finally looking at him as they reached the station. “I’ve waited for fifteen years to be the one who takes you home. I’m not sharing the view.”

Yuma laughed, pulling Jo into a quick, stolen kiss against the station wall. “Fair enough, Jojo. Fair enough.”

𐙚⋆.˚

Back when they were just neighbors, their mothers did the shopping, and back when they were just roommates, they lived off convenience store bentos and the occasional spicy miso ramen. But now, with a shared life and a shared kitchen, Yuma had decided it was time for a proper home-cooked meal.

“No, put that back,” Yuma said, catching Jo’s hand as he reached for a third bag of frozen gyoza.

“It’s efficient,” Jo argued, his brow furrowing in that serious way he usually reserved for oil paints. “It takes three minutes. Your ginger pork takes forty.”

“My ginger pork doesn’t taste like plastic, Jo. We’re getting actual ginger,” Yuma countered, dropping a fresh root into the cart. He looked at Jo, who was staring at a head of cabbage like it was a complex geometry problem. “You really have no idea what to do with a vegetable that isn’t in a pre-washed bag, do you?”

Jo let out a defensive huff. “I’m an art student. I work with colors and textures. I don’t see why a carrot needs to be peeled to be edible.”

“Because you aren’t a rabbit,” Yuma laughed, pulling the cart toward the meat section.

“It’s about the aesthetic,” Jo muttered, trailing behind him. “The peel adds…character. It’s rustic.”

“It’s dirt, Jojo. It’s literally just dirt.” Yuma stopped in front of the pork belly, squinting at the labels. “And don’t even think about sneaking those chocolate-covered marshmallows into the cart while I’m checking the fat ratio.”

Jo’s hand, which had been inching toward the candy display, retreated instantly. “I wasn’t. I was…observing the packaging. The typography is interesting.”

“Sure it is,” Yuma teased, tossing a pack of meat into the cart. “Go get the soy sauce, the low-sodium one. If you get the regular kind, the pork will be too salty, and you’ll spend the whole night chugging water like a dehydrated camel.”

Jo rolled his eyes but headed toward the condiment aisle. When he returned, he was holding two bottles. “Which one? This one is blue, and that one is green. Why do they make it so complicated? It’s just fermented beans.”

“The green one, Jo. Read the label,” Yuma said, reaching out to take the bottle. As he did, his fingers brushed Jo’s. In the narrow aisles of the Shinjuku supermarket, they were constantly bumping into each other. It was not the panicked, sorry contact of last year. 

Now, Jo would rest a hand on the small of Yuma’s back as they navigated past other shoppers, or Yuma would lean into Jo’s side to point out a sale.

“Jo, look there. The expensive beans—the ones your mom sends? They’re half off.”

Jo leaned in close, his chin resting on Yuma’s shoulder as they inspected the bags. “Get two of the. I’m tired of you complaining about the cheap bitter stuff I bought when we run out.”

“I only complain because you make it like battery acid,” Yuma teased, turning his head. The tip of his nose brushed Jo’s cheek, the scent of Jo’s soap cutting through the smell of the produce section.

Being this close in public—surrounded by housewives and elderly couples—felt surreal. Jo did not seem to care. He reached out and snagged a stray hair that had fallen into Yuma’s eyes, his fingers lingering on Yuma’s forehead for a beat too long.

“Hey,” Jo whispered, his voice dropping into that private frequency. “Are we actually doing this—buying onions and debating coffee? We look like…a couple.”

Yuma felt that familiar, warm jolt in his chest. He hooked his thumb into the loop of Jo’s jeans, pulling him an inch closer. “We are a couple, Jojo. Catch up.”

“It’s weird,” Jo admitted, his gaze drifting to an elderly couple sharing a shopping list nearby. “I spent so long imagining what it would be like to just…be seen with you. I thought it would feel like an act, but it just feels like buying groceries.”

“That’s the secret,” Yuma said softly, leaning his weight against Jo’s side. “The big stuff is just a bunch of small, boring things like this added together. Now, pick up those onions—the ones in the mesh bag.”

Jo smirked, finally grabbing the coffee bags and the onions. “Fine, but if you make me chop these, I’m going to cry, and then you’ll have to deal with a depressed art student for the rest of the night. I’ll be very dramatic about it. I might even write a poem.”

“You can’t even write poetry to save your life,” Yuma laughed, nudging him toward the checkout. “You can wash the rice, even if you can’t mess that up. Three rinses, Jo. Not one, not five. Three.”

“I know how to wash rice, Yuu-kun. I’m not a child.”

“The last time you did it, the water was still white, and the rice tasted like starch,” Yuma reminded him, though as they headed to the checkout, he made a mental note to double-check the water levels anyway.

As they stood in line, Jo did not move away. He stayed right in Yuma’s space, his hand settling comfortably on the back of Yuma’s neck. They looked like everyone else in the store, and yet, to Yuma, it felt like the most extraordinary thing in the world.

𐙚⋆.˚

The walk back from the supermarket was a clumsy struggle of plastic bags and tangled fingers. Jo insisted on carrying the heaviest bag—the one with the rice and coffee bags—leaving Yuma with the produce and the secret bag of marshmallows Jo had definitely snuck in the last second.

As they rounded the corner toward their building, the fading evening light was replaced by the erratic buzz of Shinjuku’s neon. Tucked between a closed dry cleaner and a vending machine sat an old, slightly battered photobooth, its curtain fluttering in the winter wind.

Yuma stopped so abruptly that Jo nearly collided with his back.

“Jo,” Yuma said, his eyes fixed on the faded samples pasted to the side of the machine. “When was the last time we actually took a photo together?”

Jo shifted the weight of the grocery bag, his gaze following Yuma’s. “The festival in middle school? The one where you were wearing that terrible oversized t-shirt and I was trying to hide behind my hair?”

“That doesn’t count. We were standing three feet apart like we were afraid of catching disease,” Yuma muttered. He thought about the childhood photo tucked away in his desk—the one he had looked at until the edges frayed. “I think we need a new one, don’t you think?”

Jo looked at the cramped booth, then at the heavy bags. He looked exhausted, his hair a mess from the wind, but when he looked at Yuma, his expression softened into that devastatingly private smile.

“Fine, but if I look like a ghost in that lighting, I’m going to burn the prints.”

They squeezed into the booth, which was somehow even smaller than their bathroom. It was a chaotic mess of limbs and rustling plastic bags. Yuma ended up perched on the small swivel stool with Jo standing behind him, his chest pressed against Yuma’s back, his arms reaching around to hold the curtain shut.

“I can’t breathe,” Jo complained, though he was leaning his cheek against the top of Yuma’s head. “Move the onions, they’re hitting my shin.”

“Stop complaining and look at the lens!” Yuma laughed, fumbling with the touchscreen. “Okay, three…two…one…”

The first flash caught them off guard—Yuma was mid-laugh, and Jo was looking down at him with a look of pure, unguarded adoration that he had not realized was on his face.

The second flash caught them trying to be cool. They both put on their best brooding expressions, but Yuma’s hand was hooked into Jo’s collar, pulling him down just a little too close.

For the third one, the timer caught them in a blur. Jo had leaned in at the last second, his nose brushing against Yuma’s temple, whispering something that made Yuma’s face go a bright red—and by the fourth flash, they were not looking at the camera at all. They just looked at each other, their foreheads pressed together in the cramped, purple-lit space.

The machine whirred, eventually spitting out a warm, glossy strip. Yuma snatched it up, shielding it from the wind.

Once they were back in the studio, the groceries were shoved onto the counter, but neither of them started cooking.

Yuma headed straight to the large corkboard hung above the desk—the one that used to hold only train schedules, music theory charts, and Jo’s sketches. He cleared a space right in the center, pinning the new photo strip there.

“Not on the fridge?” Jo asked, leaning against the desk, watching him.

“No,” Yuma said, stepping back to admire it. “The fridge is only for chores. I want it to be the first thing I see when I’m stuck on a song, and the first thing you see when you’re doubting a painting.”

Jo looked at the photo strip—the one where he was whispering into Yuma’s ear, the one where they looked undeniably, irrevocably occupied. He reached out, his fingers ghosting over the glossy paper.

“It looks better than the one from middle school,” Jo admitted.

“Way better,” Yuma agreed, turning into Jo’s space. He hooked his fingers into the belt loops of Jo’s jeans, pulling him close. “No more three-foot gaps.”

“No more gaps,” Jo promised, leaning down to seal the moment with a kiss that felt as permanent as the photo on the wall.

𐙚⋆.˚

The final weekend of their first month was dedicated to a purge. The twenty-meter studio had reached its breaking point; between Yuma’s growing collection of guitar pedals and Jo’s massive canvases, they were essentially living in a high-end storage unit.

“If I trip over this amplifier one more time, I’m going to paint it neon pink so I can see it in the dark,” Jo grumbled, shoving a stack of old art history magazines into a recycling bin.

“Hey, watch it! That’s a vintage gear,” Yuma called back from the closet, where he was wrestling with a mountain of tangled cable. “And anyway, look at this shelf! It’s eighty percent turpentine bottles and dried brushes, Jo. We’re living in a fire hazard.”

As they worked, the room began to breathe. The clutter of their separate lives was being thinned out to make room for their shared one. It was halfway through the afternoon when Jo reached for the highest shelf—the one tucked behind the heavy textbooks that had not moved since September.

He pulled down the black, cloth-bound sketchbook. The one he had nearly snapped shut on Yuma’s fingers months ago.

Jo stared at the cover for a long time, his thumb tracing the edge. Then, with a quiet, decisive exhale, he set it down on the desk, right next to Yuma’s songbook. He did not say a word, as he just turned back to the shelf to continue cleaning, his back stiff but his message clear: The wall is down. You can look.

Yuma waited until Jo was busy in the kitchenette, scrubbing out the old paint jars, before he let himself approach the desk. His heart was doing that frantic, uneven thumping again.

He opened the cover.

He expected a few hand studies—maybe a profile or two, but as he flipped through the pages, the breath left his lungs. It was not just a sketchbook; it was a chronicle. There was a drawing of Yuma sleeping, his face half-buried in a pillow, a drawing of Yuma focused on a guitar string, the tip of his tongue poking out in concentration. There was a sketch of Yuma’s back as he stood by the balcony, the Shinjuku lights rendered in soft, smudged charcoal.

Page after page, it was all him. Jo had captured the way Yuma’s hair fell when he was tired, the specific curve of his jaw when he laughed, and even the way he held his coffee mug with both hands. 

“You’re a stalker, Jojo,” Yuma whispered, though his voice was thick with emotion.

He did not hear Jo come back into the room until he felt a presence right behind him. Jo did not pull the book away this time—instead, he stepped into Yuma’s space, his chest pressing against Yuma’s back, and wrapped his arms around Yuma’s waist in a heavy, grounding hug. He tucked his chin onto Yuma’s shoulder, looking at the drawings with him.

“I told you,” Jo murmured, his voice raspy and warm against Yuma’s ear. “I’ve been documenting you for a lifetime. I didn’t need a photobooth back then—I had you right in front of me.”

Yuma leaned back into the hug, resting his head against Jo’s. The weight of Jo’s arms felt like the only thing keeping him from floating away. “You kept all of these? Even when we were barely speaking—even when I was bringing girls around?”

“Especially then,” Jo admitted, his grip tightening just a fraction. “It was the only way that I could keep you in the room without screaming. Every time you left, I just—put you back on the paper.”

Yuma turned in the circle of Jo’s arms, the sketchbook still open to a particularly tender drawing of Yuma from their middle school days—back when they were just neighbours who could not stop looking at each other.

“I feel like I’ve been caught,” Yuma breathed, cupping Jo’s face. “I spent all that time thinking that I was the only one who was obsessed.”

“We were both idiots,” Jo whispered, leaning down to press his forehead against Yuma’s/ “But at least now, the evidence is out in the open.”

Yuma pulled him into a slow, devastatingly honest kiss. The studio was still small, the floor was covered in dust, and the laundry was still piled on the chair, but as Yuma felt the solid weight of Jo holding him, he realized the purge was finally complete. They had gotten rid of the clutter, but they were keeping every single memory.

“Don’t throw it out,” Yuma said against his lips.

“Never,” Jo said. “It’s the first volume. I’m going to need a lot of paper for the next fifteen years.”

𐙚⋆.˚

February 7th was supposed to be the Grand Redemption for Asakura Jo.

He had it all mapped out in a leather-bound planner hidden under a stack of art history texts: a reservation at that quiet jazz club that Yuma always talked about, a specific vintage guitar pedal he had spent weeks tracking down, and the cake from the patisserie near the conservatory—the one Yuma always stared at but never actually bought.

But the universe had other plans.

After spending a week of nursing Yuma through a nasty cold winter—sharing soup, pillows, and far too many germs—the bug finally decided to jump ship.

On the morning of the 7th, Yuma woke up feeling incredible. His lungs were clear, his head was light, and he was ready to demand an entire day of birthday affection. He rolled over, expecting to see Jo’s usual morning face, but Jo was buried under three layers of duvets, shivering so hard that the bed frame was practically rattling.

 “Jo?” Yuma whispered, reaching out to touch his forehead. He flinched away instantly. “Whoa..! Jojo, you’re on fire. You’re like a human radiator.”

Jo let out a pathetic, muffled groan from under the blankets. He did not even open his eyes. “I’m fine, go get dressed. We have…we have to be there before the show starts.”

“The only place you’re going is back to sleep,” Yuma countered, his birthday excitement pivoting immediately into a stubborn kind of protectiveness. He sat on the edge of the mattress, the white singlet Jo liked so much bunching up as he leaned over. “You caught it from me, didn’t you?” All those healing kisses you insisted on giving me while I was contagious?”

Jo finally cracked one eye open, looking utterly betrayed by his own immune system. “It was worth it, actually—but my head feels like it’s being squeezed in a vice.”

“I bet,” Yuma murmured, his voice softening. He leaned down and pressed a light, careful peck to Jo’s hot temple. “Plans are cancelled. We’re doing the sick-day routine today, and I’m the one in charge this time.”

The day turned into a slow, quiet rhythm. Yuma spent his twenty birthday in his oldest sweatpants, bustling around the tiny kitchenette. He did not have Jo’s artistic precision, but he made up for it with sheer, frantic devotion. He made a massive pot of porridge—the only thing he knew Jo could actually swallow—and spent twenty minutes debating which honey was the good one Jo always used.

However, Jo was many things—an artist, a thinker, a quiet observer—but as it turned out, a fever made him incredibly persistent.

“Yuma,” he croaked for the tenth time that afternoon, his voice sounding like it had been dragged through sandpaper. “The closet—left side. Behind the large canvas with the blue primer.”

Yuma did not even look up from the orange he was peeling. “Jo, I’m not moving. The gift isn’t going to sprout legs and walk back to the store. I’ll open it when you can actually keep your eyes open for more than five minutes.”

“I can keep them open,” Jo insisted, though his eyelids were visibly heavy, fluttering as he fought the urge to drift off again. He reached out, his hot hand fumbling for Yuma’s sleeve. “Go get it, please? I spent…weeks finding that specific model. I want to see you look at it.”

Yuma sighed, setting the orange slices down. He looked at Jo—the way his dark hair was matted against his forehead, the way his cheeks were flushed a deep, unhealthy rose. He looked like a disaster, but his stubbornness was fully intact.

“You’re a nightmare, you know that?” Yuma muttered, though he leaned over to press a quick, cooling kiss to Jo’s nose.

He stood up and walked the three steps it took to reach the closet. It was a tight squeeze; the space was packed with Jo’s art supplies and Yuma’s gear. He reached behind the primed canvas Jo had mentioned and felt his fingers brush against a small, heavy box wrapped in plain brown paper.

When Yuma sat back down on the bed, Jo was watching him with a hazy, expectant intensity. Yuma tore the paper carefully, and inside was a vintage, silver-cased fuzz pedal—the exact one Yuma had mentioned in passing back in December, when he was talking on the phone with a friend about it, thinking Jo had not even been listening. It was rare, expensive, and looked like it had been through a decade of world tours.

“Jo…” Yuma whispered, his thumb tracing over the worn metal. “How did you even find this? These haven’t been in production since before we were born.”

Jo let out a weak, satisfied breath, leaning his head back against the pillow. “It doesn’t matter. Just…play me something with it—when I can hear properly.”

“Sit up a bit, Jojo. Come on, just a little.” Yuma urged, holding out a spoonful of porridge instead. “The gift isn’t going anywhere. Right now, your only job is stop being a furnace.”

A sudden, sharp buzz at the door made Jo flinch, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Who’s that? I didn’t…I didn’t order anything else.”

Yuma stood up, walking to the intercom. “It’s a delivery. Wait for a moment.”

He returned a moment later carrying a small, elegant box tied with a gold ribbon. The logo on the side made Jo’s eyes widen slightly before he slumped back, defeated.

“The patisserie,” Jo whispered, his voice cracking. “I forgot I scheduled a delivery. I was supposed to pick it up, but when I couldn’t get out of bed, I called them…I think.”

Yuma opened the box, revealing the intricate strawberry shortcake he had admired through the shop window a dozen times. “You’re unbelievable. You’re literally shivering, and you’re still worrying about the cake?”

“It’s your birthday,” Jo muttered, reaching out to weakly poke at the ribbon. “You always stare at it. I didn’t want the day just to be…porridge.”

Yuma felt a lump form in his throat. He cut a small piece, the cream light and perfect, and brought it over the bed. He did not eat it by himself first; he held it out to Jo. “Half and half—since you went through the trouble of being a genius even while delirious.”

Jo ook a tiny, hesitant bite, the sweetness finally bringing a ghost of a smile to his face. “Happy birthday, Yuu-kun.”

By evening, the fever had dipped just enough for Jo to stay awake without any shakes. Yuma dragged his acoustic guitar over the bed, sitting cross-legged on the floor by Jo’s side. He did not play anything loud or fast; he just plucked at the strings, playing a soft, resonant melody they had been working on in the studio.

“Happy Birthday, Yuma,” Jo whispered, reaching out a shaky hand to mess up Yuma’s hair.

Yuma caught his hand, kissing his palm before resting his cheek against it. “It’s the best one yet, Jo—just us, even if you do smell like menthol rub and misery.”

Jo let out a tiny, congested laugh. “I’m sorry I ruined the day.”

“You didn’t ruin anything,” Yuma said, standing up and climbing into the bed. He moved carefully, slotting himself behind Jo and wrapping his arms around his shivering frame. He pulled the duvet up to their chins, anchoring Jo against his chest.

Yuma felt a familiar, tight ache in his chest—the one that had nothing to do with the winter cold and everything to do with the guy in front of him.

“I love it,” Yuma said, his voice a little thicker than he intended, glancing at the pedal on the nightstand and the half-eaten cake on the table. “But stop talking. You’re losing your voice, and it’s making me feel guilty for existing.”

“Don’t feel guilty,” Jo murmured, his eyes finally closing as the relief of the gift being delivered finally let him sink into the mattress. “Just…don’t catch it again. I don’t want to spend Valentine’s Day in a mask.”

“Deal,” Yuma laughed softly, tangling his fingers in Jo’s hair. “Sleep, Jojo. Happy birthday to me.”

𐙚⋆.˚

The week leading up to February 14th was a masterclass in deception.

Every afternoon, Yuma would pack his guitar bag with suspicious haste, mumbling something about extra composition labs or extended rehearsal time before bolting out the door. He was not going to the conservatory, though. Instead, he was catching a cross-town bus to a basement cooking academy, where he spent three hours in night covered in tempered cocoa and frustration.

Yuma had decided that store-bought chocolate was not enough. Not after Jo had tracked down a vintage fuzz pedal while dying of a fever. He wanted to make something from scratch—something that did not taste like the plastic gyoza he always teased Jo about. But making chocolate was a nightmare—it was science, not music.

“Again,” the instructor would say, pointing at Yuma’s ruined ganache.

“I’m a musician,” Yuma would mutter, wiping a smudge of dark chocolate off his forehead. “I can tune a guitar by ear, why can’t I get this cream to emulsify?”

As if the chocolate was not enough. Yuma spent his dinner breaks sprinting through the neon-lit streets of Shinjuku. He was not just looking for flowers; he was looking for the flowers. Jo is an artist; he sees colors differently. A standard red rose would feel like a cliche, a lazy afterthought. Yuma hit three different florists in the station area, then trekked to a boutique shop near the park, looking for something that matched the deep, moody blues and charcoals of Jo’s palette.

By the time he had dragged himself back to the studio around 10:00 PM, his back was aching, his feet were sore from the pavement, and he smelled faintly of vanilla and burnt sugar.

“You’re late. Again.”

Jo was sitting at his desk, the blue light of the laptop casting sharp shadows across his face. He did not look up from his digital sketches, but the stiffness in his shoulders told Yuma everything. The studio, which had felt so warm lately, was vibrating with a familiar, unsettled frequency.

“Sorry, Jo,” Yuma said, dropping his bag by the door and trying to keep his hands hidden in his pockets. His cuticles were stained a stubborn, chocolatey brown. “The ensemble piece…it’s just not clicking. We had to go over the bridge like fifty times.”

Jo finally looked up. His dark eyes were narrow, searching for Yuma’s face. He did not say that he had called the conservatory’s practice rooms an hour ago and been told they were all empty. He did not say that he had been sitting by the window, watching the streetlights, wondering where the guy who usually could not stop talking had disappeared to.

“You smell like a bakery,” Jo said flatly.

Yuma froze, his heart hammering against his ribs. “Oh. Uh, Tsumagi—the cellist? Her mom sent her a box of those…fancy donuts. We were eating them during the break.” 

Jo stared at him for a long, suffocating beat. The silence was heavy, but there was a new edge to it now—a jealous heat. “Right,” Jo murmured, turning back to his screen. “Donuts.”

“Jo, come on,” Yuma said, walking over and trying to lean his chin on Jo’s shoulder. “I’m just tired; it’s been a long week.”

Jo shifted, not pulling away entirely, but not leaning in either. “If you’re bored, Yuma, you can just say so. You don’t have to invent extra rehearsals.”

“I’m not bored! I’m literally the opposite of bored,” Yuma insisted, his voice cracking. He wanted to show him the half-melted heart-shaped molds in his bag. He wanted to tell him about the deep indigo anemones he had finally reserved at the florist—but he bit his tongue. “Just…trust me? For three more days?”

Jo let out a slow, sharp exhale. He reached up, his fingers catching the back of Yuma’s neck, pulling him down until their foreheads touched. He looked at Yuma with a raw, terrifying honesty.

“I trust you,” Jo whispered. “But the room is too quiet when you aren’t in it. Just…don’t be late tomorrow, okay?”

What Yuma did not know was that Jo was struggling with his own brand of secrecy. Every time Yuma bolted out the door, Jo would wait exactly ten minutes before pulling a hidden canvas from behind his wardrobe.

It was not a sketch this time. It was a proper oil painting—the first one he had dared to start of Yuma since they had become official. He was trying to capture the way the morning light hit the white singlet Yuma wore, the way his skin looked like it was glowing, but every time he picked up the brush, his mind would wander to Yuma’s rehearsals.

Jo was not stupid. He knew the conservatory schedule. He knew that Yuma was not at the lab—but seeing Yuma come home with chocolate-stained fingers and smelling of sugar made a cold, sharp knot tighten in his stomach. Is he looking for a way out? The darker part of his mind whispered. 

Is he finally getting tired of this tiny room?

He would shake the thought away and go back to the painting, blending the colors of Yuma’s eyes with a hand that shook a little. He was planning a dinner at home—nothing fancy, just the things Yuma liked. He had even gone out of his way to find that specific, ridiculously expensive sparkling cider that Yuma pointed out in a magazine once, figuring it was safer (and sweeter) than the wine he did not know how to pick.

They were both walking on eggshells, hiding the best parts of themselves in an effort to surprise the other, unaware that secrecy was the only thing casting a shadow over the room.

𐙚⋆.˚

It was nearly eleven when the key finally turned in the lock. 

Yuma stepped inside, his shoulders slumped and his hair a wind-blown disaster. He looked like he had been through a war, his eyes bloodshot from staring at boiling sugar and cooling marble. He reached for the light switch, his fingers brushing the plastic, but stopped when he realized the room was not empty.

Jo was not at his desk. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his hands clasped so tightly between his knees that his knuckles were white. He was staring at a spot on the floor, his face illuminated only by the rhythmic, sickly orange pulse of the Shinjuku streetlights through the blinds.

“Hey,” Yuma said, his voice a cautious thread in the dark. “You’re still up? I thought you’d be asleep by now.”

“Where were you, Yuma?”

The tone was not an angry one. It was flat—empty. It was the exact voice Jo had used during those years when they were just neighbours and roommates—the voice that meant the door was locked, and the shutters were down. It made the hair on Yuma’s arms stand up.

“I told you, Jo. Rehearsal ran over. The woodwind section was having a nightmare with the tempo, and the conductor—”

“Stop.” Jo stood up, and for the first time, the light hit his face. His eyes were red-rimmed, his expression a mask of cold, sharp hurt. “Just stop lying to me.”

Yuma flinched. “I’m not lying, I just—”

“I walked by the conservatory tonight,” Jo interrupted, his voice finally cracking. “The gates were locked at nine. The windows were dark. I stood outside in the cold for thirty minutes, Yuma. I just wanted to surprise you—I just wanted to walk you home.”

The lie died in Yuma’s throat, turning into a heavy, bitter lump. He looked down at his hands—the cuticles stained dark, his skin smelling like a confectionery. He could not say it—not yet. He was so close to finishing, so close to being impressive.

“I…we moved to a different space,” Yuma stammered, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. “A private studio near the studio. It’s better for the acoustics.”

“Is that where you get the vanilla scent from?” Jo stepped into Yuma’s personal space, the scent of sugar on Yuma’s jacket hitting him like an insult. “Is that why you’ve been coming home for a week, smelling like a goddamn candy shot? Because you’re rehearsing with someone else?”

Yuma’s eyes widened, the accusation hitting him like a physical slap. “Someone else? Jo, are you serious? You actually think I’m…cheating on you?”

“What else am I supposed to think?” Jo snapped, his voice rising, filling the tiny twenty-meter cage until the walls felt like they were vibrating. “You can’t even look me in the eye. You bolt out of here every day like the walls are on fire. You’re acting exactly like you used to—looking for any distraction, any new face, just so you don’t have to deal with this. With us.”

“That was different! That was years ago!” Yuma yelled back, his own exhaustion finally boiling over. “I’m working my ass off for you, Jo! You have no idea what I’m putting myself through!”

“Then tell me! Why is it a secret? Why do you have to go somewhere that I can’t find you?”

“I can’t! It’s for the 14th, Jo! Just give me a break!”

“A break?” Jo whispered, the word dipping with bitterness. He turned his back, his hands shaking so hard that he had to grip the edge of the desk to stay upright. “Is that what you need? A break from me?”

“That’s not what I meant—”

“Then, get out,” Jo said, the words barely audible but sharper than ablade. “If you’re so bored with this—of me—that you have to invent a whole second life just to get through the week, then just go. I’d rather be alone in this room than sit here wondering when the Three-Week King is going to decide that I’m not worth the effort anymore.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Yuma stood by the door, his throat so tight that he could not swallow. He looked at Jo’s shaking shoulders, then at his own stained fingers—the evidence of a love that Jo could not even see yet. 

He wanted to scream. 

He wanted to rip the chocolate molds out of his bag and throw them at the wall, just to prove that he was not a liar.

But the Three-Week King comment—that was the one that drew blood.

“Fine,” Yuma breathed, his voice trembling with a mix of fury and pure, unadulterated hurt. “If that’s really what you think of me after these years…if you think I’m that shallow, then fine. I’ll see you on the 14th, Jo—maybe by then you’ll remember who the hell I actually am.”

He grabbed his jacket from the hook, the fabric rustling loudly in the quiet. He did not look back—instead, he slammed the door so hard that the photo strip on the wall board fluttered to the floor.

Outside, the Shinjuku wind was biting, but Yuma did not feel it. He just stood on the sidewalk, his eyes stinging, smelling like vanilla, and feeling like a stranger in his own life. Inside, Jo sat back down in the dark, surrounded by the scent of sugar and terrifying, hollow realization that he might have just burned down the only home he ever had.

𐙚⋆.˚

Yuma did not have many places to go at eleven o’clock on a cold Thursday night. 

He ended up sitting on his guitar case just outside the Shinjuku station entrance, the neon lights of the city blurring into a hazy, multicolored mess through the sting in his eyes. He sat there for a long time, staring at the dark chocolate stains under his fingernails and the way his hands were shaking.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

[11:05 PM] Juju: hey, are you still at the cooking academy?

[11:06 PM] Juju: nicholas is losing his mind because he can’t find his favourite pick. He thinks he left it in your locker.

[11:06 PM] Juju: wait…he found the pick, but he found your tuner too.

[11:07 PM] Juju: also, why does the entire locker hallway smell like a chocolate factory???

[11:08 PM] Juju: yuma? you okay?

[11:10 PM] Juju: nicholas says if you don’t answer, he’s going to start eating the hershey bar he thinks you’re hiding in there.

Yuma let out a shaky, jagged breath and hit the call button. He did not even wait for a hello. “Can I come over?”

Ten minutes later, he was trudging up the stairs to their apartment. Euijoo and Nicholas were international students at the conservatory—Euijoo had come from Seoul with a violin case and a level of patience that bordered on saintly, while Nicholas had moved from Taipei, bringing with him a sharp tongue and a bass guitar that he played like he was trying to start a riot.

Their place was the polar opposite of the suffocating, quiet tension of their shared studio. It was messy, loud, and smelled like the spicy fried chickens that Nicholas had probably ordered as soon as they got home from labs.

“Whoa,” Nicholas said, sitting up from the sofa where he had been sprawled with his feet on Euijoo’s lap. He squinted at Yuma as he walked in, looking like a ghost. “You look like you got hit by a bus. A chocolate-covered, emotional bus.”

“Jo kicked me out,” Yuma said, his voice cracking as he dropped his bag and collapsed into the beanbag chair.

Euijoo froze, his hand mid-air as he was about to push Nicholas’s feet off his lap. “What? Kicked you out? I thought you guys were in that honeymoon phase where you don’t even breathe unless the other person is watching?”

“He thinks I’m cheating on him,” Yuma muttered, burying his face in his hands. The scent of vanilla on his sleeves felt like a mockery now. “Because I’ve been coming home late and acting like a sketch artist, and I wouldn’t tell him why. He called me the Three-Week King, Juju. He thinks I’m already bored.”

Nicholas let out a sharp, barking laugh, though his eyes softened. “Man, you two are absolute idiots. You’re literally breaking your back in a basement tempering truffles for the guy, and he thinks you’re out hitting on someone else? That’s some Shakespearean-level stupidity.”

“It’s not funny, Nico,” Euijoo scolded, swatting Nicholas’s leg before leaning toward Yuma. “Yuma, why didn’t you just tell him? Surprises are great for birthdays, but for a first Valentine’s after years of pining? You shouldn’t have gone ghost.”

“Because he does everything perfectly!” Yuma yelled, his frustration finally spilling over in the safe space of his friends. “He tracks down the vintage pedals when he’s literally dying of a fever! He paints me like I’m some kind of masterpiece! I just wanted to give him something that wasn’t…a guitar pick or a convenience store bento. I wanted to be the one who did something impressive for one. I wanted to show him that I could be that guy too.”

Nicholas leaned back, glancing at Euijoo with a knowing look. “See? This is why we don’t do impressive secrets. If I’m going to do something big, I usually just tell Juju to expect something expensive, and then I fail at cooking it anyway. Remember the pasta?”

“He tried to make carbonara for our anniversary and melted the plastic colander into the sink,” Euijoo added, offering Yuma a sympathetic smile. “We ended up eating instant ramyeon on the floor, but it was the best night we’ve had.”

“The point is,” Nicholas said, his voice dropping the teasing edge and looking Yuma dead in the eye. “Jo doesn’t want impressive, Yuma. He spent years wanting you. If you’re acting like a stranger to keep a secret, he’s going to feel like he’s losing the only thing he actually cares about. He’s an artist, man—he lives in his own head. If you leave a gap in the story, he’s going to fill it with his worst fears.”

Yuma slumped further into the beanbag, the reality of it hitting him like a physical weight. The Three-Week King was not an insult; it was Jo’s shield. He was terrified. “I messed up, didn’t I? I made him feel like he was an option again.”

“Big time,” Euijoo said softly. He got up and disappeared into the kitchen, returning with a damp cloth. “But it’s the 12th, you have time to fix it. Stay here tonight. Wash the chocolate off your hands, sleep on the couch, and tomorrow…don’t go to the academy. Go home.”

“I have to finish the shells,” Yuma whispered, looking at his hands. “If I don’t finish the shells, the ganache will leak, and the whole thing will be a mess.”

Nicholas groaned, grabbing a sofa cushion and chucking it at Yuma’s head. “Forget the damn shells! Go tell your boyfriend, you’re a dork who likes cocoa beans and flowers too much. Trust me, Yuma, the mess it he gift. Go home.”

𐙚⋆.˚

The silence that followed the slamming of the door was louder than any shout. 

Jo stood in the middle of the dark studio, his chest heaving and his hands fisted at his sides. The bitter words he had spat out felt like they were still physically hanging in the air, thick and suffocating.

Three-Week King.

He had said it to draw blood. He had said it to build a wall before Yuma could be the one to leave, but as he stood there in the orange pulse of the Shinjuku streetlights, Jo realized the only person trapped behind that wall was himself. He stared at the door, half-expecting Yuma to burst back in, drop his bag, and yell that he had forgotten his keys.

But the hallway remained silent. The only sound was the low, mournful whistle of the wind rattling the windowpane.

“Yuma?” Jo whispered.

The name felt too small for the empty room. Panic, cold and sharp, began to replace the adrenaline. Jo lunged for his phone on the desk, his fingers trembling so hard that he almost sent it skittering across the floor. He dialed Yuma’s number.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

“This is Yuma! I’m probably practicing or sleeping, so leave a—”

Jo hung up before the beep. He waited exactly thirty seconds, heart hammering against his ribs, and tried again. Voicemail. He tried five more times, the bright, recorded cheeriness of Yuma’s voice feeling like a physical weight on his lungs.

“I’m an idiot,” Jo breathed, grabbing his coat and racing out the door without even putting on his socks.

He spent the next three hours scouring the neighbourhood like a madman. He checked every 24-hour convenience store, every park bench they had ever shared a coffee on, and even the dark, locked gates of the conservatory. He walked until his legs ached and his breath came in white plumes, scanning every shadow for a shock of familiar hair.

He called again at 1:00 AM. Still nothing.

By the morning of the 13th, Jo was a ghost of himself. He had returned to the studio at dawn, but the space felt wrong. It was too big—too quiet. He sat at his desk, staring at a blank palette, but the thought of picking up a brush made him feel sick. He could not even look at the painting of Yuma that was almost finished; it was turned toward the wall, a silent reproach.

Every time his phone buzzed with a random news notification or a spam email, he lunged for it, his heart jumping into his throat, only to find the screen empty of the one name he needed.

He went back out in the afternoon, his eyes scanning the crowds at Shinjuku Station for a matching denim jacket. He felt like he was twelve years old again, searching the playground for a boy who had already moved on.

[4:00 PM] Jo: Please just answer.

[4:02 PM] Jo: I didn’t mean it. I was just scared.

[4:05 PM] Jo: Yuu-kun, please. At least please tell me you’re safe.

Across town, Yuma was not answering because his phone was a dead brick on Euijoo’s coffee table. He had not bothered to look for a charger—he could not.

He was hunched over a marble slab in the kitchen, his eyes bloodshot and a smudge of cocoa powder smeared across his cheek. Nicholas and Euijoo were hovering in the doorway, watching him with a mix of awe and genuine concern.

“You look like you’re performing an open-heart surgery,” Nicholas remarked, leaning against the doorframe and taking a bite of a piece of fried chicken. “But, like, with more stress and less hygiene.”

“It is a heart surgery,” Yuma muttered, his voice raspy. He was focused on the shine of the dark chocolate, the way it curled under his spatula. “If this doesn’t set right, I’m going back to that studio with nothing but a sincere apology and a box of melted sludge. I can’t go back empty-handed, not after what he said.”

“He’s been at it for six hours,” Euijoo whispered to Nicholas. “He made me go to three different stores because the first two didn’t have the organic vanilla. He said the store brand smelled like a lie.”

Yuma ignored them. Every time his mind drifted to the look on Jo’s face when the door slammed—the absolute betrayal in his eyes—his hands would start to shake. He had to force himself to breathe, to count the seconds as the chocolate cooled.

I’m only yours, he kept repeating in his head like a mantra. I’m only yours.

By 10:00 PM on the 13th, the truffles were finally set. They were not perfect—one was a little lopsided, and the cocoa dusting was a bit thick—but they were finished. They were real.

“Go home, Yuma,” Euijoo said, handing him a portable charger and a spare jacket. “Before Jo tries to report a missing person to the police station.”

“He probably hates me,” Yuma said, staring at the small, elegant box as if it held the secrets to the universe. “I stayed away too long.”

“He doesn’t hate you, man,” Nicholas said, giving Yuma a rough, grounding pat on the back.

“He’s probably sitting by the door like a lost puppy who thinks he’s been abandoned. Go be the idiot that he fell in love with.”

𐙚⋆.˚

The studio was dead silent when Yuma finally slid his key into the lock. It was 2:00 AM on the 14th—Valentine’s Day.

He moved like a shadow, holding his breath as the door clicked shut. The room was freezing; the heater had not been touched. By the weak, silver glow of the streetlights, Yuma saw him—Jo was not in the bed. He had fallen asleep sitting up at his desk, his forehead resting on his crossed arms, surrounded by the ghosts of his own anxiety. Beside him lay a discarded palette and the unfinished canvas, still turned toward the wall.

Yuma’s heart cracked right in the middle. He looked at the box in his hands—the result of his exile, his apology, his heart.

He did not wake Jo yet. He moved with agonizing slowness, setting the box on the desk right next to Jo’s hand. Beside it, he laid the bouquet of deep indigo anemones, their petalssoft and dark in the moonlight. Finally, Yuma sat on the floor by Jo’s chair, leaning his head against the wood. He was exhausted, he was covered in chocolate, and he was finally home.

He closed his eyes and waited for him to finally wake up.

It took nearly twenty minutes for Jo to stir. He let out a soft, pained exhale in his sleep, his head lifting slowly as if the air itself was too heavy to move through. He looked dazed, his dark hair was a tangled mess across his forehead, and his eyes were blurry, bloodshot, and heavily rimmed with red.

When he realized there was a silhouette sitting on the floor at his feet, he flinched, his entire body jerking back as his breath hitched sharply in his throat.

“Yuma?”

Jo’s voice was a ghost of itself—thin, raw, and terrified. He did not move an inch, his hands hovering over the desk as if he were afraid any sudden gesture would shatter the image and leave him alone in the dark again. “Are you…am I still dreaming? I keep dreaming that you came back, but the room is always empty when I wake up. I wake up, and it’s so cold, Yuma.”

“I’m real, Jo,” Yuma whispered, his own voice thick with unshed tears. He reached up, his fingers trembling as he took Jo’s hand. It was ice cold, like he had been sitting in the freeze for hours without noticing. “I’m right here. I’m so sorry—I’m the world’s biggest idiot for staying away. I just…wanted to finish it. I wanted to come back with something to show you.”

Jo did not pull away. Instead, he gripped Yuma’s hand like a lifeline, his fingers digging into Yuma’s palm so hard it stung. His gaze drifted slowly, frantically, toward the desk. He saw the dark indigo anemones first, and then his eyes landed on the small, elegant box.

With trembling fingers, Jo flipped the lid. Inside were twelve lopsided, hand-tempered dark chocolate truffles. Some were slightly cracked, one was definitely more of an oval than a circle, and the cocoa dusting was uneven, but they were unmistakably, painfully handmade.

Jo’s eyes skipped to the lid. In Yuma’s messy silver handwriting, the ink catching the faint light: I’m only yours.

Jo stared at the words for a long time, his chest starting to heave in a rhythmic, broken way. Then, a sharp, breathless sound escaped him—a laugh that dissolved immediately into a sob. He lurched out of the chair, practically falling onto the floor to get to Yuma. He crashed into him, his arms winding around Yuma’s neck so tight that it was hard to breathe.

“I thought you were done,” Jo choked out, burying his face in the crook of Yuma’s neck. His hot tears soaked instantly into the collar of Yuma’s jacket. “I sat here all night…the silence was too loud. I thought I’d finally pushed you too far. I smelled the sugar on you that night, and I convinced myself that you were celebrating being free of me—that you were already out there with someone else who isn’t…as heavy as I am.”

“How could I ever be free of you?” Yuma cried, his own tears hitting Jo’s sweater as he held on just as tight, his fingers digging into the wool of Jo’s back. “I spent a week in the basement burning my fingers because I wanted to make you something that wasn’t just a guitar pick or some cheap bento. I wanted to be impressive, Jo. I wanted to be good for you as you are for me. I wanted to prove that I wasn’t just some guy passing through.”

Jo pulled back just enough to look at him, his hands cupping Yuma’s face. He looked at the chocolate stains still under Yuma’s nails, the small red burn on his thumb, and the sheer, bone-deep exhaustion behind his eyes.

“You don’t have to be impressive,” Jo whispered, his thumb catching a stray tear on Yuma’s cheek. “You’re already the only thing I see. Do you have any idea how much I don’t care about the chocolate? I don’t care about the flowers or some perfect, grand texture. I just want to wake up and see you, being loud and annoying in my space. I just want you in the room, Yuma. That’s the only thing that makes it home.”

Yuma let out a wet, shaky laugh, leaning his forehead against Jo’s. “I can definitely do loud and annoying. I’ve been practicing that for years, remember?”

“I know,” Jo breathed, a tiny, fragile smile breaking through the exhaustion. He finally closed the gap, and the kiss tasted like salt, cocoa, and relief—a long-overdue resolution to a week of static.

Eventually, Yuma reached over and fumbled for the heater remote on the desk, clicking it on. The quiet, mechanical hum filled the studio as the air began to thaw. They did not move to the bed; they just stayed there on the floor, tangled together in the dark, surrounded by the scent of indigo flowers and sugar.

“So,” Yuma murmured against Jo’s lips, trying to keep his voice steady. “Do they actually taste okay? Nicholas said I over-tempered the third batch. He told me that they might be a bit…structural.”

Jo reached out, took one of the lopsided truffles, and took a cautious bite. He made a slight, exaggerated face. “It’s a little bitter, and definitely way too hard. I think I heard my molar crack.”

“Hey! I worked ten hours on those in their kitchen!”

“It’s the best thing I’ve ever eaten,” Jo corrected softly, pulling Yuma back down by his collar. “Stay here, you aren’t leaving this room for the next twenty-four hours. I’m locking the door and throwing the key in the trash.”

“Deal,” Yuma smiled, closing his eyes as the warmth of the heater—and Jo—finally reached his bones. “Happy Valentine’s, Jo.”

𐙚⋆.˚

The sun had not even fully cleared the Shinjuku skyline when Yuma started to stir. 

His face felt heavy, his eyelids sticking together from the salt of the night before, and his head throbbed with that dull, rhythmic ache that follows a total emotional collapse. He felt like he had been run over by a train, but the warmth of the duvet and the steady, artificial hum of the heater kept him anchored to the mattress.

He reached out blindly, his hands sweeping across the fabric, expecting to feel the familiar heat of Jo’s chest. Instead, his palm hit empty, cold sheets and something soft—paper-thin and velvety.

“Jo?” Yuma croaked. His voice was a wreck, thick with sleep and scratchy from crying.

He forced his eyes open, blinking against the pale, golden morning light bleeding through the blinds. He expected to see Jo at his desk or puttering with the kettle, but the sight that met him made his heart skip.

The studio was gone.

The cramped, twenty-meter space had been transformed into a sea of deep, velvety red. Jo must have been awake for hours; hundreds of rose petals were scattered across every available surface. They were banked against the floorboards, drifting around the legs of the stools, and even settled like stray thoughts on top of Yuma’s guitar amp. But it was not just the floor—the duvet was covered in them, a crimson carpet that trailed all the way to the pillow where Jo’s head should have been.

The scent was overwhelming—heavy, sweet, and floral, masking the metallic smell of the heater and the ghost of yesterday’s vanilla.

Jo was standing by the window, silhouetted against the morning glow. He was still wearing the same oversized sweater, his eyes undeniably puffy and tired, but his expression was the most peaceful Yuma had seen in weeks.

“You’re awake,” Jo murmured, turning slightly.

Yuma sat up, hair a genuine bird’s nest, eyes so swollen that they were practically horizontal slits. He looked at the bed, then the floor, then back at the red-rimmed, beautiful disaster by the window.

“Jo…what the hell? Did you just rob a florist?” Yuma gestured vaguely at the sea of red, a stray petal falling from his hair onto his lap. “There’s a literal garden in here. How did you even do this without waking me up? I’m a light sleeper.”

“I’m an artist, Yuma. I’m used to working in the dark,” Jo murmured, a tiny, exhausted smirk pulling at his mouth.

He did not stay by the window for long. Usually, Jo moved with a measured, careful grace, but the relief of the reconciliation seemed to have stripped away his restraint. He did not just walk over; he practically launched himself at the bed.

“Whoa—!”

Yuma barely had time to brace himself before Jo’s weight hit him, sending them both thumbling back into the pillows. The impact sent a cloud of red petals—the ones Jo had carefully arranged on the bed—flying into the air, drifting down over them like slow-motion confetti.

“Jo! You’re going to break the bed!” Yuma laughed, the sound raspy and raw. “We’re gonna have to explain to the landlord why there’s floral debris on the floorboards!”

Jo did not care. He was hovering over Yuma, arms locked on either side of Yuma’s head, looking down at him with a terrifyingly fond expression. He did not say anything at first; he just started raining kisses down on Yuma’s face.

He kissed Yuma’s forehead, then his puffy eyelids, then the bridge of his nose.

“Jo, stop, I’m serious—I look like a frog,” Yuma wheezed, squirming as Jo’s caught his jaw to pepper his cheeks with more kisses. “My eyes are literally swollen shut, Jojo!”

“I don’t care,” Jo whispered against his skin, his voice low. “I don’t care if your eyes are swollen. I just…missed you. Even when you were right here, I missed you so much that it felt like I was choking.”

The playful struggling died down. Yuma reached up, fingers tangling in the dark hair at the nape of Jo’s neck, pulling him down for a proper, lingering kiss. It was quiet—the kind of kiss that did not need a grand reveal.

“You’re so dramatic,” Yuma breathed when they finally broke for air. He reached out and caught a stray petal that had landed on Jo’s shoulder. “Hundred of roses? Really? You’re really making it hard for me to be the cool one in this relationship.”

“You were never the cool one, Yuu-kun,” Jo teased, finally collapsing onto Yuma’s chest, his face hidden in the crook of Yuma’s neck. He took a deep, shaky breath. “You’re the one who makes hand-tampered truffles in a basement. I’m just the guy who knows where the 24-hour florist is.”

“I wanted the room to look the way I felt,” Jo added softly. “I didn’t want you to wake up and see the mess we made yesterday. I wanted you to see this instead.”

Yuma wrapped his arms around Jo, holding him tight as the sun climbed higher, turning the red petals on the duvet into glowing embers.

“Happy Valentine’s, Jojo,” Yuma whispered, kissing the top of his head. “It’s ridiculous—you’re ridiculous, but I love it.”

“Happy Valentine’s,” Jo murmured back, his grip tightening for a second before his body finally went limp with relief. “Now, let’s go back to sleep. The roses aren’t going anywhere, and I’m not letting you move for at least three hours.”

“Okay,” Yuma giggled, closing his eyes and drifting back into the first peaceful sleep he had in a week.

𐙚⋆.˚

By the time they actually managed to drag themselves out of the rose petal-covered bed, it was nearly noon. The heavy, emotional fog of the night before had lifted, replaced by a sort of giddy, sleep-deprived energy that made everything feel slightly surreal.

“Ow, stop moving. You’re making it slip,” Yuma complained, his voice still a bit gravelly.

They were sitting side-by-side on the edge of the bed, each holding a paper towel-wrapped ice pack against their eyes. Jo had insisted on it the moment they woke up, claiming they looked like they had lost a fight with a beehive.

“If you didn’t cry so hard, we wouldn’t be in this situation,” Jo countered, though his own ice pack was held firmly against his left eye.

“Me? You were the one sobbing into my neck for twenty minutes!”

“I was not sobbing. I was…you know, releasing some tension.”

Yuma laughed, the sound bright and clear, and leaned his head against Jo’s shoulder. “Whatever you say, Jo—but we do look really ridiculous. If the landlord walked in now, he’d think we were in a cult.”

“At least we’ll be a cult with reduced swelling,” Jo muttered. He pulled the ice pack away, blinking his dark, still-reddened eyes. He looked at Yuma, truly looked at him, and his expression softened. He reached out, gently prying the melting ice from Yuma’s hand and setting both packs on the nightstand with a wet thud.

“Okay, better,” Jo said, his thumb brushing the skin just beneath Yuma’s eye to check the temperature. “You don’t look like a frog anymore—maybe a very tired prince.”

Yuma grinned, leaning into the touch. “A prince who is starving. Is there any of that fancy bread that we can eat for breakfast?”

Jo let out a short, huffing laugh and stood up, pulling Yuma with him. The rose petals rustled around their ankles, a soft, dry sound that filled the quiet studio. “We’re going out. I’m not letting you eat stale bread on our first Valentine’s Day. But first,” Jo paused, turning to face the cramped wardrobe in the corner, “we need to address the wardrobe situation.”

Yuma skipped over the closet, his energy already bouncing back. “Great! I have the perfect thing.”

“We are not wearing that,” Jo said ten minutes later, leaning against the closet door and eyeing the neon-green hoodie Yuma was brandishing like a weapon.

“It’s my birthday month! I get to choose the vibe,” Yuma protested, though he was already grinning. “It’s high-visibility—in case you lose me in the Shinjuku crowds!”

“It’s Valentine’s Day,” Jo countered, reaching past him and sifting through the hangers with the practiced eye of someone who curated colors for a living. “We’re doing this properly. If we’re going to be seen in public, we’re going to look like we belong to each other. No neon—something…softer.”

They ended up stepping out into the crisp February air in matching oversized knit cardigans. Jo had chosen a muted, dusty sage for himself and a soft, cream-colored one for Yuma. Paired with wide-leg light trousers, they looked less like the intense duo from the conservatory and more like a pair of art students on a lazy Saturday.

“You look like a marshmallow,” Jo teased, reaching out to adjust Yuma’s collar as they stepped onto the street.

“And you look like a matcha latte,” Yuma shot back, hooking his pinky into Jo’s as they hit the sidewalk.”Very aesthetic, Jojo. Very boyfriend of you.”

“I am your boyfriend,” Jo corrected, his ears tipping into a soft pink as he pulled Yuma’s hand fully into his and stuffed them both into his cardigan pocket. “Big difference.”

The mission for the day was simple: replace every sad, lonely memory from the past years with something new—and for Yuma and Jo, that meant documenting. They did not even make it to the station before they saw the first one—a bright yellow booth tucked next to a game center.

“First one,” Yuma announced, dragging Jo inside.

This time, there was no awkwardness, no heavy bags of groceries, and no hiding. They squeezed into the tiny space, the pastel wool of their cardigans bunching together.

Flash. Yuma stuck his tongue out; Jo tried to look cool but ended up laughing into Yuma’s shoulder. Flash. They both made heart signs with their hands, looking incredibly cheesy and not caring one bit. Flash. Jo did not even look at the camera; he just turned and pressed a firm, lingering kiss to Yuma’s temple.

By the time they reached the main district, they were on a roll. They hit a booth in Purikura hall where the filters smoothed out their tired faces and added digital sparkles.

“Jo, look at us,” Yuma wheezed, pointing at the screen where the filters had given them both pink cat ears. “You look so grumpy with those.”

“I’m going to kill you,” Jo muttered, but he was already reaching for the digital pen to write ‘Yuu-kun & Jojo’ across the bottom in sparkling silver ink. “Don’t move. I’m drawing a heart.”

They spent the afternoon wandering through Shinjuku, stopping for crepes—strawberry for Yuma, bitter chocolate for Jo—and bickering over which florist had the best display. They hit a vintage black-and-white contrast, one that left them both looking like blurry, glowing ghosts.

By sunset, Yuma’s pocket was overflowing with glossy strips of paper. As they sat on a bench near the park, the neon light of the city beginning to flicker on in shades of violet and gold, Yuma spread the photos out on his lap. It was a single-day timeline, but it felt like a lifetime of catching up.

“My wall board is going to be full,” Yuma said, leaning his head on Jo’s shoulder, feeling the soft wool of Jo’s cardigan against his cheek.

Jo looked down at the photos, then at the boy beside him. He did not need paper to remember the way Yuma looked today—the way the cream color of his cardigan made his skin glow—but he liked the weight of them.

“Good,” Jo said, reaching over to catch Yuma’s chin and turning his face up for one last, unrecorded kiss. “We still have a lot of space to fill.”

𐙚⋆.˚

The sun had dipped well below the Shinjuku skyline by the time they finally wandered back to the studio. Their pockets were heavy with glossy photo strips, and their fingers were numb from the February chill, but the terrifying tension from the start of the week was gone, replaced by a comfortable, quiet hum.

The room still smelled like a garden—faintly sweet and earthy—as Yuma kicked off his shoes and watched a few stray rose petals flutter across the floor in the draft of the closing door.

“Stay there,” Jo said, gently nudging Yuma toward the bed with his elbow. “Don’t help. I’ve had this planned for a week, and I’m finishing it properly.”

Yuma flopped back onto the duvet, his cream-colored cardigan bunching up around his chin. “You’re actually going into the kitchen—without adult supervision? Are you serious? I don’t want the special Valentine’s finale to involve a visit from the fire department.”

“It’s pasta, Yuma. I can boil water without burning the building down,” Jo shot back, though his tone lacked its usual defensive bite. He shed his sage green cardigan, moving around the tiny kitchenette with the same focused intensity he used when mixing oils on a palette.

Yuma watched him, propped up on his elbows. It was a different kind of Jo—relaxed, certain, and no longer looking for a reason to hide. After some time passed, Jo cleared a small space on the desk, pushing aside his sketchbooks to make room for two steaming plates and a bottle he had been hiding at the very back of the fridge. 

“The cider,” Yuma breathed, recognizing the elegant, frosted glass bottle. “You actually found it? I mentioned that, like, once in passing months ago.”

“I have a good memory for things that matter,” Jo murmured. He popped the cork with a soft thud and poured the pale, bubbling liquid into two mismatched glasses. “I figured it was safer than wine. We’ve had enough drama for one week. I didn’t want us getting sentimental and messy.”

“Too late for that,” Yuma teased, sitting up and taking his glass.

“To February 14th,” Yuma said, raising his glass. “For not being a total disaster.”

Jo let out a soft laugh before clinking his glass against Yuma’s, his gaze steady and warm.

They sat together on the edge of the bed, the small desk pulled close between them. It was not a fancy jazz club with white tablecloths, and the view was just the flickering neon sign of the dry cleaners across the street, but Yuma took a sip of the sweet, crisp cider, and he realized he would not have traded it for anything.

They ate slowly, bickering over the pasta—which was actually perfectly al dente—and sifting through the photobooth strips again. Jo kept picking up the one from the vintage machine—the black-and-white one where they looked like they belonged in another era.

The cider was half-finished, the bubbles dancing lazily in their glasses, when the comfortable silence of the room shifted. Jo was not looking at the photos anymore. He was looking at the corner of the ceiling where a small patch of dampness had bothered him since they moved in, then back at the door that had slammed so hard only two nights ago.

“Yuma,” Jo called, his voice dropping into that low, serious register that usually meant he had been overthinking something for hours, or maybe days. “I think we should leave.”

Yuma paused with a forkful of pasta halfway to his mouth. “Leave? Like, right now? It’s almost eleven, Jo.”

“No,” Jo huffed, a small, genuine smile breaking through his gravity. “I mean this place—this studio. It’s twenty square meters, the heater sounds like a tractor, and…” He trailed off, his eyes darkening as they swept over the desk where he had collapsed in despair just twenty-four hours earlier. “There are too many ghosts here—too many memories of us not talking. I don’t want to look at that door and remember how it felt when you walked out.”

Yuma set his fork down, his expression softening. He reached out, his thumb tracing the back of Jo’s hand. “It’s a bit of a cage, isn’t it? Even when we’re happy, it feels like we’re cramped.”

“A cage we outgrew fifteen years ago,” Jo agreed. He leaned forward, his intensity returning.

“I’ve been looking at listings—near the park, maybe. Somewhere with actual windows and enough space for your keyboards and my easels to exist without fighting for floor space. A fresh start, somewhere that only knows us as this.”

Yuma felt a surge of warmth that had nothing to do with the cider. “A bigger studio—you’re serious? You’ve actually been looking?”

“I’m very serious,” Jo said. He reached into the pocket of his cardigan, his fingers fumbling with something small. “And I wanted to give you this. I actually got them today while you were distracted by that ridiculous cat-ear Purikura machine.”

He pulled two silver rings. They were simple, brushed metal bands that looked sturdy and timeless, catching the dim light of the desk lamp.

“Jo,” Yuma breathed, his heart doing a frantic somersault.

“They aren’t anything fancy,” Jo said, his ears turning that tell-tale shade of pink again. “But I wanted you to have a key that doesn’t just open a door. It’s a promise—no more secrets, no more nonsense. Just…a fresh start in a place where we have room to breathe.”

Yuma did not say anything; he could not. He just held out his left hand, his fingers trembling slightly. Jo slid the ring into place—it was a perfect fit, cold against his skin but heavy with weight that felt like safety. Yuma took the second ring and did the same for Jo, his chocolate-stained cuticles a stark contrast against the clean silver, a badge of effort he had put in to get here.

“A bigger studio,” Yuma finally whispered, pulling Jo’s hand up to press a kiss to the new ring. “Does that mean I can finally get that grand piano I’ve been eyeing? The one that takes up half the room?”

“Don’t push your luck, Yuu-kun,” Jo laughed, but he did not pull away. Instead, he leaned in, resting his forehead against Yuma’s. “But you can have a bigger bed—one that doesn’t collapse when I launch myself at you.”

“That sounds great,” Yuma smiled. He looked down at the silver band, then back at Jo. “So…what about the moms? If we’re really doing this—moving into a proper place together—we should probably tell them.”

Jo’s expression shifted, a mix of nerves and resolve. “I was thinking about that. We’re going back home for spring break next month, right? We could do it then, over dinner—no more it’s just a convenient studio share excuse.”

Yuma took a long sip of his cider, the reality of it setting in. Telling their mothers meant making it official in the world they had grown up in. It was the final step in closing the distance. “My mom is going to cry. She’s definitely going to say she knew it all along and that we’re finally being sensible.”

“Mine too,” Jo admitted, his voice soft. “She’ll probably ask why it took us years to move across a single hallway. She’ll be smug about it for months.”

“It’ll be worth it, though,” Yuma said, squeezing Jo’s hand. “No more hiding.”

“No more hiding,” Jo agreed. “I want them to know that we’re not just roommates. I want them to know that I’m taking care of you.”

“And I’m taking care of you,” Yuma added, pulling Jo into a final, lingering kiss. “Even if I’m a disaster at chocolate and I break your heart with neon hoodies.”

“Especially then,” Jo murmured against his lips, the Shinjuku lights outside finally feeling like a backdrop to their lives rather than a cage.

𐙚⋆.˚