Archive of Our Own

“Congratulations, everyone. Our plans have officially escaped the group chat.”

It’s a good one-liner—Harua will give Maki that much. Knowing him, he probably rehearsed it the entire six hour drive here from the airport. Unfortunately, it loses some of its charm when the cabin door doesn’t budge, making him curse under his breath and begin struggling with the lock for another five minutes.

Rough start, but that’s typical. Their semiannual friend group reunion never goes completely smoothly—it hasn’t in the two years since they graduated high school, and, by the looks of it, it probably won’t this time either. Harua’s learned not to bother stressing over the inevitable. Instead, he hangs back and participates in a tradition of his own: watching the others and silently ranking them from most-to-least changed.

As usual, Maki isn’t too different. He still swears like a sailor, still smiles more on one side of his mouth than the other, and still hasn’t committed to the buzz cut he promised to try at their last hangout six months ago. The one noticeable change Harua can pick up on is his height; Maki’s always been taller than him, but never a whole head taller. That fancy new corporate job of his must be sneaking steroids into his mandated thirty-minute lunches.

“Maybe the key is for the back door,” suggests Jo—the only person who still manages to outdo Maki in the height department. Harua notes a new haircut, cropped professionally close to his head. It makes Jo look older, but does nothing to hide his big ears, tinged pink from the cold.

“Maybe the windows are unlocked,” Taki chimes in, pressed up against the glass a ways down the porch. “We’re in the middle of the woods. I don’t think they’re worried about people breaking in.” He’s the most appropriately dressed by far, bundled up in a thick scarf and a fluffy trapper hat. His hair has grown even shaggier, bursting from beneath his hat in dark tufts, but other than that, he’s the same as ever. Maybe the least changed of them all.

And then there’s Yuma.

Yuma’s an easy first place. He’s practically a different person every time Harua sees him, consistently showing up with a new piercing, another tattoo, or some trendy pair of sunglasses that cost him an entire paycheck. Today, it’s his hair, freshly dyed a light pink. Harua’s seen it on Instagram, but he’d assumed it was a temporary thing, some sort of washable hair spray Yuma had used for a few days before returning to the comforts of bleach-blonde. The level of commitment is unprecedented.

“You’re turning the key the wrong way,” Yuma chides, glancing up from his phone but making no attempt to actually intervene. Despite the bold streak he’s taken with the pink, he’s dressed as plainly as usual—black puffer, blacker beanie, gloved hands tucked beneath his arms for warmth. Six months apart didn’t stamp out his need to look cooler than everyone else, obviously.

As if sensing the judgment, flinty eyes flicker in Harua’s direction. He stiffens as Yuma evaluates his outfit, from the wool holiday sweater to sizable earmuffs, before letting out a snort.

“Jesus, Harua, who picked out those clothes? Your mom?”

Good old Yuma.

It’s a lazy jab, and Harua refuses to reward it with a reaction. “Nice to see you too, Yuma-kun,” he replies pleasantly. “I like the new hair color. Wannabe Vocaloid is a much better look on you than secondhand Draco Malfoy.”

Something glints in Yuma’s eyes—an almost nostalgic brand of annoyance. Challenge accepted. “At least I’ve changed since we saw each other last,” he fires back. “Still haven’t hit that growth spurt, I see.” He shakes his head in mock sympathy, dangling earings rattling. “Don’t give up. I’m sure twenty will be your year.”

Harua rolls his eyes. Clearly, six months hasn’t given Yuma enough time to graduate from cheap shots and childish insults. “Wow. Almost forgot how much I missed you lording the one-centimeter height difference over me.”

“Oh, God.” Taki blanches, hurrying over to shake Maki by the shoulders. “They’re already doing it, hurry up—”

“Got it!” Maki says, voice triumphant, as the door creaks open in the nick of time. “Okay, let’s try that again. Congratulations, everyone—”

“Yeah, yeah, move.” Yuma breezes past Harua and pushes his way into the dark cabin, leaving a trail of cheap cologne in his wake. (Of course his terrible taste in scents would be the one thing that didn’t change.) “I’m freezing my ass off.”

“Hey, I wasn’t done,” Maki protests in vain.

“It was a good line,” Harua hears Jo reassure him as they all shuffle inside—still as saintly as Yuma is devilish. Thank God. Maybe they’ll cancel each other out.

The cabin is nice—really nice. Harua’s seen the pictures, but they hardly compare to the real thing. Suddenly, all the years of planning and money split five ways feel a lot more worthwhile. The log walls are nearly completely covered, lined with furs, mounted antlers, rustic picture frames, and every cliche piece of hunting memorabilia Harua could think of. The ceiling vaults upwards overheard, massive skylights filtering in the overcast December sun. Someone hits a light switch and a warmer tone washes over the living room, revealing a massive couch, a rough-hewn coffee table, and a flatscreen TV that only breaks the ambience a little.

Everyone ooh’s and ah’s appreciatively (Yuma’s mostly aimed at the Nintendo Switch hooked up to the TV), but Taki makes an immediate beeline to the left, towards a kitchen that’s easily twice the size of Harua’s dorm room. 

“Oh, we are cooking good tonight,” he says, throwing open cupboard after cupboard like a kid in a candy store. 

Harua, running a hand over the polished wood-slab island, raises an eyebrow at Jo. “We’re cooking?”

“Oh, yeah. I forgot to tell you.” Jo watches him fondly across the kitchen, a little like a mother—or maybe a lover. Harua quit trying to understand their relationship years ago. “Taki makes all our meals now. He’s on a roll.”

Yuma drags his suitcase across the wooden floor to join them, living room thoroughly inspected. “Taki, a chef? I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“You’ll believe it, all right,” Taki replies, stepping out of the pantry with a wicked grin. “Just wait until you get a taste of my signature curry.”

“Okay, you’ve intrigued me,” Yuma hums. His attention shifts to Maki at the other end of the island, hunched over a lengthy binder of instructions from the owners. “Oi. Where’s my bed at?”

Distractedly, Maki points towards a nearby hallway. “Four rooms. First come, first served.”

That’s all Yuma needs to hear; he’s halfway down the hallway before Maki’s even finished his sentence. Harua’s quick to follow, breezing past walls of decorative fishing line and a wood-plank outhouse sign marking the bathroom. There’s always one bad bed at places like this, and he’s not going to be the one stuck with it.

Harua soon discovers, to his dismay, that this place isn’t like most places. Instead of one bad bed, there are multiple, all falling on different points of the badness spectrum. The first room he turns into has a queen mattress, one that looks like the universally superior option until he nearly shatters his tailbone plopping onto it. The twin next door has the opposite problem, so soft it nearly swallows him up.

“What in the Goldilocks and the Three Bears?” Harua mutters to himself on his way to the third room—which, sadly, is not “just right.” It’s set up for two occupants, with a towering wooden bunk bed that creaks when Harua so much as looks at it. Definitely not.

With all three empty so far, he gets the sinking feeling bed four has already been claimed. Harua checks anyway.

Sure enough, Yuma’s already made himself comfortable, stretched across a quilted double mattress that looks perfectly inoffensive. His jacket has been shed to reveal joggers and a loose white tee, his cotton candy hair fanning across a fluffy feather pillow. He has the gall to smile as Harua screeches to a halt in the doorway, waving his fingers in greeting.

“Find yourself a room yet?” he asks smugly.

“You’re so greedy.” Marching over, Harua drops onto an unoccupied corner of the bed and immediately wilts. It’s perfect. Not too hard, not too soft, not creaky in the slightest.

“Maki said first come first served,” Yuma reminds him with that same juvenile, gloating air. Harua is reminded uncannily of the sleepovers they had as preteens, where Yuma always claimed the bed and made him sleep on the ground. This Yuma is different, though. He’s taller, his teeth are straighter, and he probably won’t wake up at three AM tonight feeling guilty enough to join Harua on the floor (or, in this case, the rock bed).

Honestly? Good. Harua would rather die than share a bed with him. He probably still talks in his sleep.

The modern, pitiless version of Yuma stretches, and his t-shirt rides up to expose his navel. Harua briefly considers turning to brute force and pushing him off the bed. Survival of the fittest and whatnot. “You’d better claim one of the single rooms before you get stuck bunking with Jo. He snores like a bear.”

That’s another sleepover memory Harua isn’t eager to reexperience. As much as he hates to admit it, Yuma’s right. He rises to his feet, glancing wistfully at the bed. “And there’s no way I can convince you to trade?”

“Nope,” Yuma says. He plucks a glossy magazine—Fisherman’s Digest—off the bedside table, and begins flipping through the pages. Performative bastard.

“Come on, Yuma. I’ve been dorming since September. Do you know how bad those mattresses are?”

“And?” Sharp eyes lift, watching him above the magazine. “Gonna fight me for it, Rua?”

Rua. The nickname is odd, out of practice, and catches Harua completely off guard. Yuma hasn’t called him that in years, gradually slipping back into stiff honorifics and sideways glances, and he’s bringing it back for an appeal over bed arrangements. There’s a moment—just a split second—where Harua’s blood pressure spikes. Then he lets it simmer. Calm down, he reminds himself. The trick to dealing with Yuma is staying calm.

“No,” he says. “I’m better than that.”

“Yeah. You are.” With a crisp noise, Yuma turns to the next page. “I’m serious about the Jo thing. Save yourself while you still can.”

In the end, Harua settles for the cushy bed. It’s not actually that bad, he figures out, as long as he wedges a few pillows beneath him and lies perfectly still, channeling all his concentration into not sinking to the wooden bedframe below. High maintenance, sure, but comfortable enough—at least he won’t be flying down ski slopes with a thousand sore muscles tomorrow.

No, that role goes to Maki. Taki, who’s been rooming with Jo for over a year now, benevolently offers to bunk with him, leaving only one option left. Everyone lingers apologetically in the hall as Maki hauls his suitcase in, taking the short straw in stride.

“I wanted this one anyway,” he claims, with a voice so chipper it’s almost convincing. “I prefer my mattresses firm.”

Harua’s not sure he believes that, but he keeps his mouth shut. All things considered, his bed is a win.

After unpacking, they all regroup to explore the rest of the cabin—a long, drawn-out experience that takes up most of the afternoon, filled with far more talking than walking. Gradually, like an old bruise, the awkwardness fades, patched up with old inside jokes and curious questions. The typical catch-up routine. Harua listens to everyone’s reports and mentally jots down the bullet points: Maki’s gone full time at the company he’s interning for, Jo’s balancing his own job with night school, and Taki spends every minute he’s not in class volunteering at the local day care. Somehow, they’re all even busier than the last time they hung out, and Harua—

Harua’s life isn’t much at all.

He avoids the topic for as long as possible, but Taki finally corners him into it as they’re wandering out onto the back patio—enclosed and insulated, with a fire pit surrounded by beach chairs that don’t really match the lodge aesthetic. Harua’s peering through a greenhouse-style window at the barren garden boxes outside when he feels a tap on his shoulder, a curious glance from his left.

“What about you, Harua? How’s university?”

He grimaces, hyper aware of the way everyone’s eyes turn onto him. “It’s been okay. I scraped by with decent grades this semester. Made a few friends, too.”

“That’s a pretty big achievement,” Jo says. He and Maki are inspecting a large, tarp-covered cube in the corner that might just be the on-site hot tub they were promised. “Making friends at university is a nightmare.”

“True.” Taki sighs. He slings an arm around Harua’s shoulder, the weight nearly knocking him over. “They’re not cooler than us, though. Right?”

Not even close. Harua cracks a smile. “No, not really,” he concedes. “The company is nice, though. Gets me out of the dorm.”

Company. That’s all they are, really. Something to pass the time, a required supplement. His school friends are more like glorified acquaintances—familiar faces there to remind him he’s a person that exists every once in a while. There’s such a vast gap between what they are and what Taki is. What Maki, Jo, even Yuma is. Things were so much simpler when they all lived in the same neighborhood, and seeing each other was less of a choice and more of an inevitability.

Harua’s always been independent. Self-sufficient. He doesn’t miss people; he misses his people.

. . . Which might be a rapidly shrinking list, if the smarmy grin Maki whips around to give him means what he thinks it does. “And what about all the play you said you’d be getting at school?” he asks. “Any hot dates?”

God. Harua should have known this was coming. That’s what he gets for all the big talking he did last summer. He’d had bigger ambitions back then: romantic aspirations that got buried in midterm exams and grocery bags. “I’ve . . . been focusing on my studies.”

“So, no.”

“No,” Harua admits before switching to self defense. “These things take time, though. I’m letting it play out naturally.”

“Oh, boy.” A distant drawl from Yuma, still lurking in the warmth beyond the sliding glass door. “Here we go.”

Heat creeps up Harua’s neck, but he ignores him. “I can’t just date anyone. I’m not like that. There needs to be a . . . a spark.”

“Right,” Maki says dubiously.

Taki nods. “Sure!”

“Definitely,” Jo agrees, and even if it’s just to placate him, Harua appreciates it.

Yuma’s not so gracious. With a scoff, he shifts his weight against the door frame, arms crossed. “Ugh. That is so like you.”

Before he can stop himself, practice breathing exercises, be the bigger person, Harua rounds on him. He can’t help it. “What do you mean, ‘so like me’?” he demands.

“Nothing.” Yuma shrugs, all feigned carelessness. God, Harua’s sick of his act. “You just haven’t changed, is all. The whole hopeless romantic bit. Thought you’d have learned by now that it doesn’t work.”

For some reason, it stings. Wounds Harua’s pride. What right does Yuma have to say anything? He hasn’t been talking about himself, either. In fact, he’s been even more evasive, conveniently dodging all the questions regarding his own life with an almost practiced precision. It’s just a hunch, but Harua thinks he knows exactly why.

He seizes the ammo. It’s only fair. “I don’t know if you should be preaching to me about romance,” he says, challenging Yuma’s listless gaze with a daring one of his own. “Aren’t you fresh out of a breakup?”

Maki nearly hits his head pulling it out of the empty hot tub, eyebrows leaping into his hairline. Probably a sign that Harua’s just crossed a major line. But it’s too late to go back on it now; a hush falls over the room, everyone turning to watch as Yuma’s eyes narrow.

“What would you know about that?”

“Nothing.” Harua shrugs loftily. A blatant imitation of Yuma, his innocent-yet-superior air. “It’s just been a while since I saw that boyfriend of yours on your story. Weren’t you always posting about him?”

Yuma’s face hardens. He ditches the door frame, lifting his chin and squaring his shoulders. It’s a survival tactic, one he picked up during years of scuffles with school bullies and pushy third-years—a prey animal’s attempt to make itself look bigger. Harua always watched it from the sidelines, though, fists clenched and stomach nervy. He’s never been on the other end.

“That’s none of your business, Harua,” Yuma says, and the words are steely, dangerous. Completely different from the lighthearted threat he’d given over bed selections earlier.

Harua matches his glare, albeit tensely, all too aware of the way his pulse quickens at the shift. “Then maybe you should stay out of mine, Yuma.”

“Hey, Maki,” Taki interrupts loudly, with the strained, child-of-divorce sort of air he always gets when the two of them argue. “Didn’t you say there was a game room somewhere? Let’s go find the game room!”

Jo nods, stepping forward to obscure Harua’s view of Yuma—a tactful interception. “I think it was in the basement.”

“Right.” Maki claps his hands together, making for the doorway. And just like that, it’s over. Yuma backs off, letting him in, and Harua lags in the back, shielded by a three-person buffer.

Nobody speaks as they trudge through the hallway and towards the stairs, and a guilty pit forms in Harua’s stomach. Damn it. He hadn’t meant to make things awkward. He never does. Something about Yuma just . . . gets under his skin. Draws out all the immature, childish traits he tries to keep buried. It’s been that way since high school, back when all they had to bicker over was who got which seat at the lunch table.

Still, it didn’t use to be this bad. There was a time when getting on each other’s nerves was all show instead of a fifty-fifty split. Just another game. Sometime after graduation, things took a turn towards what they are now: interactions that start with playful bickering, some joking around, and then get pointedly personal out of the blue. Mean. Harua’s never been sure if it was him or Yuma who started it; all he knows is the vicious cycle. When what’s supposed to be friendly banter turns into being ghosted for months on end, then brought together again by their obligations to the others.

Harua watches Yuma’s back, descending the stairs a few heads in front of him—studies the slight hunch to his shoulers, the shag of hair that’s never been quite familiar since he started cutting it differently. He might as well be a stranger now.

Biting his cheek, Harua looks away. Whatever. It was one slip-up. It won’t happen again. Taki’s a mediator, Jo’s a neutralizing presence, and Maki’s got enough over-the-top energy to be a decent distraction. The three of them are pros at defusing things by now. And, for the record, Harua’s actually pretty damn mature (unlike some people). He can behave. As long as he and Yuma stay on opposite ends of the room for the next few days, they’ll be fine. 

Harua’s not going to ruin this weekend for their friends. All it’ll take is some tactical avoidance.

ᨒ*❅

Two hours later, he and Yuma end up alone in a car together en route to the grocery store. In Harua’s defense, he has no idea how this happened.

Seriously, it’s beyond him. The arrangement makes zero sense. After he and Yuma did nothing but argue all afternoon, they should have been the last people to be paired together for a snack run. Unless this is a ridiculous “get-along” scheme, some sort of team-building exercise—

Harua sighs internally. Knowing their friends, that’s exactly what it is.

He’d attempted to fight it, used every appealing bone in his body to try and weasel out of the responsibility, but no. Taki can’t drive in the snow, and Jo can’t drive at all, and Maki’s developed a sudden obsession with lumberjack culture and was too busy chopping firewood to be put on Yuma duty. So here they are, ambling through the woods in his tiny rental hatchback, Harua maneuvering carefully over the dirt road and trying his damnedest to let all of Yuma’s pointed comments about his driving bounce off.

“Seriously.” Speak of the devil—another grumble comes from the passenger. Yuma does a lot more grumbling than Harua remembers. “If we took my car, we’d be there by now.”

“That’s exactly why I wanted to drive,” Harua says, braking to avoid the muddy sinkhole that almost claimed him on the way in. “Sorry, but I’m not letting you chauffeur me anywhere in this weather.”

The reply is deadpan, cuttingly sarcastic. “Oh, dear God. Snow flurries. Whatever will we do?”

Harua grits his teeth, hands tightening around the steering wheel. Sure, the forecasted storm isn’t supposed to hit them full-force until around midnight, blanketing the mountains with a healthy padding of snow for their ski day tomorrow, but the sleet still makes him nervous. He’s the type of person who bunkers down and cancels his plans when it so much as rains—hydroplaning is no joke! He’d say this now, but it would be falling on deaf ears. Even if hell itself were freezing over, Yuma would still manage to get on his case for being a cautious driver. Harua still remembers the first time he drove him home from an after-school activity, only a few days after getting his license—the stress of having another presence in the car that wasn’t his mother, constantly egging him on, begging him to be bolder.

Just go, Harua. The world doesn’t slow down for you.

You could have made it! Why’d you stop?

That dickwad. Go cut him off. No, don’t get over—

Ironically, Harua thinks that half the reason he’s so stubborn today, half the reason he doesn’t take shit he should really let lie, is because Yuma trained the skittish, teenage version of him into having a backbone. You created a monster, Harua wants to tell him.

“Let’s just get this done as quickly as possible,” he says instead. “Then we can go back to the cabin and watch whatever movie they’re picking out.”

Yuma makes a doubtful noise in the back of his throat. “I don’t know what’s more likely. Us agreeing on what snacks to buy, or Taki and Maki agreeing on what to watch.”

“Them, for sure. Taki’s got more conflict resolution skills than the two of us combined.”

This actually gets a laugh out of Yuma—a small one, more of a scoff, but it’s something. “Yeah. One-hundred percent.”

They fall silent. Harua’s music fills up the quiet insufficiently, the stereo volume set a little too low because he was stupid enough to think they’d actually talk or something. He nearly weeps in relief when they finally reach paved road, turning onto the winding mountain highway and accelerating to a bolder speed.

“Can I turn up the heat?” Yuma breaks the silence, rubbing his arms. “I don’t have the perks of your mom’s sweater.”

Harua chooses to overlook that comment. “Sure. Turn up the music, too?”

Yuma leans over to twist the first dial, but his fingers hesitate on the second. Harua watches the movement in his peripheral vision, perplexed. Is Yuma really going to mess with him over something as petty as music?

“ . . . Do you want me to say please or something?”

“Huh? Oh.” Yuma adjusts the volume abruptly, flooding the car with Keshi. He nods towards the dashboard. “Got distracted. You actually kept that thing?”

It takes Harua a moment to realize what he’s talking about. His eyes flicker up to the rearview mirror where, dangling alongside a sweet-scented air freshener, a tiny keychain sways. At one point, it was a Pokémon figurine, but the paint of Piplup’s blue feathers has nearly worn away completely—a memento of the years Harua carried it everywhere. Now, it hangs in perpetual prison over his dash, too sentimental to throw away but too emotionally complicated to tote around anymore. Harua’s so used to it being there that, these days, he barely even thinks about it.

Until now, that is. Somehow, it’s embarrassing having it displayed in such a public spot with Yuma here—not because Harua cares about whether or not he’s too old to be playing Pokémon anymore, but because he knows Yuma’s got a similar keychain somewhere. A second half to his set, if he even kept it at all.

“Oh, yeah.” Harua laughs it off, shaking his head. “It’s too old to drag around, now. This is the only place I could think to put it.”

“He looks bald.” Yuma settles back into his seat, smirking. “Well, balder.”

“Where did yours end up?” Harua asks, then immediately regrets it. He’s got a bad habit of posing questions he doesn’t want to know the answer to. “I mean, you begged me to trade you.”

Another day he remembers with strange clarity: the five of them, still in school, still squeaky-voiced, still massively dorky. The mall was one of the few places a ragtag group like theirs could hang out—mostly because they didn’t actually have to spend any money to be there. There had been a pop-up stand halfway between the arcade and the department store, the kind that ripped off other people’s designs and upsold them for absurd prices, but they were young and dumb and easily enticed by nerdy junk. Taki was captivated by the plushies, Jo and Maki were caught up in inspecting the seemingly fake trading cards, but Yuma and Harua gravitated toward the gachapon machines. For all their differences, they could always bond over a useless trinket or two.

On Harua’s right, Yuma is picking idly at his nails. If he’s anywhere near as attached to the memory, he doesn’t show it. “What, my Meowth? Didn’t I pull him myself?”

“No, I did,” Harua insists. “You spent ages trying to convince me to swap you for Piplup.”

He doesn’t mention that he remembers the exact sales pitch Yuma gave him. Think about it, Harua, he’d said, in that self-assured voice that probably could have talked Harua into murder. Meowth doesn’t match your vibe. Piplup, though—he’s practically your doppelgänger.

“Well, clearly I was onto something,” New Yuma says, his voice splitting through Old Yuma’s faint, prepubescent one. “You still have him.”

“He makes a good decoration.” At the risk of sounding pushy, Harua asks again. For some reason, he really wants to know. “What about yours?”

Yuma leans against the window, frowning. “I dunno. Probably back home somewhere.”

There it is. Just more proof that Yuma’s grown up and Harua hasn’t—not really. He still hoards collectibles, lining them up on his dorm room wall, even buying tokens for the gachapon machines on campus sometimes. There’s a nostalgic aura to them he just can’t resist. He’s tried to spin the hobby into something mildly profitable, a TikTok account where he unboxes minis for a meager group of followers every week, but it’s really just an excuse to cling onto it.

A part of him wonders if Yuma’s come across that account. A bigger part of him really hopes he hasn’t.

The “nearby town” that was advertised in the cabin owners’ instructional binder is more of a glorified street. They drive past an old gas station, an ancient post office, and a metal sign proudly boasting a local population of just over five hundred. At the end of the main road is a small marketplace, half-visible through the curtains of sleet now coming down. Harua parks as close to the entrance as he can—which isn’t difficult, seeing as there are only two other cars in the lot. He gets the feeling they both belong to employees.

“You think they’ll have corn chips?” he asks Yuma, slipping out of his seatbelt.

“I wouldn’t count on it,” is the dull reply. 

The inside of the store has low ceilings, dim lights, and a faint mildewy smell, but at least it’s warm. Stepping in through a squeaking set of automatic doors, Harua comes to the sobering realization that their cabin is actually the upscaled, palatable version of rustic charm. This must be a lot closer to the real thing.

“Welcome in!” an older woman calls out from the first (and only) register. “Snow salt and shovels are half off!”

“What about kettle corn?” Yuma mutters to Harua, who grimaces back. Even from a distance, those price tags are looking steep. They should have expected it, shopping in a town this small. He’s heard of this phenomenon—scarcity driving up demand, which in turn drives up prices . . . or something. Jo could probably explain it better.

The next ten minutes consist mostly of the two of them putting things into their basket and taking a lot of them back out again. Yuma, who was sent with the list and the assignment of keeping things under budget, takes his role to heart, shooting down anything Harua brings over that he deems “too pricey.” This doesn’t stop him from picking up all the expensive things he wants, though; Harua tries to be lenient about it, but when a shrimp cocktail that averages out at half of his monthly rent payment hits the basket, he’s forced to draw the line.

“No fair,” he protests. “If you can get that, I can get licorice.”

Yuma gives him a disgusted sideways glance. “Over my dead body.”

“I’m not the only one who likes it. Taki’ll eat it, too.”

“A likely story.”

“Want to test that theory? I’ll call him right now.”

“God, fine, just put it in.” With a dramatic sigh, Yuma exchanges the cocktail for an equally boring (but far cheaper) veggie tray. “I guess it was a little pricey.”

Harua stares at their basket—at Yuma’s additions specifically. Trail mix. Fruit leather. Veggie straws. “You amaze me,” he says.

“Thank you,” Yuma replies, setting off down the aisle. Harua has to jog to keep up.

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“Sounded like one.”

“You’re on vacation. Don’t you want to, I don’t know . . . treat yourself?”

“I can’t slack off.” Plucking a bag of chips off the shelf, Yuma shows them to Harua, waiting for the nod of approval before putting it in the basket. “Gotta keep the dancer bod.”

Finally. Yuma hasn’t mentioned dancing all day, not even once; for a few worrying hours, Harua had almost entertained the possibility of him quitting. “You’re still with the group?” he asks, the question careful.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I mean, I just thought that . . .” Harua clears his throat, steering them into the ice cream aisle—a weakness even Yuma can’t resist. Maybe it’ll reduce the risk of another fight. “Nothing.”

“No, go on,” Yuma replies, folding his arms. He stands a good distance from the coolers, avoiding either the chilly air or the temptation of raspberry sorbet. “Say what you’re thinking.”

Harua could say a lot of things, but he doesn’t think any of them would be very productive. Yuma’s dance group—the crew of like-minded twenty-somethings he ran into at some random concert, whisking him away to a busy life of k-pop covers and TikTok challenges—has always been a bit of a sore spot. It’s not like it isn’t a good fit; Yuma’s been dancing since he was in diapers, and he’s never looked more at home than he does in the videos Harua watches of him, performing at faraway locations in front of enthusiastic street crowds. It’s a dream come true for him. Harua knows that. But something still lingers, a bitter aftertaste buried in the knowledge that one day, Yuma met his group, and the next he was cancelling plans. Traveling everywhere but nearby. Dropping out of birthday party invites and weekend trips. A part of him can’t help but think that, if Yuma hadn’t broken up with his boyfriend from said dance group recently, he probably wouldn’t have shown up for this one, either.

Like Harua said. Unproductive. 

“I—” The words stick to the roof of his mouth. “I mean, isn’t it—”

“My ex left,” Yuma cuts him off, predicting the question before it’s even fully formed. “I stayed in the group. He didn’t.”

“Ah.” Harua winces. He’d suspected as much, but hearing it from Yuma’s mouth makes him feel like a jerk for even bringing it up. “My bad.”

“It’s fine. Grab those ice cream sandwiches.” Yuma nods past Harua’s shoulder at a brightly colored box—the kind of treats you’d pull out of the freezer mid-July to spice up the pool party. Harua raises an eyebrow, but obliges, retrieving it from the cooler and passing it over. Their fingers graze, sending a shock of goosebumps up his arms. He startles a little at the contact.

“Whoa.”

Yuma’s eyes lift. “What?”

It’s the first time they’ve touched since they got to the cabin. Suddenly, the weird fixation Yuma seems to have on keeping warm makes a lot more sense. “Your hands are cold,” Harua says, the response severely delayed.

“Yeah,” Yuma says blankly. He gestures at their surroundings. “It’s cold.”

“I know. I just—never mind.”

Harua shuts his mouth, feeling strangely hot despite the chill. With one last funny look, Yuma stows the ice cream sandwiches away, topping off their mountain of semi-nutritional snacks. He turns around, gesturing for Harua to follow. “All right, come on. Let’s check out before I make any more bad decisions.”

The strained air between them has returned, more awkward than ever. As he follows Yuma to the front of the store, Harua fumbles for something, anything to say. “Listen, I’m sorry for bringing it up earlier,” he blurts out. “Your ex. That wasn’t fair.”

“It’s fine,” Yuma says again, with the same half-convincing tone. He lets Harua take the lead on unloading groceries at the register, rifling through the wad of cash Maki sent them with. “Since you’re so curious, he was offered a contract overseas. Idol auditions.”

Harua, placing the last box of kettle corn onto the conveyor belt, looks up, wide-eyed. “Oh, wow. Really?”

“Yeah.” Yuma hands the friendly cashier the correct amount, declining her offer to add a sack of rock salt to their purchase in faltering but surprisingly fluent English. All the traveling must have given him practice. “He’s going to train under a big label. We all had to sign NDAs about it. Top secret shit.”

“That’s . . . crazy.” Harua thinks about the stranger from Yuma’s stories and tries to imagine him singing a bright song onstage, or doing aegyo in fancalls. Oddly, the thought is a little gratifying. He’s not going to unpack that right now. “And that’s why you broke up?”

Yuma gives a noncommittal hum. “It didn’t make sense for me to follow him.”

Together, they step through the automatic doors and into the cold. The past fifteen minutes have turned sleet into snow, a brilliant white powder already coating the parking lot. Harua watches his step as they cross the road, being careful on the off chance it’s iced over already, but his mind is elsewhere. Stuck on what Yuma just told him. 

“Why didn’t it?”

A particularly miserable gust of wind hits at just the wrong time, peppering Harua’s cheeks with snowflakes and drowning the question out. Yuma glances over his shoulder.

“What?”

“Why didn’t it make sense for you to follow him?” Harua asks, louder this time.

Yuma stops abruptly at the bumper of the car. “You’re so right, Harua,” he says. “Why not just drop everything and follow my boyfriend of four months to Korea? I must have forgotten my extra inheritance lying around.”

“No, it’s not—what I mean is—” Harua bites his tongue, frustrated. He’s showing his hand, letting on that maybe he’s done a bit more than Insta stalk Yuma’s group activities. Maybe he’s lingered on a personal post or two—slideshows of cute dates on the coast and a guy he’s never met. A guy he’ll probably never meet, now. “Didn’t you like him?”

“Oh, don’t even start.” Yuma throws open the trunk, so forcefully Harua cringes. It was the cheapest car in the lot, and he cannot afford any extra fees right now. “Are you going to scold me, o wise love guru? Call me heartless again?”

The pointedness of the question almost shocks the indignation right out of Harua. “Again? No—Yuma, I wasn’t going to say that—”

“Then what were you going to say?” Dropping the snacks into the car with a thud, Yuma turns to glare him down. It’s such a harsh look on such a rosy face, flushed from the windchill, glimmering snowflakes speckling his hair. Yuma’s always been so dissonantly dazzling when he’s upset. “That I didn’t fill my quota of romantic gestures? That I just didn’t try hard enough?”

“I just—” Harua feels helpless. Confused with Yuma, with the situation, with himself. Why does this bother him so much? Why does it matter how Yuma broke up with his stupid, sexy trainee boyfriend? “I don’t get why you’d end things over something like that. I mean, you seemed happy. Couldn’t you just do long-distance?”

“And that’s why you’ve never been with anyone,” Yuma retorts. He slams the trunk shut, and the sound is oddly muffled, insulated by the snow. “You don’t get how this works. Life isn’t a fairy tale, or a k-drama, or a sparkly shoujo anime. Not everything turns out pretty. Maybe, if you realized that, you’d actually land yourself a date or two.”

Another low blow. It pulls Harua out of the stupor, rubbing him the wrong way. “I’m not trying to argue with you, so could you stop being a dick?” he snaps, ears heating up. “All I’m saying is, maybe, if you put in the effort—”

“No.” Yuma steps forward into his space, close enough that Harua can see the mole beneath his left eye—the only recognizable part of him left. “You don’t know a thing about my love life, Harua,” he says, the words sharp and acidic. “You never have. So do me a favor and stay out of it.”

It hangs in the air, stinging harder than the winter wind whipping against Harua’s skin. He can’t clap back, even if he wanted to, because with one final glare, Yuma turns on his heel and immediately slips, falling face-first into icy asphalt. Everything moves in slow motion—the flailing of his arms, the way his expression morphs from anger to wide-eyed shock, the quiet noise of him hitting the ground, cushioned by snow. When time speeds back up, he’s motionless on the ground.

For an insane, irrational moment, Harua thinks he’s snapped his neck. “Oh my God,” he gasps, nearly going down with him as he drops to his knees. “Are you okay? Can you hear me?”

Yuma groans and rolls onto his side, body curled in pain. Still alive, at least. “Fucking hell.”

“Did you get your head? Oh, God, you’re bleeding. Here, let me just—”

“Don’t you dare touch me, Harua, or I swear I’ll make you regret it.”

So much for tactical avoidance.

ᨒ*❅

“I just don’t get what his problem with me is.”

“Yuma?”

“No, BTS’s Jung Kook.”

When Harua and Yuma returned from the store, Maki took one look at the two of them and decided to postpone movie night. He’s a real empath, that way.

Instead, they all sat around the massive dining table and ate a quiet meal of Taki’s curry—which, to Harua’s surprise, was every bit as good as he claimed. Afterwards, Yuma went straight to bed with what he claimed was a raging headache, and no one tried to fight it. Probably because the real reason he wasn’t joining their after-dinner activities was more than obvious.

Harua, determined not to throw a similar tantrum, played things off and followed the others to the back porch in his swim trunks. It took them a good twenty minutes to get the hot tub running (and to chase out all the spiders that somehow survived the cold), but the wait was well-worth it, in his opinion. He slides into the water, letting out a long sigh that turns into a yelp as Jo turns on the jets, blasting him squarely in the back. It’s searing, but strangely cathartic, too. Pummels all the tension out of his muscles.

He continues talking, hoping someone is still listening. The others haven’t shown much interest in his complaining; none of them will admit it, but Harua knows they’ve silently taken Yuma’s side. Which is completely unfair. “I mean, is it my fault he broke up with his summer fling?”

“Could be,” Maki says, in a tone of voice that’s practically begging him to shut up. Taki slides lower into the water, submerging himself all the way up to his chin. Harua doesn’t pay them any mind.

“Well, he’s acting like it is. He’s always acting like I’m making his life worse, somehow. Like dealing with me is some chore he’s stuck with. It’s not like we’re friends or anything.” It comes out whiney, a childish gripe that doesn’t match the bigger-person angle he’s trying to take, and Harua feels himself go hot. At least he can blame that on the water. “I mean,” he tries again, “I know I can be a little overbearing sometimes, but . . .”

There’s no salvaging it. The others keep quiet, all conveniently looking elsewhere, and Harua starts to wonder if he should have just gone to bed, too. 

“Yuma’s just tired,” Jo breaks the silence, climbing into the hot tub to join them. “I mean, you said he hurt himself when he fell, right?”

The question feels barbed, somehow, even though Harua knows that’s not the point. He really sounds like a douchebag, doesn't he? The guy could have cracked his skull open and here he is, moping about the fact that Yuma wouldn’t talk to him on the way home. “Not . . . that much,” he says lamely.

“You know how he gets, though.” Maki leans back, elbows propped on the slick edge of the tub. “He just has to work through his mood. He’ll be fine in the morning.”

“With you guys, maybe,” Harua mumbles. There had been a moment on the way to the store, a few minutes where things were almost normal between them again, but it didn’t last. It never does. When it comes to the others, Yuma acts like he always has, but Harua’s lucky if he even gets a taste of the way things used to be.

Another pause, slightly awkward. Harua stares at the foaming bubbles, pretending not to hear the deafening glances the others are exchanging. 

Whatever staring contest they’re having, Taki’s clearly the loser. Clearing his throat, he looks at Harua. “Did you two . . . get in a fight, or something?”

Harua slumps, letting the boiling water rise up to his clavicle. “Caught that, did you?”

“And I’m willing to bet it was because you brought up his ex,” Maki says, with a patronizing shake of his head that irks Harua.

“I wasn’t trying to start anything, okay? I was curious. Is that so bad?”

“That depends. What did you say when Yuma told you about it?”

“I—” Harua pauses, suddenly painfully self-aware. Maybe he had been pretty rude about the whole thing—even if he hadn’t meant to be. Intent has never mattered between him and Yuma, after all. Something’s always getting lost in translation.

With every second of hesitation, Taki’s expression grows more stressed. “Oh, no,” he whispers. “What did you say?”

“I . . . asked him why he didn’t try to make long distance work.”

Taki sinks even deeper into the water. Maki drops his face into his hands. Jo begins rubbing his forehead like a distressed parent—which might sting the most of all.

“What? What?” Harua sits up straight, cold air attacking the upper half of his body. “It’s a valid question!”

“You are so dumb sometimes,” Maki groans into his palms. “Like, Supreme Overlord of the Dumbasses.”

“You’re supposed to be the smart one,” Taki says, equally woeful.

For what might be the thousandth time today, Harua feels like he’s missed something important. Sure, it wasn’t the most tactful question in the world, but he hardly thinks that warrants this slander. “It doesn’t help that none of you will tell me anything. Why am I the only person who doesn’t know why Yuma hates me so much?”

This silence is guiltier than the last. Maki looks up, trying for another silent stare-off with Taki and Jo, but both of them are intently studying the bubbles. With a long-suffering sigh, he rounds on Harua.

“Okay. I’m going to need you to think really hard about this, because clearly you can’t be bothered to—”

“Maki.” Jo’s voice, gently berating. Maki takes a deep breath through his nose and starts over, a bit more graciously this time.

“So back in third year, there was this girl who confessed to Yuma. You remember that, right? The tall one with the braids.”

“She was always at his basketball games,” Taki adds. “Kozuki-kun, I think?”

“Yeah.” Maki nods. “It was a whole thing. She came up to Yuma all boldly and gave him chocolates. Asked him to meet her after school. And Yuma—”

“Yuma didn’t go,” Harua finishes for him, the memory returning piece by piece. The four of them, watching bug-eyed as she sauntered up to Yuma’s desk, heart-shaped box thrust out in front of her. The seemingly disinterested way Yuma pocketed the chocolates once she left, turning to ask Harua if he was ready to walk home. “She hunted us down at lunch the next day and demanded an explanation from him.”

Not exactly a unique scenario. Harua can think of at least five other times he watched Yuma shrug off some poor admirer—the confessions, the chocolates, the immediate moving on like it was nothing. It was always a hard watch, but this one had been a lot . . . harsher than the others. Harua thinks of Yuma, hardly looking up from his food, shoulders hunched near up to his ears as Kozuku chewed him out. He’s never been able to forget the response, biting and blunt.

“He said,” Harua continues, “that she should spend her time and effort on someone who actually wanted to go out with her.”

Taki flinches, hard, like he’s witnessing it all over again. “God. That was rough.”

Jo nods somberly. “I thought she was going to punch his lights out.”

“I wish she did, honestly.”

“Okay, I do remember,” Harua says, frowning, “but what does that have to do with anything? Where are you going with this?”

“Where I’m going with this”—Maki pokes him sharply in the arm—“is that afterwards, you got really mad at Yuma.”

That part is conveniently missing from Harua’s memory. He blinks at Maki, stunned. “I . . . did?”

“You really don’t remember? It was brutal, Harua. I’d never seen you go off on him like that.”

“You called Yuma heartless,” Jo adds, softly. “It really seemed to get to him.”

Harua looks between them, lost. It does sound like him, at the very least. He’s never approved of Yuma’s flippant approach to love—the relentless flirting he did with their classmates only to turn his nose up at any confessions that came his way. For some reason, the thoughtlessness of it all really bugged Harua. Irritated him more than it probably should have. Even given the chance to redo things, he doesn’t think he’d take back any of the scolding. Still . . .

Heartless.

That word specifically rings a bell. Stirs up their earlier conversation, right before Yuma had fallen on his face and spent the entire drive back staring moodily out the window. So that’s why it had felt so pointed. There’s still something weird about the whole thing, though. Harua remembers the confrontation with Kozuki, remembers the harsh rejection that followed, and sure, now that he thinks hard about it, maybe he does faintly recall giving Yuma a hard time about it afterwards. But, even if that’s true, Harua could have sworn it rolled right off Yuma at the time. There had been an indifferent shrug, at most—an I just wasn’t interested as he returned to his lunch.

Harua can feel the others watching him as he works through it in his head. “Anything clicking yet?” Taki asks.

No. Nothing’s clicking yet, and it’s really starting to bother him. “But—but he didn’t really seem to care, did he?Wasn’t he totally fine?”

“And that”—another painful poke from Maki—“is why you guys drive each other crazy. You don’t understand him at all.”

This is officially weird, now. Maki, of all people, lecturing him about getting along with Yuma? Maki, who’s only a step higher than him on the totem pole, enduring nearly the same amount of hellish torment? His only saving grace is that he doesn’t give Yuma the reactions he wants, making Harua the more entertaining target. That’s the only difference—isn’t it?

“So, what,” he says, a little desperately, begging for someone to give him a straight answer, “you think it did bother him? Why? It’s not like we haven’t said worse to each other.”

This pause is the longest, loudest one yet.

“Ugh, whatever.” Maki slumps backwards in defeat, sloshing water everywhere. “It’s not our business anyway.”

“I don’t know,” sighs Taki. “Maybe it kind of is. It’s been years. I’m just as tired as Harua is.”

“Well, Harua should figure it out himself. Or, better yet, actually talk to Yuma about it.”

“True.” A sage nod from Jo’s side of the tub. “Confrontation is the only real way to solve interpersonal conflict.”

This actually manages to get a smile out of Taki, who’s been looking a bit like a kicked puppy for the past ten minutes. “Finished another workplace training module, did you?” he teases, and Jo’s ears go pink.

“. . . It’s true either way.” 

None of them are paying attention to Harua anymore, leaving him to stew silently in the corner, no closer to understanding things than he was before. Trying to think about it only makes his head hurt, and the water, once a comforting warmth, is beginning to feel like it’s slow cooking him. That’s Harua: a perpetually confused, headachey lobster who ruins friend group reunions with his inability to read minds.

“Harua?”

Taki’s voice sounds distant, miles away. Harua has to blink a couple times to make him out through the steam—the concerned, somewhat sympathetic look on his face.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” Harua says. He feels dizzy, delirious; the heat must be getting to his head. “Just a little warm. I think I’ll head inside.”

“Oh,” Maki says, uncertainly. “Okay. We’ll, uh—”

“We’ll get out, too,” Taki jumps in, but Harua shakes his head. 

“No, you don’t have to. I’m probably just going to bed.” He rises unsteadily to his feet, shorts clinging to his legs as he climbs over the tub wall. “I’ll need the energy for tomorrow. Skiing, right?”

“Yeah.” Jo nods, attempting to match his half-hearted energy. “First thing in the morning.”

“Great. Can’t wait.” Grabbing a towel off a nearby chair, Harua wraps himself up, already trembling from the cold. He’s still dripping as he steps into the cabin. Dry air that still smells faintly of curry wraps around him, warming him through, and Harua takes a second to breathe it in before heading to the kitchen. Even if movie night didn’t end up happening, he thinks he deserves a taste of the snacks he put his blood, sweat, and tears into retrieving.

Clearly, he wasn’t the only person with this idea.

All the lights have been turned off, leaving the kitchen dark except for a flickering bulb above the stove and the faint light of the fireplace leaking in from in the living room. It’s so dim that Harua almost doesn’t notice Yuma leaning against the far side of the island, hand buried in a bag of veggie straws. The stove light illuminates him from the side—his thin tank top, gym shorts doubling as pajama pants, a fresh scab on his temple from the fall earlier. His head lifts when he notices Harua, towel still draped around his bare shoulders, lingering in the doorway.

“Hi,” Harua says, and it comes out small. Meek. He doesn’t have the energy to keep up the frustration from earlier—not since he’s been given so much to think about. Instead, he feels oddly . . . exposed. Yuma’s eyes, almost black in the darkness, look him over, up and down, and Harua suddenly wishes he’d gone and gotten dressed first. 

“Your snacks are in the pantry,” is all Yuma says, voice curt, before looking away again.

Still mad.

“Oh. Thanks.”

Pulling his towel closer around him, Harua makes his way over, all too conscious of the trail of water he’s leaving behind. His hands, at least, are dry enough to justify ripping open the bag of licorice and pulling out a strip. It stretches between his teeth, breaking with a loud snapping noise that seems to echo off the log walls. On his left, Yuma is still working through the veggie straws and pointedly avoiding eye contact.

“Is your head okay?” Harua asks, even though he probably shouldn’t. It’s a gutsy move—like poking a bear and hoping it welcomes you with open arms instead of ripping your face off.

Yuma takes his time in responding, fishing out another veggie straw and popping it into his mouth. “Had a bit of a headache earlier, but the painkillers helped.”

“Oh. That’s good.” Harua should really just leave it at that, but his mouth keeps moving. “I wanted to apologize, by the way. I mean, it was kind of my fault you—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Yuma interrupts. He crinkles up the top of the bag and sets it on the counter behind him. “I was just in a bad mood. I took it out on you.”

It would be reassuring if Harua didn’t know, now, that things weren’t as simple as that. Not if anything the others told him is true. “I just . . .” He shifts from one foot to another, restless. “I push too much sometimes. And if I’ve ever said anything mean because of that, I—”

“I said it’s all right, Harua. You didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it, and we both know that. We can move on.” Yuma nudges the bag of veggie straws down the counter, endlessly determined not to look at him. “Put this away, will you?”

Jo’s voice echoes in Harua’s head—something about interpersonal conflict and confrontation and workplace modules. He ignores the veggie straws, turning to face Yuma. “I know you don’t like me,” he says. “And I know that it’s probably my fault. But I really want to fix it. Maybe, if we just talked about things, we could—”

For the third time, Yuma doesn’t let him finish, a sharpness in his voice that wasn’t there before. “Listen, I don’t know what kinds of ideas those three put in your head, but I’m fine. We’re fine. I like to joke around, and sometimes that bleeds into me being an asshole. I’m working on it. So quit acting like I’m a piece of homework, or something.”

“I just—” Harua swallows, moving closer but not close enough. It’s like Yuma’s surrounded by an invisible force field, keeping him at arm’s length. “I miss the way things used to be, I guess.”

Finally, Yuma looks over—eyes lightless, mouth pressed into a thin line, posture shrunk and withdrawn. It’s nothing like the artificial Yuma he spoke with earlier, but not quite the Yuma he used to know, either. Harua studies him and tries to imagine still-dark hair, teeth with braces, constantly bandaged knuckles.

“We’re grown up, now,” Yuma says, sounding a lot more exhausted than angry all of a sudden. “Things are never going to be the same. You just have to live with that.”

His shoulder brushes against Harua’s as he passes, bare skin dragging roughly against the towel. Harua watches him disappear down the hall and feels the leftover heat from the tub drain from his body, leaving him shivering. 

He puts the veggie straws away, but doesn't follow Yuma down the hall. Instead, he finds himself in the living room in front of the fireplace, staring into the amber flames. Just five minutes, Harua tells himself, and then he’ll go to bed. Just until he’s warm again.

ᨒ*❅

A few months ago, a good chunk into the school semester, Harua experienced what he now fondly remembers as his “First Year Crash-and-Burn.” August was bleeding into a moody September, he had just received his first less-than-average test score ever, and the guy he’d been texting on and off since they met at orientation was ghosting him. More than once, Harua considered calling his parents and begging them to come pick him up. The only thing holding him back was the few remaining slivers of his pride. 

His roommate, seeming to catch onto the general doom and gloom hanging over the dorm, took pity, inviting Harua to go bar hopping with him and a few friends. It’s an evening Harua hardly remembers, full of strangers and noise and low-grade alcohol. At one point, a few beers and a few bars in, he’d split off from the group, miserably nursing his drink at the counter while the others rented a karaoke room. 

Alcohol’s never done much for Harua—all it really changes is his already iffy emotional regulation skills and his ability to speak coherent sentences. This night was no different. In a brief surge of boldness, he’d pulled out his phone, prepared to text his neglectful situationship and ask him to come over. Instead, he found himself on Instagram, staring straight into the face of Nakakita Yuma.

It was a recent post, uploaded two hours prior. Yuma’s hair was still blonde, back then, and gleamed under dappled sunlight as he grinned at the camera, entangled in the arms of a dark-haired guy Harua didn’t recognize. 

Hard launch, the caption read. Best summer ever. >⩊<

Harua had never seen him use a kaomoji before.

He still isn’t sure why that was what pushed him over the edge, but before Harua knew it, he was in Yuma’s DMs typing a short essay. It was messy paragraph, full of typos and grievances—things that had been sitting with him for a while, like Yuma skipping out on their recent reunion for a convention overseas, and other things that didn’t make much sense at all, like the fact that he never wore his favorite hoop earrings in pictures anymore. Harua’s fingers moved faster than his head, seeming to know everything he wanted to say before he did.

The memory gets a little fuzzy again, here. Either Harua got distracted, came to his senses and bailed, or blacked out completely. All he remembers is peeling his face off the cold bar top thirty minutes later to find his phone still open in his hand, displaying a much older post of Yuma’s from earlier in the summer. Bolting upright, Harua scrolled back to the top of the page and felt his stomach sink in subdued horror.

He’d liked all of Yuma’s posts. Every last one.

Panicking, he hurried to unsend his drunken rant text, only to find it still drafted in the chatbox. The relief only lasted a moment before a fresh wave of paranoia took its place. Harua spent the next twenty minutes or so scrolling through Yuma’s entire Instagram page, scanning videos of him onstage, group pictures with semi-familiar faces, smiling selfies on the beach. It was a little sickening, how happy Yuma looked in them.

Aside from the spam likes, Harua didn’t seem to have done much damage. Only one post, nearly four months old, had a new comment—one he quickly deleted.

rururu055
miszz youuu

He hasn't gone drinking since.

ᨒ*❅

Harua wakes up with his spine touching the bed frame and a painful crick in his neck.

Sometime around 4:30 in the morning, he’d opened his eyes to find himself curled on the couch in the living room, still wearing his swim trunks and the fireplace reduced to smouldering embers in front of him. His damp towel had been spread over him, along with one of the throw blankets from a nearby loveseat. The gesture reeked faintly of Taki.

With some effort, Harua had dragged himself to his room and into the proper bed, but couldn’t for the life of him remember how he’d made it comfortable earlier. After a few minutes of struggling, he gave up, resigning himself to tossing and turning for the next three hours, desperate to drift off for even a minute while being slowly assimilated into the mattress.

Long story short, he should have taken the bunk bed. On the bright side of things, there’s snow on the ground this morning.

The brightness nearly blinds Harua when he opens the curtains, squinting through the window at what used to be rows of unfrosted pine trees. It isn’t the massive snowfall the forecast had predicted, but it’ll hopefully be enough to make the ski tickets worthwhile. 

This thought brings some energy back to Harua’s exhausted body. Flying down the slopes. Drinking hot cocoa. Riding the lift up the mountain. After what feels like years of tentative planning, endless someday’s, they’re finally doing it. Somehow, he’d almost forgotten the entire reason they were here. What the trip had been all about in the first place.

It isn’t until he’s showered, scrubbing out all the leftover chlorine and blow-drying his dark hair, that Harua remembers the reason why he hadn’t had time to feel excited yesterday. The foreboding, Yuma-shaped elephant in the room.

It’s fine. He shakes it off, puts on deodorant, scrubs his teeth until they’re sparkling. If Yuma won’t tell him what’s wrong, fine. If his friends want to keep being annoyingly cryptic about it, whatever. But Harua’s not letting things be weird—not when they’ve all waited so long to do this. They’re going to the ski resort, it’s going to be awesome, and Harua is going to be so pleasant it’ll force Yuma to like him again.

Or not.

“Yuma’s not coming,” is the first thing Jo says when Harua walks into the dining room. Predictably, he looks the most well-rested, all dressed and ready at the table. On his right, Taki nurses a steaming cup of coffee, blinking the sleep from his eyes.

The news has Harua stopping in his tracks. So much for months of planning. “He’s not that mad at me, is he?” he asks.

Jo shakes his head. “He caught a cold overnight, I think. Won’t even leave his bed.”

“I can vouch for that,” Taki yawns. “He was hacking like crazy earlier. It woke me up.”

“Oh. Geez.” Was that Harua’s fault, too? Maybe if he hadn’t made Yuma slip on ice, or kept him out in the cold arguing—well, the slipping wasn’t really his fault at all, but still. Maybe he’s just automatically at fault for every bad thing that’s ever happened to Yuma.

“It sucks, but we’ll have to go without him,” Maki says, with an air of finality. He’s standing at the island with three different travel brochures laid out in front of him—and, more noticeably, massive bags under his eyes. So the “liking hard mattresses” claim was a bluff, after all. “Too much planning went into today. We’ve got dinner reservations and everything.”

Sticking a bowl of leftover curry in the microwave, Harua takes the seat next to Taki at the table. “He doesn’t want to come to dinner?”

“He . . . looked pretty miserable,” Jo replies, voice evasive and eyes downcast. Yuma must have directly turned the offer down.

“Huh.” Harua bites the inside of his cheek, processing the news. Looking at it from one angle, this might actually be the best case scenario. No Yuma means no tension on the ski lift. No risk of fights over dinner. No pitying looks from the others as Harua desperately scrambles to figure out what grievous sin he’s committed to tarnish their friendship like this.

No Yuma also means no answers. No chance of picking up the pieces. And, God damn it all, Harua really wants to figure this out.

“Maybe I’ll stay back with him,” he says, the words faint. Almost an afterthought.

He might as well have screamed it. Taki and Jo look up, equally shocked. Maki jerks up from the brochures like someone’s put a brand on him.

“You?” Taki asks, carefully, like he’s still giving Harua a chance to change his mind. “Stay back with Yuma? You?”

Well, he is now. Can’t exactly back out of this one. “Someone needs to look after him, right?” Harua replies, trying his best to sound like he’s thought this through even a little bit. “I owe him one, anyway. His weekend’s been pretty terrible because of me.”

“True,” Maki says, brow furrowed, “but are you absolutely, one-hundred-percent sure? We’ve been planning this trip for years. I figured you wouldn’t want to miss the actual skiing part.”

“I don’t,” Harua admits. In fact, there’s a selfish part of him that’s protesting at his own impulsiveness, campaigning for change of heart. He ignores it as best as he can. “But imagine how Yuma feels. At least this way he won’t have to be alone all day. And maybe we can . . .” Harua trails off, unsure of what to say next. Make up? Go a record six hours without arguing? Neither seem very likely.

Whatever the incomplete thought is, Jo seems to agree with his rationale. “That’s fine,” he says. He glances at the other two. “It’s fine, isn’t it?”

Maki frowns, still looking reluctant—like he’s worried the two of them will tear each other apart while he’s gone. “I guess so, if that’s really what you want to do. But your ticket—”

“I’ll call the resort and see if I can get it refunded. Better wait, though.” Harua glances down the hall, towards the room where Yuma’s sealed away. “If he really doesn’t want me around, I’ll just catch up with you guys.”

“Fine by me,” Taki chirps. He drains the last drops of his coffee before standing up. “I was worried about Yuma being by himself all day, anyway. This might give you two a chance to talk about things for once.”

(Harua decides not to tell him that he tried that already. That this is a doomed operation, one that he really should just give up on while he still has the chance.)

“I don’t know if Yuma does talking,” Maki says dubiously, but grabs his car keys off the counter, slipping the brochures into his backpack. “I’ll keep my phone on me, so call if you need anything. And if you do end up coming, drive carefully. The roads are supposed to be slick today.”

“Exactly why we’re letting you drive,” Jo agrees, with an apologetic look at Taki that earns him a pout in response. In the blink of an eye, the three of them are geared up and halfway out the door, clad in enough winter wear to dress a giant snowman. “Tell Yuma we’ll miss him.”

“Just Yuma?” Harua sighs. “What about me?”

“You’re willingly imprisoning yourself with the enemy,” Maki, last to step outside, replies over his shoulder. “All we’re feeling is pity.”

And with that, he shuts the door, trapping an flurry of snowflakes inside. They instantly melt against the wooden flooring, and Harua stares at them, feeling the slightest trace of regret. Maybe he should have gone with them. Maybe trying to stay will do more harm than good.

Oh, well. He’s clearly never cared to consider what Yuma wanted in the past. Why start now?

After finishing his breakfast, Harua breezes through the kitchen, spinning up a plan of action as he goes. All he really knows is it would be reckless to approach Yuma unarmed. He needs a peace offering, something to act as a buffer between them—and he’s got a whole kitchen’s worth of material to work with.

First, he digs a plastic-wrapped breakfast sandwich out of the freezer and starts heating it up in the microwave. Then he scours the cupboards. Despite being barren yesterday, forcing them to go to the store for snacks, they’re stocked with plenty in the way of tea and hot cocoa. Harua even finds a bag of cough drops that don’t seem to be too old in a junk drawer. He tosses his spread onto the island, admires it briefly, and then looks for something to plate it with. 

No fancy platters or large dishes to be seen, but there is a large wooden cheeseboard stashed beneath the oven that will do the trick. The microwave beeps, and Harua gingerly retrieves the scalding sandwich, wrapping it in a paper towel and placing it at the center of the board. Next comes a granola bar from his backpack, a steaming mug of honeyed herbal tea, and a generous heap of Yuma’s infamous veggie straws. In between it all, he scatters a smattering of yellow-wrapped cough drops. Stepping back to look over the whole thing, Harua can’t help but feel a little pleased with himself. Maybe Taki isn’t the only aspiring chef in town.

Now, for the hard part: the delivery.

It takes some maneuvering, but Harua only loses a few cough drops and a splash of hot tea on the way down the hall to Yuma’s room, precariously balancing the cheeseboard across both arms. He can’t exactly knock on the door, so he’s forced to tap it lightly with his foot, praying it doesn’t sound too aggressive.

Silence.

“Yuma?” Harua calls out.

Nothing.

Maybe Yuma’s asleep. If so, Harua should probably leave him alone. He didn’t really account for that, though; what if the tea gets cold?

He kicks the door again.

Yuma’s voice, crabby and even raspier than usual, comes from inside. “What?”

“It’s me,” Harua replies, undaunted.

“Go away. I said I’m not coming.”

“I know. The others left already. It’s just me.”

A pause. “. . . Why?”

“I’m here to take care of you.”

Harua realizes, the moment he says it, just how weird that sounds, but it would be even weirder to amend it. Instead, he stands his ground, waiting for Yuma’s response and ignoring the screaming protest in his forearms.

There’s some shuffling from inside, a few throaty coughs, and, finally, the door scrapes open. Yuma, still in his pajamas, regards him through the crack—hair messy, eyes puffy, nose already red from tissue abuse. He looks like a mess.

So why does the sight have Harua’s stomach fluttering nervously?

“I don’t need you to take care of me,” Yuma says, a hint of irritation in his audibly sore throat. Despite this, his eyes drop to study Harua’s offerings—specifically the hot tea. “I’m a grown man, dumbass. Why’d you stay?”

“We were all supposed to go together. It didn’t feel right abandoning you.” Harua extends his arms slightly, giving him a better look at the spread. “I figured I might as well make myself useful. Will you take it, at least?”

Yuma looks between him and the board a few times, clearly contemplating just snatching the thing and slamming the door in his face. Finally, he sighs and steps back, opening the door fully. “Bring it in.”

The room, which Yuma occupied with kingly triumph the day before, has been hit by a diseased tornado. Tissues litter the bedside table, a pile of bedding sits atop the mattress (Yuma must have raided the linen closets sometime last night), and the curtains are drawn, leaving the area dimly lit by the burner lamp on the dresser. If Yuma didn’t look so miserable, Harua would crack a joke about bears and hibernation. Time and place, he reminds himself. He’s trying to get on his good side today.

Harua eases the board onto the dresser, and Yuma grabs the mug of tea before retreating back to his bed, perching on the only edge not covered in fleeces and duvets. He blows on it, chapped lips puckered, before taking a sip—and immediately grimacing.

“Eugh. How much honey did you put in here?”

“I . . . wasn’t sure how you liked it.”

Shaking his head, Yuma drinks again, evaluating the taste. “Too much is better than too little, I guess.”

Not quite approval, not quite appreciation, but Harua will take it. “There are cough drops, too,” he says. “It seems like your throat’s messed up, so . . .”

A neutral hum from Yuma, staring hard into his tea. Looks like he’s back to the no-eye-contact game. Oh, well. Harua’s worked with less; he’s been friends with Jo since high school.

Tentatively, he drifts closer to the bed. “Do you think you caught it before you came? You seemed fine yesterday.”

“I probably caught it,” Yuma replies into his mug, “when I slipped and fell on ice during a snowstorm yesterday.”

“Oh.” Harua feels like an idiot. “That’s . . . probably what did it, yeah.”

Yuma looks up, unimpressed eyes boring into him. “Okay. You brought me your little care package. You can leave, now.”

“Huh?”

“What, are you going to sing me to sleep, too? I think I know how to eat a sandwich and suck on a few cough drops.”

“No, I just—” Harua’s throat closes around the words. Yuma is staring at him like he’s an insane person, but there’s something less prickly behind it, too. Less like anger and more like sheepishness. Why would Yuma be embarrassed? This whole thing is Harua’s fault.

“Listen.” Yuma’s voice, sounding resigned, pulls him out of his head. “If you’re still trying to make up for last night, this is more than enough. We’re cool. It wasn’t a big deal anyway. Now go”—he gestures to the still-open doorway—“and have the ski trip you paid for.”

Ten minutes ago, Harua was so sure that he could strong arm Yuma into letting him stay. That he’d be so overbearingly sweet, Yuma would have to come around. All of that confidence is gone now. Suddenly, he’s wondering if he really should just leave it at tea and cough drops. That’s still an act of goodwill, right? If Yuma really wants to be friends with him again, he’ll pursue it on his own time.

The thoughts clash with Harua’s stubborn nature—the need to see this through to the end—but he also wasn’t prepared to feel so . . . unprepared. Shy, almost. What’s wrong with him? It’s just Yuma.

“Okay,” Harua says, a second too late for the response to sound genuine. With a shrug that fails just as miserably at looking casual, he makes for the door. “I guess I’ll see you later, then.”

Yuma nods, back turned to him as Harua slips out the door. “Bye.”

Well. That’s that.

Harua tries to reassure himself, as he trudges down the hall and towards his room, that he tried his best. Now Yuma won’t feel completely forsaken, and Harua will get to ski with a semi-clear conscience and the knowledge that he did everything he could. Maybe he can catch up before Maki gets good enough to leave them all in the snow dust. He can practically taste the hot cocoa already, smell the overpriced gift shop air—he did promise his roommate he would bring back a coffee mug.

All of these plans crumble to dust when Harua steps into his room and looks out the window.

For a few seconds, he’s not sure what he’s seeing. It doesn’t look like anything at all. A pure, white slate. Then, gradually, it registers. When he woke up there was snow on the ground, sure, but this—

It’s a blizzard.

Fat snowflakes come down in veil-like sheets, tossing tree branches and beating relentlessly against the windows. Icy wind roars, coating anything left uncovered in frost and powder. Stepping up to the glass, Harua looks down and finds the snow almost halfway up to his windowsill already.

He hurries down the hall, skidding into the living room to get another view. The front porch is gone, his car halfway buried, and the storm shows no signs of stopping. How did that happen so quickly? Harua was too busy preparing his sick kit to pay much attention to the weather, but that couldn’t have taken more than twenty minutes.

Well, the logistics of it don’t matter. What does is the fact that he’s not going anywhere, now—whether he likes it or not.

With no other option, Harua heads back to Yuma’s room—to tell him what, he isn’t sure. (Hey, there’s a big dramatic snowstorm happening outside, so now you’re stuck with me. Ready to hash out all of our many problems yet?) But Yuma is already staring out the window when he gets there, the curtains drawn back and flooding the room with harsh light. He turns to look at Harua as he enters.

“I’m snowed in,” Harua explains hastily, but for once, Yuma doesn’t seem pissed at him. His expression borders more on worry than anything else.

“Do you think Maki got caught in it?”

“Oh, God.” Right. Maki. The others. Harua hadn’t even considered that. He only feels like a bad friend for a second before shaking it off and dialing Taki’s number. Yuma watches, mug still cradled in his hands, as the phone rings one, two, three times. On the fourth, Harua’s stomach sinks.

Then Taki picks up.

“Harua?”

“Taki,” Harua exhales. There’s a puff of relieved air from Yuma on his right. “Are you guys okay? We’re completely trapped in here.”

“We’re fine. Luckily, we were already here when the storm hit.” The other end is noisy, Taki’s voice fighting to be heard over what must be a horde of inconvenienced skiiers. “We might be stuck here a while, though. One of the employees said it’s going to be snowing all day.”

“All day,” Harua repeats bleakly. Yuma head dips in a silent groan.

“They’ve got food and emergency supplies here, so we’ll be fine, but will you—” Taki’s voice is cut off by another familiar one, seemingly nearby and thoroughly annoyed.

“—of course the one goddamn weekend we’re all available the blizzard of the century has to—”

“Sorry.” Taki again. Harua can hear him moving, probably to find somewhere quieter. “Maki’s trying to get our tickets refunded. Jo’s playing good cop. Will you and Yuma be okay?”

“I think so,” Harua says, racking his brain. At least one good thing came out of their store run yesterday. “If worst comes to worst, we’ll just eat our movie snacks. And we’ve got plenty of blankets.”

Some more unintelligible noise crackles over the receiver, along with a voice that might be Jo’s. Then Taki comes back. “Okay, good. Because people are saying there might be power outages—”

With almost eerie timing, Yuma’s bedside lamp flickers off. Harua and Yuma stare at it for a moment, then at each other, faces equally grim. Somehwere in the distance, the faithful hum of the heating system hiccups, then dies completely.

Great.

“I think ours just went out,” Harua tells Taki.

“What? Sorry, can’t—getting really—breaking up—” His words struggle through the speaker, fighting overpower the static, before falling silent. Harua stays on the call for another minute or so, trying in vain to be heard, but it’s no use. They’re on their own.

“Be safe,” he finally says, just in case Taki can still hear him on the other end. “Call me back if you can.”

As he hangs up, Yuma’s eyes bore into him from the side, expectant.

“Power’s out.”

“Yeah,” Yuma replies. “I gathered that.”

“I’ll go grab my blankets.”

“What?”

“We need to conserve heat,” Harua says, mentally running through what little he remembers about power outage protocol. “And since you’re sick, and have the better bed, we should probably stay in here.”

Yuma’s eyes widen in alarm. “What?”

Harua takes a moment to pray for patience before continuing. 

“Yuma. Relax. I’m not going to cuddle you. I’m just saying we should try not to freeze to death.” With what he hopes is authority, he nods at Yuma’s pile of bedding. “Put one of the big blankets over the window. Once I get back, we’ll hang one over the doorway, too.”

He doesn’t wait for Yuma’s response, turning on his heel and hurrying down the hall. His head’s a mess, crammed with overlapping thoughts, an irritated undertone to it all. This isn’t going anything like he planned. He’d mistakenly assumed Yuma would accept his efforts to make amends with open arms, and instead, things have never been more awkward. And now, on top of that, they’re going to be stuck in the same room all day.

The worst part is that Harua wished for this. He’s getting his one-on-one time with Yuma, the perfect opportunity to make things right. He can’t exactly be mad about it, but he can’t pretend he’s looking forward to the next few hours, either. Not after how the previous two attempts at reconnection went.

First thing’s first. He has to insulate a room.

Harua strips his bed, throwing the bundle of sheets and blankets over his shoulder like a makeshift Santa Clause before heading to the kitchen for their movie snacks. It occurs to him, on the way back, that no power means no phones or TV, so he stops by the game room too, topping off his survival kit with a deck of cards. It’ll be something to do—a distraction, at the very least.

Yuma is back on the bed when he returns, already wrapped in one of the duvets. His eyes follow Harua warily as he comes in—a sight that, weirdly, reminds Harua of his roommate’s cat. Always watching him carefully, like she hasn’t decided if he’s a threat or another provider of food.

Yuma’s got a lot in common with that cat, actually.

“I brought cards,” Harua says, flashing the box at Yuma before setting it on the dresser with the snacks. He tosses the pile of bedding at the foot of the bed. “I’m going to see if they have a lighter and candles somewhere. A lantern, if we’re lucky.”

Yuma shifts indecisively in his cocoon. “I can help look.”

“No.” It comes out a little too quickly, and Harua feels himself flush. “You stay here and rest. The last thing we need is you getting sicker.”

The eye roll this comment earns him is an all-timer. Probably one of Yuma’s best. “It’s the common cold, Harua. I’m not dying.”

“Stay,” Harua repeats, firmly, holding out his hands for good measure. Yuma’s voice echoes indignantly after him as he leaves again.

“And I’m not a dog, either!”

After some rummaging, Harua finds a lighter underneath some old mail in the junk drawer, but there’s no sign of candles anywhere—aside from the half-burnt one scenting the bathroom. It’ll have to do. He takes it, plus a small flashlight in the storage closet, before heading back with his spoils.

Yuma’s in the same spot, but the get-well spread has been relocated to the bedside table, already missing a cough drop or two. There are a few bites taken out of the breakfast sandwich—which has probably gone ice cold, now that Harua thinks about it. Oops.

“All right,” he says, turning to stare out into the hallway and process his last moments of freedom. “I’m barring us in.”

Yuma raises no objections. He pulls his knees to his chest and watches as Harua closes the door, struggling to wedge a sheet into the cracks. “Do you have a secret survivalist history I don’t know about?” he asks, voice dry but amused.

Harua teeters on his tiptoes, barely brushing the top of the doorframe with his fingertips. Did giants design this cabin? “You know how my parents were. Overly prepared. Paranoid as hell. That stuff sticks with you.”

“God, that’s right. I almost forgot.” Yuma laughs, a thoughtful pause following that he’s quick to fill. “Remember when we were all over for your birthday, and they—”

“Gave everyone a lecture on fire safety,” Harua finishes for him monotonously. How could he forget? Fourteen years old and sitting at the end of the table, watching the wax slowly melt on his birthday candles as his father explained to his friends how to stop, drop, and roll in detail. Most of Harua’s friends had humored him, nodding along in unison, Taki even chiming in with the occasional clarifying question. Yuma, on the other hand, kept swiveling his neck to catch Harua’s eye, relishing in his embarrassment with a barely repressed grin. Harua wasn’t able to keep up a glare for long, eventually cracking with a snicker that reminded his parents what they were all there for. “And you wondered why I didn’t invite you guys over more often.”

“Aw, don’t be like that. Your mom was cool. She always had gum in her purse.”

Harua snorts, shaking his head. Teenage Yuma, prone to fighting, flirting, and chewing gum. He used to be such a character. “Your number one dealer.”

“I miss her. How’s she doing, anyway? Does she mention me?”

“She still carries gum in her purse, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he thinks he sees Yuma smile a little before looking away, out the window again. “Well, let’s hope a snowstorm is the only natural disaster we have to handle today.”

Harua finally gets the sheet to stay put, standing back to admire his handiwork. “Agreed.”

With that taken care of, he moves onto lighting the candle, providing them with a pine-scented bubble of heat. Then it’s onto the windows, sealing up any gaps with another sheet before drawing the curtains shut. Deciding to tidy up a bit too, just for good measure, he sweeps Yuma’s tissues off the bedside table, replacing them with the flashlight and a bag of chips. Harua’s just about to start arranging the snacks on the dresser when he hears a cough from behind him—the hesitant, non-sick kind.

“Uh, Harua?”

His hand freezes, sunk halfway into the grocery bag. “Yeah?”

“Why don’t you . . . sit down?”

Something sheepish washes over Harua as he looks over his shoulder. Yuma’s regarding him with bewilderment, face flushed between the swaddled blankets. Is he overheating already?

The sight, inexplicably, makes Harua feel skittish. A little warm himself. When was the last time the two of them were alone like this? Not at the store, not in the car, but alone alone. It had to have been back in high school—the summer festival, maybe? The two of them on the school roof, watching the fireworks and not talking about graduation just around the corner. Their last sliver of normal.

“I’m, uh, moving around,” Harua says. Pumps his arms for effect. “Keeping my blood flowing.”

“Right,” Yuma says, the word drawn out and skeptical. “Well, you can stop. No one else is here, and I really couldn’t care less that my room looks like shit right now.”

“Okay. Let me just move—”

“Harua. Put the licorice down.”

“. . . All right.” Meekly, Harua sets the grocery sack down, turning to grab a blanket from the pile instead. As he crouches to fetch a yellow fleece, something jumps out at him from the other side of the bed: Yuma’s still open suitcase, covered in stickers, souvenirs from all the places he’s been without Harua—without them all, rather. They’re not what catches Harua’s eye, though. He tilts his head slightly, studying a flash of pale plastic dangling from the suitcase handle. A keychain.

It’s Meowth.

“You brought cards, right?” Yuma asks from above, and Harua shoots up, pretending he didn’t see anything. For some reason, the realization has his skin buzzing—the thrill of keeping an untold secret. “Let’s play something.”

“Sure.” Wrapping the fleece around his shoulders, Harua turns back towards the dresser. “Go Fish?”

“Ugh. Fine.”

“No blackjack. Sorry.”

“You’re no fun.”

“I’m ethically against gambling.”

“Just get over here and deal, wise guy.”

Despite the initial bickering, what follows might be the quietest round of Go Fish ever—and considering Yuma is involved, that’s impressive. The cabin is eerily silent without the others, without the whirring of the heating system or the distant sound of the TV. It’s like they’re the only people left on earth. Neither of them make conversation outside of the game, falling into a dull drone of questions and answers. 

Any aces? Go fish. Do you have jacks? Two, actually. 

Snowflakes smack against the windows, Yuma pops in another cough drop, and Harua eats a handful of chips, taking care not to get any crumbs on the covers. With only the faint light of the candle, it’s hard to even see what’s on the cards. Harua’s pretty sure new wrinkles are forming from all the squinting he’s doing.

Yuma wins the first game—a swift and decisive victory—and, with nothing else to do, Harua begins reshuffling the deck for round two. It’s already getting colder, and his fingers stiffen with the chill, accidentally letting a few cards slip loose. With a muttered curse, he reaches out to collect them, only for Yuma to do the same thing. Their fingers brush in the middle.

Harua freezes. Somehow, even with a fever, Yuma’s hands still manage to be cold.

“Sorry.” He pulls back slightly, feeling a rush of embarrassment at the raised eyebrow Yuma gives him. “Did you . . . want to shuffle?”

With an exasperated noise, Yuma just leans in closer, reaching past the cards for Harua’s fleece—which must have slipped off at some point during the game. In one quick, efficient movement, he pulls it back over Harua’s shoulder, fingernails dragging lightly against his shirtsleeve. Instinctively, Harua shivers.

“Thanks,” he says, the word sounding strangely loud. He’s already warmer than before.

“Don’t mention it,” Yuma replies, contrastingly quiet. “Can’t have you freezing or whatever.”

“Right. Very considerate of you.”

Swiftly, Yuma shrinks back to his end of the bed, leaving an ocean of mattress between them. It’s weird; his overconfident aura, always straining to fill the room and make itself known, is nowhere to be seen now. Maybe it’s just the sickness, but Yuma seems . . . smaller today. Meeker.

Maybe Yuma can read minds, too, because he clears his throat, changing the subject. “Speaking of which, how was the hot tub last night? I never asked.”

“Good, once we got it working. A few spiders in the jets, though.”

Yuma shudders. “Ew.”

Thinking about the hot tub leads Harua down other, uncomfortable roads. Vague conversations. Terse exchanges under dim kitchen light. He gets back to dealing, trying to keep his hands busy. “Maybe once the power comes back on, we can go try it out.”

Yuma looks at him like he’s gone mad. “In this weather?”

“The porch is covered.”

“Yeah, covered. Not heated.” For a moment, the crisp sound of shuffling is the only noise in the room. Yuma worries his lip, looking down at the cards before speaking again. “So. About our conversation yesterday.”

Harua carefully counts the cards as he sets them down, making sure no extras slip into Yuma’s hand (because he swears that’s the reason he won last round). “Which one?”

“The one about my breakup.”

An immediate warning goes off in Harua’s head—a sixth sense, urging him to proceed with caution. Alert: Loaded Conversation. Trap Likely. He swallows, setting the deck down between them with the care of someone handling a grenade. “I thought we’d pretty much exhausted that topic.”

“Not quite. I’ve got a follow-up question.” Yuma scoops up his cards, sorting them at an unhurried pace. “How did you know we split? That was only, like, a week ago. There’s no way you actually Insta stalk me that much.”

Harua’s ears get hot. He keeps his mouth shut, focusing on organizing his own hand. Yuma arches a brow, even higher than before.

“Do you?”

“. . . I keep up with everyone. Not just you.”

“We hang out for one day and you immediately demand the inside scoop on my ex-boyfriend. I dunno, Rua. Sounds like you might be obsessed with me.”

It’s just a lighthearted taunt, the kind Harua can usually turn back on him with a cheeky grin, but for some reason it leaves him flustered. Off his game. “Sue me for wanting to keep tabs on a friend.”

A hum. “Maki’s seeing someone new. You knew about that, right?”

That’s a lie. Harua really hopes it is, at least, because if not that makes him a stalker and a negligent friend. “Maki’s different,” he deflects. “He’s always going out with someone. You didn’t even start dating until after we graduated.”

“Neither did you,” Yuma points out.

“That’s different, too. You actually had a choice.”

Yuma doesn’t address this directly, expression smoothing back into its normal loftiness as he plucks a card with two fingers, moving it to the other side of his hand. “I didn’t realize my dating life was so fascinating to you.”

Harua bites his tongue, holding back some choice words.

“Let’s just play,” he says, moving on before Yuma can tease him into a corner. “I’ll go first. Any kings?”

“Go fish.” The corners of Yuma’s mouth twitch, the way they always do when he’s supressing a smile. Usually when he’s trying his best not to laugh at Harua for being an airhead. It feels like it’s been years since Harua’s seen it. “If you wanted to ‘keep tabs on a friend,’ you could have just DMed me, you know.”

It’s not like Harua hasn’t thought about it—usually only in his lowest moments, though. There’s no way he’s telling Yuma about those. He chews on the inside of his cheek. “I dunno. You’ve always seemed so . . . busy. Out of all of us, you’re the one who actually went and had a life.”

“You think the others don’t have lives?”

“Jobs, school, rent, rinse, repeat. It’s not exactly thrilling.”

“Hmm. Two’s?”

“Go fish.”

Yuma puffs air between his lips and plucks a card from the pile. “It’s fun and all, but some stability would be nice. You wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve wished I had Maki’s dumb corporate job.”

“But you’re so good at what you do,” Harua says, before realizing that this isn’t going to do his stalking image any favors. He hurries to elaborate, avoiding the inquisitive glance Yuma gives him. “I mean—your dancing videos appear on my feed, sometimes. You’re really talented. It’d be wasted in a stuffy old office building.”

This time, Yuma does let a smile slip through. “What did I say?” he sings. “Obsessed.”

Harua frowns. He could have at least accepted the compliment. “Well, if I’m so obsessed—”

“It’s your turn.”

“Fine. Sevens?”

“Take them.” Yuma tosses two cards across the bedspread. “Go on.”

“If I’m the obsessed one,” Harua continues, relentless, “why is Meowth hanging off your suitcase right now? You told me you didn’t know where he was.”

He’s expecting Yuma to have a calculated response to this, but he doesn’t. Something flickers across his expression, almost guilty, and his eyes dart towards where his suitcase is still lying on the floor. “Damn. Is that, uh, really still on there?” he muses, completely unconvincingly. “I totally forgot.”

A victorious feeling rises in Harua’s chest. “Oh, bullshit.”

“What do you mean, bullshit? Give me your eights.”

“Go fish. There’s no way you forgot that quickly.”

“I’ve got a bad memory. You know that.”

“Not bad enough to forget about a high school grudge.”

Yuma looks up, this time in genuine confusion. “Huh?”

Shit. It slipped out.

This isn’t a good time to bring it up. Maybe there never will be a good time to bring it up. Harua hesitates, torn. Will Yuma even want to talk about it? Or is he going to be shut out yet again, forced to spend the rest of the storm in shivering silence?

They’re doing so well. Maybe it’s not even worth the risk.

“Harua?” Yuma presses, and there’s apprehension there, but also curiosity. Something Harua could almost call concern.

It’s going to have to be. They can’t keep doing this every few months. Harua came for answers, and he’s going to get them.

“You know,” he says at last. “Two years ago.”

He’s hoping Yuma will catch on, but all he gets is a dead-eyed stare. “Ah, yes. So specific. Definitely know what you’re talking about.”

“You do, though. You—you brought it up.”

“Brought what up?”

Yuma’s voice is taking a dangerous turn again, the same one that preceded their argument in the parking lot, their snappy exchange on the porch. Unfortunately, Harua’s going to ignore it today, too.

“Yesterday,” he begins, treading cautiously, “you asked if I was going to call you heartless again. Like I’d called you that before.”

It hits the mark. Yuma’s casual carelessness ices over, just barely noticeable. He retreats into his blanket, staring hard at the cards in his hands. “I don’t remember using the word ‘again,’” he says after a moment.

“Well, you did.” This is coming out all wrong—accusatory, like they’re having a courtroom debate instead of the heart-to-heart Harua wants it to be. He clears his throat, mellowing out his words. “You were talking about that time in third year, weren’t you? When you rejected that girl at lunch.”

“Ugh.” The cards tip out of Yuma’s hand, falling face-down onto the bed as he slumps forward, running a hand through his hair. “That wasn’t exactly ideal for me, either, you know. Having to do it front of everyone.”

“Really? Because to me, you seemed . . .” Mean? Brash? Tactless? All likely to win him a black eye. Harua chooses his next words carefully. “Unbothered about it. Like you didn’t really care at all.”

He braces for impact, but instead of ripping him to shreds, Yuma actually laughs. Something half-hearted, weary. “Come on, Harua,” he mutters. “You’ve always seen right through me. Don’t tell me you actually fell for my stupid high school act.”

“I—what?”

“I cared about everything. What I was wearing, what other people thought of me, the grades I was getting . . . The idea of you all randomly deciding to drop me one day.” Yuma’s voice softens, like he’s embarrassed to admit that last part. He props his chin on a fist, tracing a star pattern stitched into one of the quilt squares. “Kozuki-kun didn’t actually like me. If she knew what a loser I actually was, she would’ve ditched me in an heartbeat. There wasn’t any point in leading her on.”

Harua lets it sink in. Amazing, unstoppable Yuma—Yuma, who Harua was constantly tripping over himself to one-up, to impress, who he’d admired so much that he actually started to resent him a little—insecure. Just as young and scared as the rest of them. It makes sense logically, explains so much about the way Yuma used to act, but a part of Harua still refuses to believe it. Probably the same part of him that’s so resistant to the idea of them all growing. Changing.

“That was why you were always rejecting people?” he asks, slowly, still trying to understand. “Because you didn’t think they knew the real you?”

“I guess.” Yuma gives a small shrug, pulling his blanket tighter around him. “It was one reason, anyway.”

“Just one?”

The question has a spot of color appearing in Yuma’s cheeks, deeper than the feverish flush he’s been wearing all day. “Never mind.”

“No, wait.” Harua feels a flare of inexplicable urgency. There’s still something he’s missing—something he hasn’t cracked. “Yuma, you have to tell me.”

The softness recedes as Yuma looks up, giving him a glare he probably deserves. “A normal friend wouldn’t push it, you know.”

“But a good friend would want to know everything,” Harua insists. The fleece falls to the bed again, and this time, he’s the one to yank it back over his shoulder. “A good friend wouldn’t judge.”

“I’m trying to tell you, I’m done talking about it. I’ve been done talking about it. You’re the one who keeps bringing it up.”

“Because I know there’s something you’re hiding from me.” So much for tact; Harua’s just starting to sound desperate now. “Everything . . . this whole weird relationship we have now feels like my fault. Everyone acts like it is—even you. Especially you. And I’m the only person who doesn’t know why.”

“Why do you even care?” Yuma’s voice rises and so does his chest, puffing out again. Same old survival tactics. “Does it make you feel good, knowing I was a dumb, sensitive kid who didn’t really mean all the cocky shit he said? Do you want to feel better than me? Is that it?”

“Why are you convinced I’m, like, evil or something? Is it so hard to believe I just want to be friends again? That I care about making things right?”

But Yuma’s not listening to him anymore, falling back onto childish accusations. Too deep in his own head to ever come out. “You were always one step ahead of me. Getting better grades, accepted into better colleges, always sucking up to parents and teachers with your perfect scores. You were just so smart. All I wanted was to be noticed. For someone to see me.”

Harua lets out a scoffing laugh, stunned at the tone-deafness of it all—the inexplicable inferiority complex fueling Yuma’s words. “Are you insane? I didn’t even have friends besides you guys. You were the one with all the connections, all the after school clubs, always surrounded by your groupies like some sort of celebrity. You were impossible to ignore, Yuma. Everyone saw you.”

“Yeah,” Yuma bites out. “Everyone but you.”

It pierces the stale air like a knife. The poor insulation, sheets covering the doors and walls, trap it inside, amplifying the words. Harua’s response, whatever angry defense he had loaded, disintegrates in his mouth, and all he can do is stare, watching as Yuma’s eyes, narrowed and incensed, go suddenly big. Like he’s just as surprised to hear himself say it as Harua is.

“. . . Me?” Harua asks slowly, stupidly. He points to himself for effect, as if there’s anyone else in the room Yuma could possibly be talking to.

“I—” Yuma’s voice is cut off by coughing, ugly noises that shake his body. He curls into his elbow and bats Harua away when he tries to offer a tissue, forcing him to sink back onto his side of the bed and piece together what’s been left unsaid. 

At first, it’s as confusing an accusation as everything else. Of course Harua saw Yuma. He saw him every day. They walked home from school together every day, biked to the convenience store for afternoon snacks, went to each other’s basketball games and concert recitals. They spent hundreds, if not thousands of hours together. But that’s not what Yuma means. Harua knows it isn’t.

That’s why you guys drive each other crazy. You don’t understand him at all.

You called Yuma heartless. It really seemed to get to him.

You don’t know a thing about my love life, Harua. You never have.

Oh.

“Oh,” Harua whispers.

Across from him, Yuma blows his nose loudly, not meeting Harua’s eyes as he folds up the tissue. The bridge of his nose is damp, a barely visible droplet sliding down the skin—his eyes watering from the coughing, maybe. The sight is a sudden punch to the gut. Like putting on a pair of glasses for the first time.

“I called you heartless,” Harua says, half to himself. 

“Finally figured it out, did you?” Yuma’s voice is significantly rougher, now. Coarse and brittle all at the same time. “Only took you years.”

Years. The word rings cinematically in Harua’s head, along with the creeping realization that’s been coming over him all this time. That the guy sitting across from him—the guy dabbing at his face with a clean tissue, who’s always seemed light years out of Harua’s league, too cool for anyone or anything—was waiting on him.

“You liked me.” The words feel weird on his tongue. Still a little fake.

“Whatever,” Yuma mutters. “Doesn’t even matter anymore.”

“Oh, God. You really did.”

The flush in Yuma’s cheeks has leached into the rest of his face. When he meets Harua’s gaze, he looks cornered: pupils dilated, eyes red-rimmed, lip trembling slightly in the cold. Before Harua can really process the sight, Yuma’s features are giving way to a jarring laugh, a sound that rips painfully out of him. 

“You should see the look on your face.”

“I’m sorry,” Harua says on instinct, because what else is he supposed to say? The world’s come crashing down, forcing him to reevaluate years upon years of old memories, and Yuma’s telling him he looks funny. “I just . . . I can’t believe I didn’t realize.”

“Don’t do that, okay? You were oblivious and I was too much of a coward to actually say anything. Of course you didn’t realize.”

“I never thought—” Harua trips over his thoughts, tangled like computer cords. “I mean, at first I just figured you weren’t interested in girls. But then you started turning down guys, too, and I was just so confused. You were kind of reckless, sure, but it felt so irresponsible and unexplainable and not like you at all, so that’s why I said—”

“I know, I know,” Yuma interrupts Harua calmly, waving him off. It’s a little scary, how quickly he seems to shed the vulnerability. Scarier now, after Harua’s learned just how good he is at disguising his emotions. “You’ve always been a little agent of justice. That, plus your k-drama ideals . . . I’d be pissed in your position, too.”

He’s trying to backtrack, to act like the fight they just had wasn’t actually a big deal at all. It’s another classic Yuma tactic, one he’s already used on Harua multiple times since they got here, and the thought has a guilty sensation twinging between Harua’s ribs. How long has Yuma felt like he’s needed to lie to him?

“No, Yuma, it wasn’t nice. Not to begin with, and now that I know how you felt . . .” Harua’s stomach sinks deeper as he imagines being in Yuma’s position. Admiring someone and waiting for years on end for them to do something, anything—only for them to say the exact wrong thing. Oh, no. Is he the bad guy in Yuma’s romance drama? The first heartbreak?

“Wow,” he says, numbly. “No wonder you hate me so much.”

This has Yuma’s expression wavering, the teasing almost-grin dying on his lips. “Listen, Harua,” he says. “I don’t . . . hate you, okay? I mean, it’s been years. I’m, like, way over it now. So you don’t have to worry about me, uh—” He coughs again, the action seeming more like an excuse to hide his face than anything this time. “About any of it.”

It should be a relief. Exactly what Harua had been hoping to hear. Yuma’s over it! Yuma doesn’t hate him after all! Harua isn’t an evil, irredeemable heartbreaker! So why doesn’t he feel any better—no, scratch that. Why does he feel worse?

“Oh. Good.” He forces the words out before he can think too deeply about it. “I’m just glad I didn’t, like, scar you for life or anything.”

Yuma snorts, reaching for another tissue. “You, scar me?”

“What can I say? I’m a heartbreaker.”

“You didn’t break anything, dumbass. Now ask me what cards I have already.”

“What?” 

“You know.” Head tilted, Yuma gestures down at the spread of cards. “Go Fish?”

“Oh. Yeah.” As far as Harua’s concerned, their game of Go Fish could have been years ago. Nothing could feel less relevant to his life right now. Forcing his brain back into the card-game mentality is like trying to fit a square shape through a round hole, but he tries his best. “Uh . . . any sevens?”

“No. You already took them, remember?”

“Damn it.”

It’s impossible not to notice, as they continue playing, how much more relaxed Yuma is now. He cracks jokes, celebrates his victories, even smiles at Harua’s attempts at competitive jabs. Despite the fact that his throat is still killing him, and he’s burning through tissues at lightning speeds, he actually seems to be having a good time.

Harua wishes he could say the same. Really, he thinks, he ought to be given some time to process all of this. Just because Yuma’s over it doesn’t mean he can just breeze over the topic. The topic of Yuma liking him. Yuma. Liking Harua. Romantically.

Maybe he’s on a hidden camera show. Maybe Maki and the others are about to pop out from behind the curtains, giggling at how badly Harua was fooled. If not for the storm, he might actually believe the theory.

But no, Yuma’s anger, the hurt streak to his voice—that was real. No matter how quickly he covered it up, or how hard he’s trying to act it didn’t happen in the first place, that came from somewhere genuine. It haunts Harua between deck draws and card matches. As Yuma hums, carefully considering how to end the game in even fewer turns this time, Harua stares down at the queen of hearts and wonders how he could have been so dense. Maybe, if he’d known, things would be different. Maybe instead of barely tolerant acquaintances, they’d be . . .

No. He can’t think like that. That’s the romantic vigilante side talking.

The chill sets in as they’re cleaning up, Harua sliding the cards back into the box while Yuma begins rifling through the snack bags. It’s been an hour, maybe two, and the lack of a heater is making itself known, their insulated warmth overpowered by the cold air seeping through the walls. Neither of them bring this up, though—as if not addressing the cold will keep it from getting any worse, somehow.

Finally, crunching a corn chip between his teeth, Harua gives in and shivers.

“God, it’s cold.”

Yuma, who looks substantially warmer in his three layers of bedding, gives a woeful shake of his head. “I don’t know what you expected, using that tiny fleece.”

Harua pouts at him—an old habit that comes as naturally as breathing. When did he start falling back into those? “It was warm at first.”

“We still had heat back then. Now, stop being a man and get over here.”

Harua blinks. “Like . . . move closer?”

“I thought you were the prepared one,” Yuma says, already scooting to the edge of the mattress and scooping out a Harua-sized hollow in his blankets. “Conserving body heat? Shared warmth?”

“Right,” Harua replies. He doesn’t voice the fact that, in light of recent events, he’s not entirely sure how he feels about sharing warmth with Yuma. Yuma, his cool but emotionally distant older friend who used to like him but doesn’t anymore. There are a lot of layers to this that he hasn’t really reconciled with yet.

He sucks it up and sheds the fleece, crawling across the bed to settle in at Yuma’s side.

The heat engulfs him immediately—a sweltering, all-consuming brand of it. Most of it’s probably due to Yuma’s fever, something Yuma himself seems to remember only as Harua’s pulling his share of blankets across his lap.

“All right, not too close,” he says. “I’m probably contagious.”

“Come on. Whatever it is, there’s no way I don’t have it by now.”

“Fair enough.” It may be Harua’s imagination, but he thinks Yuma shifts a little closer when he says that. He’s probably just deluded. “Not awkward at all.”

“Nope,” Harua agrees, with a laugh he hopes doesn’t sound too nervous. “Super normal.”

The room is claustrophobic all of a sudden, unbearably stuffy. Yuma, seeming to feel it just as much as he is, breaks the silence with an unceremonious topic change.

“So. University.”

Harua sighs, letting his chest expand. Giving his heart more room to breathe. “University,” he repeats unenthusiastically.

“How’s student life been, anyway?” Yuma asks. “Y’know, aside from the not dating people thing.”

This stirs up a swell of indignance, the sudden urge to clear his name. “I haven’t been a total loser, okay? I had a texting stage at the beginning of the semester.”

Yuma turns to look at him like he’s sprouted another head. “A texting stage? You?”

It sounds even more ridiculous coming from him, and Harua flushes. “He was cute. I thought I could, you know . . . give it a shot.”

“Hm.” An unconvinced noise from Yuma. “And how did that go for you?”

“Not good,” Harua admits, rubbing his head. That’s a stretch of his life he’ll never be able to get back. “I don’t think I’m made for situationships. We didn’t even go on a single date.”

“Dear Lord. How did you survive?”

“All I’m saying is it’s not the end of the world to put in effort for someone. Even if you’re still getting to know each other.”

“Right. And what’s your idea of effort, again?” Yuma taps his chin inquisitively. “Long walks on the beach?”

Flushing, Harua smacks him lightly on the arm—another habit resurfacing. “Is that so bad?”

“Some people may get intimidated by that, yes.”

“What about you, then?” Harua challenges. “What’s your idea of a good first date?”

The question is a little on the nose, especially considering their previous conversation topic, but Yuma takes it in stride. “If you aren’t sure how you feel about each other, yet, forcing a crazy romantic atmosphere just makes things weird,” he says sagely, like a professor giving a lecture. “A first date should be casual, like . . . staying home and watching a movie.”

How anticlimactic. How perfectly Yuma. Harua stares at him. “Seriously?”

“Dead serious. You save money, avoid the crowds, and don’t have to dress up.” With a wistful sigh, Yuma slumps against the headboard. “What could be better?”

“I don’t know. An actual date, maybe? That’s just, like, something you could do with a friend.”

“Yeah.” Yuma gives him an odd look. “That’s the point.”

Neither of them speak for a moment. Harua looks at the quilt and is reminded, again, of how close they’re sitting. The part of his leg that’s pressed against Yuma’s is beginning to get sweaty. Hopefully it isn’t noticeable.

With a rattling cough, Yuma steers them back on track. “Okay. Let me rephrase. How has university been, aside from your one talking stage and stalking my socials?”

Damn. Harua was hoping he’d escaped that conversation topic. “For the last time,” he says, “that’s a slanderous allegation. I stalk everyone.”

“Okay. What’s the name of Jo’s new cat?” 

“I swear you’re making this stuff up.”

“Maybe.” A trace of a smile leaks into Yuma’s voice. “But answer the question.”

Harua racks his brain for what he could even tell—what stories he could use to make his university experience sound glamorous—and comes up dry. Honesty it is. “It’s a lot of homework. And going on campus every single day. I kind of, uh, overestimated how many classes I could take at once.” 

Yuma’s elbow digs playfully into his side. “Still an overachiever, I see.”

“I prefer ‘dedicated.’”

“That’s another word for it, I guess,” Yuma says. The blankets rustle as he relaxes, sliding farther down the headboard. “No clue how you make time for all those TikToks, though.”

“Well, I’ve still got some free time on the weekend, and—wait.” Harua stops short, looking at Yuma.

He frowns. “What?”

“You know about those?”

He frowns deeper. “Oh, I’m sorry. Didn’t realize your blind box opening account was confidential information.”

“No, no, it’s not. I just thought you’d think it was super lame or something.”

“Well, duh. It is super lame.” A toothy grin spreads across Yuma’s face, so familiar it almost hurts to look at. The only thing it’s missing is a snaggletooth. A bit of teenage acne. “But it’s also very Harua. You make it work.”

“Ugh.” Harua rolls his eyes. “You really are the master of backhanded compliments.”

“Award winner, five years in a row.” Yuma’s eyes drop, and his voice mellows into something more genuine. “For your information, I watch your lame videos. So don’t call me a hater.”

Surprise, dangerously pleasant, flutters somewhere in Harua’s chest. “Which ones?”

“I dunno. Some. Most of them, I guess.”

“Really?”

“Don’t act so shocked, stalker,” Yuma says, the elbow to Harua’s ribs a bit sharper this time. “I need something brainless to watch during lunch.”

“Hey, come on, don’t be like that.” Harua smiles to himself, thinking of Yuma hunched over takeout and watching him unpackage Sanrio blind boxes. “I’m honored, really. Next time I post, I’ll give you a shout out.”

“Do that and I’m blocking you.”

“Liar,” Harua sing-songs, then yelps at the third, decidedly painful jab Yuma gives him. He should really watch his tongue while he’s in elbowing distance.

“It’s just . . .” Yuma gestures vaguely with his hands, like he’s trying to find the right words. “You talked about missing this. Hanging out. You’re not the only one, you know?”

The pleasant feeling in Harua stills, bating its breath. He tries to relax like Yuma has. To approach the topic carefully, focusing on the warmth instead of the closeness. “What about the whole ‘growing up’ thing you were going on about last night?”

“I was just . . . mad, okay? I didn’t really mean it. You guys—” This time, as Yuma coughs, he angles his body away, keeping Harua out of the line of fire. Thoughtful. Any concerns about germs dwindle when Yuma leans back into him afterwards, their shoulders colliding with magnetic force. “You guys matter to me. I know it doesn’t seem that way, sometimes, and I know I’m gone a lot—”

“There’s nothing wrong with you pursuing your dreams,” Harua interrupts, softly. “You don’t owe us your entire life.”

They’re things he needs to hear, too. Things he had always been too emotionally charged, too selfish, to consider. Yuma shakes his head, hair tickling against Harua’s neck.

“That doesn’t mean falling off the face of the planet. I know I’m bad at texting, and that I cancel on you guys too much. It’s not like I don’t have control over that.” He takes a deep breath. “I was always so worried that you’d all leave me behind, so I guess I just decided I would . . . do it first, or something.”

An involuntary laugh slips out of Harua’s mouth, and he remembers a split second too late to avoid Yuma’s elbow, striking him twice this time for good measure.

“I know it’s silly, okay? God, you’re bad at this.”

“No, no, it’s not that. Not at all. I just—” Harua rubs his neck, feeling suddenly childish. A little naive. “All this time I was worried you had outgrown us. Or maybe just me.”

“Not everything in the world is about you, Harua,” Yuma says, but it’s light, playful. “You damn egoist.”

“I mean, what did you expect me to think? You’re always on my case about something.”

“Yeah, maybe I do target you a little.” Idly, Yuma’s knee shifts, nudging against Harua’s. It’s a small point of contact but, somehow, it increases the warmth bubbling between them tenfold. “But it’s only because you’re so fun to bother. You know that, right?”

Has the heater come back on? Even this close, Harua’s feeling hotter than he thinks he should be. Scratching at a burning ear, he shrugs, shooting Yuma a sly sideways look.“Even back then? Or was it all just a ploy to get my attention?”

“Oh my God, I shouldn’t have said anything,” Yuma groans, giving him a light shove that doesn’t actually send him anywhere. “You’re never gonna let this go.”

“So it was?”

“Not everything has to be because I liked you. We had a relationship outside of that, believe it or not.”

“Maybe.” Harua heaves out a theatrical sigh, shaking his head. “I don’t know what to believe anymore. You’ve turned my world upside down.”

“Oh, shut up. You’re fun to tease. That’s all.” A pause, long and contemplative. “All the ‘irresponsible’ flirting I did, though? Maybe, somewhere deep down in that genius sixteen-year-old brain of mine, I was hoping you’d get . . . jealous or something.”

Yuma seems to realize halfway through the sentence that he’s made a mistake, but it’s too late. Harua’s rounded on him again, jaw dropped. “You’re joking,” he says. 

“Do I look like I’m joking?” Yuma snaps, suddenly prickly. He definitely regrets saying it. “Obviously, it didn’t work. All it made you do was feel bad for them.”

“You”—Harua points at Yuma, just to be extra clear—“were trying to make me jealous.”

“Very good, Harua. University has really worked wonders for your comprehension skills.”

Harua could give Yuma hell for this. He could hold it over his head for months. Years! But somehow, it just makes him feel even more worthy of Maki’s “Supreme Lord of the Dumbasses” title. What were all those pirated shoujo manga and k-drama binges even for? The endless horoscope compatibility readings, the admiring crushes from afar? Aside from being the shortest and the smartest of the group (both by a narrow margin), Harua’s brand had always been the hopeless romantic, the emotionally mature one, the empath. Missing something as huge as Yuma having feelings for him isn’t just surprising—it feels impossible.

It’s like being stuck on a sudoku puzzle, bending his brain every which way to make the pieces fit together. Yuma, liking him? Yuma, who always picked on Harua the most of all, who stole out of his lunchbox and made fun of the people he liked and left doodles on the margins of his notebooks . . . Oh. Now that Harua thinks about it, it all feels almost, kind of, sort of—

True.

“Harua.” Yuma’s watching him—still smiling, but with a pinch to his brow that hadn’t been there before. “It really wasn’t a big deal. I told you, I’m over it.”

“Yeah, I know, it’s just—” Why is he still talking? He doesn’t have a plan. The heat under the covers, radiating from Yuma’s body, must be making him loopy. Maybe that’s why the words slip out in an impulsive, rambly run-on sentence that Harua has no way of predicting. Or controlling. “I’m just kind of surprised I didn’t realize since I kind of had this weird obsession with you in high school and that might have been because I maybe liked you too?”

That’s it.

That’s why, even after getting an explanation, everything’s still felt unfinished. Maybe Harua isn’t one to talk about keeping secrets, about carrying things for years on end without unpacking them properly. Maybe his strange fascination with appealing to Yuma goes beyond his people-pleasing nature begging to be acknowledged. Maybe obsessively monitoring Yuma and his lovestagram was more than just checking in on an old friend—but how was Harua supposed to know that? It’s Yuma, for God’s sake. He’s always been fascinating in every sense of the word. Impossible not to watch. A puzzle Harua could never quite figure out. Anyone with half a brain would fall for someone like—

Oh no.

There’s a momentary pause. A faltering, collective inhale as Yuma processes the statement and Harua processes, well, everything.

“Yeah?” Yuma says at last, cautiously intrigued. Such a measured reaction. Harua wonders if his world’s being rocked in the same way his has—if this information means anything to him at all.

“I mean,” Harua stammers, digging himself a deeper hole with each word, “I don’t think I knew it at the time. Like, I figured it was just admiration, or maybe wanting to prove something to you. And watching you with other people did kind of piss me off, but you were so out of my league that I just—never considered it?”

Yuma lifts a hand to his mouth, masking the beginnings of a smile. “Really?”

More blood rushes into Harua’s face; he isn’t sure which of them is redder anymore. How the tables have turned. “Don’t laugh at me. I’m being vulnerable.” 

“Harua, how could I be out of your league? We ate at the same lunch table.”

“The point is, I feel bad. If I’d known then what I know now, maybe—” More warning bells go off in Harua’s head, and he bites his tongue, stops talking before he can say something that would definitely come across has weird. “Well, like you said, it doesn’t matter anymore. I’m over it too. Obviously.”

Except he isn’t. How could he be? Harua’s always had a thing for Yuma. He never stopped. And he’s realizing it at exactly the worst time possible.

“. . . Uh huh.” Yuma’s reply is strangely vacant. At some point during the conversation, his leg must have shifted, because his knee is on top of Harua’s, now, bouncing slightly. The pressure, once light, feels suddenly like an iron weight.

Cards. Everything went wrong when they stopped playing cards and started talking about their lives. Harua’s about to reach for the deck, just barely out of his grasp, when Yuma shudders against him.

Harua stops, looking over. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Yuma murmurs, but Harua can hear his teeth chattering. “It’s weird. I’m like . . . hot and c-cold, all at the same time.”

“Do you need another blanket?”

“Nah. D-don’t think it’ll help.”

“Then—” Recklessly, Harua scoots closer, pressing their bodies flush, side to side. “Take some of my heat. I don’t need it.”

Yuma laughs again, a half-coughing giggle. “So chivalrous, Rua. What a gentleman.”

Harua’s cheeks prickle, and he tries not to think about how hot he feels—the overabundance of warmth coursing through him that should be latching onto Yuma instead. “I just don’t want you to die of frostbite,” he replies. “How would I explain that to Maki?”

“He’d get over it real quick, trust me,” Yuma sniffs, but he leans against him, shifting his weight from the headboard onto Harua. A fresh cough shakes his body, and he turns to bury his face in his elbow again. “You know what’s weird?” he asks when he resurfaces, voice weak.

Harua adjusts himself. Slides an arm between Yuma’s back and the headboard, feeling extremely grateful that Yuma doesn’t mention it. “What?” 

“For some reason, this whole thing kind of reminds me of our sleepovers. Like, from when we were kids.”

Yuma remembers them, too. Harua’s chest rises and falls in an airy laugh, strangely relieved. “Oh, God, yeah. I was thinking about those the other day, actually.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Mostly how you made me sleep on the floor.”

Yuma’s voice sours. “Hey. I slept there, too.”

“You did, but it was always after I’d fallen asleep. It’s like you were afraid of letting me see you be nice or something.”

“I didn’t want to give you a big head,” Yuma says. His words have begun to slur sleepily together; it makes him sound younger. “It’s just funny, being on the other end of things, I guess.”

Harua gives a quizzical hum. “What do you mean, the other end?”

“You’re the one acting all grown-up, now. Taking care of me, making me breakfast in bed . . .” Yuma reaches up, giving the top of Harua’s head a congratulatory pat. “The only thing missing is a few extra centimeters.”

“Seriously?” Harua scowls, batting him away—though, secretly, he doesn’t care. Not one bit. “You ruined it again. That was almost really sweet.”

“Like I said. Can’t give you a big head.” Satisfied, Yuma slumps against Harua’s side, more intentionally this time. It’s not long before he’s shivering again, sinking deeper into the blankets. “It’s so weird,” he mumbles. “My mouth is cold.”

Now that’s a little worrying. What kind of weird sickness does Yuma have? “Like, the inside?” Harua asks, mentally perusing his parents’ long list of lessons about obscure illnesses. He doesn’t think he remembers anything about cold mouths.

“No, dummy. My lips.” Yuma’s smiling, ever so slightly, as he angles his head to look up at him. Feathery pink hair obscures his right eye, the left studying Harua lazily. “Shame there’s not a blanket for your mouth.”

“Yeah,” Harua says, and it’s so awful of him, but all this mouth talk has him looking down at Yuma’s—curled upwards, lips chapped and pink. Yuma’s always had nice lips. Another horribly overdue realization on his end. “Shame.”

Yuma watches him for a few seconds longer before cracking a grin. “Wow, so serious. Lighten up, Rua. I know exactly what’ll help. Pass me the Cheetos, the spicy ones.”

Harua doesn’t grab the Cheetos. 

Maybe, somewhere in the back of his head, he plans on it, but his body doesn’t get the memo. Instead, he stares down at Yuma for a moment—sick, sleepy, pretty, eyeing him with a sliver of playfulness—and takes the sight in. Really commits it to memory, just in case what he’s about to do will send them straight back to square one.

His stubborn streak is going to get him in big trouble one day. If today is that day, at least Harua will be able to tell Yuma it’s all his fault.

He leans in.

Harua's only ever kissed one person: a girl, back in high school. He’d been deep in the closet, still, and desperate to prove something. She sat in front of him in math, swept her hair back with a flowery headband, and was always nice about telling him what notes he’d missed while daydreaming. One night in his third year, the two of them bumped into each other at a party, surrounded by older students and both clearly out of their element, and it only felt natural for them to pretend together. Harua remembers it being pretty bad—a lot of saliva and uncertain groping. 

Harua’s never told the others about that kiss. As far as Yuma knows, he could be working with zero experience.

But Yuma doesn’t seem to be thinking much about anything at all. Their mouths brush and his hand, mid-reach towards the snack bags, freezes in place above Harua’s legs. The rest of him is quick to follow, going perfectly still, but a little noise forms in the back of his throat. Surprise, or maybe indignance. Whatever it is, it knocks enough sense into Harua for him to pull away.

Yuma practically gasps for air—which seems a little dramatic, to be honest. Harua only kissed him for a few seconds . . . Right? Maybe he shouldn’t judge. He’s feeling pretty breathless himself.

“Y—you—” Yuma’s lips form around the word, almost inaudibly. “You—”

“To keep you warm,” Harua whispers. A weak, pitiful excuse. The taste of cough drops lingers in his mouth.

He’s never seen Yuma like this: tongue-tied, wide-eyed, so red he’s practically glowing. How often did his exes get this view? It feels wrong, somehow, that people who knew Yuma for significantly less time got to see it before Harua did. Unfair.

Yuma stares him down, unsteady but shrewd, clearly trying to keep a level head. “Right,” he says after a beat. Voice neutral, expression blank. It’s an almost perfect mask, but his eyes, wide and dark and dilated, say enough.

There’s a blizzard howling in Harua’s stomach, far more tumultuous than the winds outside. He can’t speak, can’t even think over the sound of his stupid heartbeat, banging against his eardrums. Finally, he finds the words, tongue heavy like lead. “That’s all it has to be, if you want.”

Something in Yuma’s expression slackens. He makes another noise—the kind of scoffing reception he usually gives to one of Taki’s bad jokes—before leaning in without warning. There’s still a decent chance Harua’s about to get punched, and he braces himself instinctively. Closes his eyes apprehensively. And though the way Yuma’s hand presses down on his thigh is painful, the kiss that comes afterwards is the gentlest thing they’ve ever shared.

It’s a good way to keep warm. 

Leagues better than blankets and card games and steaming mugs of tea. Yuma’s lips are molten, soft but searing, each exhale a cloud of embers into Harua’s lungs. His hands, seeking heat, slip beneath the hem of Harua’s sweater, fingernails scraping gently against the skin and sending a new kind of shiver up his spine. Harua exhales shakily, arms winding around Yuma’s body in a clumsy attempt to get him closer, and that’s where the hesitation ends. Legs unfold, blankets get pushed aside, and before he has the chance to think twice, Yuma’s crawling on top of him and it’s warmer than ever. It’s kind of genius, really; they don’t even need the blankets anymore. Harua curls his fingers into soft pink hair and wonders, faintly, why they didn’t think to do this sooner.

They separate much quicker than he’d like to. Yuma’s voice, breathless and a little congested, reminds Harua why.

“You . . . are so getting sick,” he says, head dropping onto Harua’s shoulder. The press of hot skin against his neck, the weight of Yuma across his legs, knees sunk into the mattress on either side—he doesn’t think he’ll ever be cold again.

“I’ll be fine,” Harua says. The words are clumsy, like it’s been ages since he used his mouth for talking instead of a few lifechanging minutes. He pulls Yuma even closer, trying to accustom himself to the feeling. Getting to have him this near, this freely. “I’ve got a good immune system.”

Yuma just lets out a weak sigh, exasperated but unmistakably fond. “‘Over it,’ my ass. You find out I had a crush on you in high school and kiss me, what, thirty minutes later?”

For once, the taunt doesn’t get to Harua. Doesn’t trigger the usual instinctive defensiveness, the need to stick up for himself. Yuma could hurl the worst insults in the world at him right now and Harua would probably still be smiling like a fool, head in the clouds. “Only because you aren’t over it, either.”

“Oh, yeah? Says who?”

“Hm, let me think.” Harua lifts a hand, counting off the reasons behind Yuma’s back. “One, you kissed me back. Two, you’re in my lap right now. Three, you snapped at me on not one, but two separate occasions due to a grudge you allegedly didn’t have over a crush you had allegedly moved on from.”

“I hope your cold’s worse than mine,” Yuma grumbles against his neck. “I hope you contract the plague and die.”

“You kept your keychain and lied about it. You watch all my TikToks even though I only have, like, eighty followers—”

“One more word and I’m using your shirt at a snotrag.”

“You like me,” Harua says blissfully. “You like me so much, Yuma.”

Yuma sags against him in sulky defeat. “You were never supposed to know,” he mutters. “I was supposed to be over it. Every time the five of us hang out, I always come thinking I’ve grown up. That I’m a new person. But then I see your stupid face and I’m sixteen again.”

Harua’s heartbeat has finally slowed down to a jog, drumming steadily between his ribs. He listens to the wind howl outside and thinks about the others—of Maki, using every strategy possible to weasel a refund out of the resort employees. Taki, cheerfully chatting up strangers at the hot cocoa bar. Jo, picking up postcards he’ll probably never send at the gift shop. It could be happening as they speak; Harua knows the three of them well enough to feel confident in his odds. Yuma, though—he’s the only one Harua’s never been able to predict. A neverending enigma. As flexible as the seasons, yet steadfast as the days of the week.

“What did you even see in me?” he asks, voicing the one big question he has left.

He can practically hear the eye roll that comes with Yuma’s reply. “Oh, come on.”

“Not even in an insecure way. I’m not fishing for compliments, I swear.”

“Wouldn’t put it past you.”

“I just don’t get it. I was kind of a . . . loser.” There’s no better word he can think of. With each year, Harua remembers his high school self a little less. The features have faded into abstracts—skinny legs and even skinnier jeans, bangs that were always a little too long, a feather-light voice he was constantly trying to deepen. “I mean, I wasn’t a huge catch or anything. But you were popular, and attractive, and you could have had anyone—”

“Harua.” Yuma leans back to stare him down. His hair is ruffled, his lips even more chapped than before, and wow, Harua did that. Holy shit. “I thought you were supposed to know all about love, dumbass. Is it really so hard to comprehend that, after literal years of putting up with each other, I would want to be with you?”

His pulse quickens slightly at the words. The reality behind them. “A . . . little? I mean, I didn’t think I was really your type.”

“Oh my God.” Yuma shoves him, not lightly, into the headboard, slamming Harua’s shoulderblades into hardwood. It only hurts a little. “Where do you think my type even came from? Do you think I’d keep going after the sensitive type if it didn’t remind me of the time you cried at that nature documentary in school? That I’d even consider dating all those artsy douchebags if it weren’t for the afternoon you held me hostage while practicing for choir auditions? Do you think I could even flirt with anyone in the first place if I hadn’t used our constant, idiotic bickering as practice? It’s all your fucking fault.” Before Harua, whose mouth is hanging open slightly, can even really think about what he’s being told, Yuma plants both hands on his shoulders, looking him dead in the eye. “And Harua?”

“Yeah?” he asks faintly.

“You’re good-looking. You are now, you were then, and the only reason people didn’t notice that is because you didn’t talk to anyone. So stop being a self-pitying bastard and get over yourself already.”

Compliments are rare from Yuma, a once-in-a-lifetime phenomenon. This is normally the kind of thing he’d rather die than admit. That’s how Harua knows it has to be true. “But,” he stammers, still searching for a trait that doesn’t line up. A catch to it all. “But I’m shorter than you.”

“Trust me, I’m aware,” Yuma says under his breath, but his cheeks have gone a dusty pink that matches his hair, softening his appearance. “I never really got it, either. Why I was so stuck on you. I spent so long trying to convince myself it was something else, that it was just a stupid phase, or maybe that I hadn’t met the right person yet, but goddammit, it’s been years and nothing’s changed. I still feel the same.” It comes out raw, uncharacteristically honest, and Yuma colors deeper, wrenching his eyes away. “If this was a choice, I would have spared myself ages ago. You know that.”

Harua stares up at him, transfixed. “But you didn’t,” he says.

“But I didn’t,” Yuma repeats. He looks at him again, and the shyness is gone, blazing determination taking its place. “So are you going make up for lost time or not? I’m still cold, Shigeta. Warm me up.”

Harua has never wanted to do something more in his life. But in spite of the part of him that jumps at the idea, the adrenaline and curiosity and enthusiasm, he can’t resist being a smartass one last time. “Oh, yeah,” he says, smiling easily. “You wanted the Hot Cheetos, right?”

There’s barely time to laugh at the glare Yuma gives him before he’s being pressed back against the headboard, a scolding flick hitting his ribs and rough lips grazing against his neck. Outside, the snow is still piling up. Harua has a feeling they won’t be getting up anytime soon.

He can already feel a cough coming on.

ᨒ*❅

The power returns five hours, five hickeys, and five mugs of tea later. Maki, Taki, and Jo do not. All Harua has as reassurance is a text from Taki that manages to sneak through the cracks of spotty signal at around 8:45 PM.

Hot cocoa starts tasting a lot less good when you have unlimited access to it. :/

Harua laughs and shows the text to Yuma, who shakes his head woefully. They’re sipping from two mugs of hot chocolate themselves, the kind that comes in a packet with tiny freeze-dried marshmallows that never quite soften all the way. The box had been hidden at the bottom of the pantry, along with a giant tub of stale popcorn they had completely missed the day before. Harua and Yuma decided to stick with leftover curry.

They’ve migrated to the couch, bringing most of the blankets with them, and are halfway through a mediocre Japanese dub of some action sci-fi film the others would probably enjoy way more. It’s been forty-five minutes and Harua still can’t piece together the plot aside from a few beats. Maybe he’s been a little distracted.

“Since when do you paint your nails?” Yuma asks. With the weak excuse of being “exhausted” from their afternoon activities (a lot of which he had initiated, in Harua’s defense), he’s made a comfortable pillow of his legs, cheek pressed against the blankets as he plays idly with Harua’s right hand. It’s kind of incredible, what a little kissing and closure has done for him. He’s grown clingier, cuter—still a little sharp-tongued, but it’s more endearing than anything now. Harua might just be in honeymoon mode. He’s happy. That’s all he knows.

“I started last year,” Harua replies, flexing his fingers so Yuma can admire the polish job. He’d come themed for the occasion, with snowflakes and little plaid patterns on the ring fingers. “It’s fun. A good way to stay creative, anyway.”

Yuma hums, intrigued. “I’d be shit at it, probably. All the little details.”

“I could help you,” Harua offers, not thinking about when they would even manage that. When they’ll have the time to see each other after this. That’s a question he’s content to leave in the back of his head for a little while longer.

“Okay, but they have to look cool. Nothing too cute.”

“Of course not,” Harua humors him. “I could do a simple pattern. Something that goes with your hair.” His fingers trail over Yuma’s neck, fidgeting with a lock of pink. Yuma winces at the touch.

“Ow. Watch the bruise.”

Harua brushes the hair back, slightly, exposing the dark mark just below Yuma’s ear. “Does it hurt a lot?” he asks, a little sheepishly.

“It’s fine,” Yuma mutters. “Just wish you’d have done it somewhere else. There are, like, five people picking me up from the airport tomorrow.”

Harua doesn’t raise the extremely valid counterargument that, if Yuma wanted him to be considerate, he shouldn’t have left four extremely obvious hickeys on four extremely visible parts of his neck—marks that make Yuma’s singular tiny bruise dull in comparison. No, he’s still feeling dreamy, not thinking about the consequences yet, so he just smooths Yuma’s hair back against his still-feverish skin. “Sorry, Yu-kun.”

“Yu-kun,” Yuma repeats softly. He sets Harua’s hand down, turning to look up at him with sleepy eyes. His bangs fall messily across his forehead. “Haven’t heard that in a while.”

Harua’s heart trips in his chest. “Is it weird?” he asks softly. “I mean, would it be weird if I called you that again?”

Yuma shakes his head slightly. “Not weirder than making out with you.”

“Wow. Yeah.”

Harua has no clue what they’re going to tell the others. What’s even going to happen after today—an afternoon captured in a snowglobe, unforgettable but fleeting. Thinking back to their conversation in the hot tub, what feels like decades ago now, Harua gets the feeling their friends have known what’s been going on for a long time. Still, he’d be stupid to pretend like this won’t change things. How different will everything be, moving forward? Does Yuma even want to move forward?

“Hey.” Yuma reaches up, prodding Harua’s face with a finger. “Veggie straws. Give.”

Harua glances up at the bag on the coffee table, much closer to Yuma than it is him. “You could easily grab those.”

“Yeah, but I want you to do it.”

Maybe some things never change. Harua sighs, jutting out his lower lip as he passes the veggie straws over. “Is it just me, or are you starting to take advantage of the whole ‘being sick’ thing?”

“Oh, this isn’t about being sick,” Yuma replies. He sits up, leaving a cold spot on Harua’s lap as he settles against the couch cushions alongside him instead, eagerly digging into the bag. “I just figured that, if you ever wanted to try the whole ‘going out’ thing, you might as well get some practice in. I’m a lot to handle.”

Harua lets that sink in. Glances over, breath held in the back of his throat. Yuma looks back, head tilted in bewilderment.

“What?”

“You’d want to go out? With me?”

“No, Harua. I was talking about Jo, obviously.”

“What about your ex?” Harua asks, and though Yuma’s always been the one who struggled with eye contact, he finds himself staring down at his hands. “I mean, you two broke up because you couldn’t go long-distance. I wouldn’t want to, y’know . . . make things harder for you.”

There’s no response, and kept in suspense, Harua risks looking up. Yuma’s regarding him softly, eyes glinting, that same barely repressed smile twitching at his lips. It’s not what Harua was expecting to see at all.

“Did I—did I say something wrong?” he stammers.

“No,” Yuma says. “You’re just really fucking dense sometimes. It’s kind of amazing.”

Harua frowns, confused. “What do you mean? I was just being considera—”

The sentence goes unfinished, swallowed up in the back of Harua’s mouth as Yuma leans over, cradles his face roughly, and shuts him up.

Maybe some changes are for the better, after all.

ᨒ*❅

Harua wakes up to the sound of the bedroom door being thrown open and a scolding retort that’s definitely meant for Yuma.

“Some friend you are.” Maki’s voice pierces through the blissful haze of sleep, followed by the noise of him ripping open the curtains. “Sleeping in, making us wait out in the cold—”

The sentence comes to a premature end as Harua sits up, head pounding and throat prickly. Blinking away the light, he squints at Maki, who’s standing by the window, still decked out in snow gear, and currently looking at him like he just blew in from Mars.

“Maki?” Harua asks, wincing at how croaky he sounds. “What time is it?”

“Almost noon,” Taki answers the question instead, shuffling in with what looks like a bag of leftover fast food. The easy smile slides right off his face as his eyes drift from Harua to the Yuma-shaped lump on his left, still snoozing away under the covers. “Oh. Oh.”

This was not how Harua wanted this to go. “We just—”

“No, no need to explain. That’s great! Happy for you two.” Taki turns to Jo as he ducks into the room, black hair still powdered with snow. “Hey, we were right. They totally made up.”

“A little more than that, by the looks of it,” Maki says in disbelief.

They’re early. Harua hadn’t meant to sleep in. He was supposed to be in the kitchen right now, making a welcome-back breakfast and avoiding this entire scenario. “It’s not what it looks like,” he tries to say, but the words dissolve into a sudden fit of coughing, doubling his body over and rubbing his already-sore throat raw. “Ow.”

So much for saving himself. When Harua looks up, nose running, three huge pairs of eyes are staring at him.

Maki immediately closes his, turning around like the two of them are naked or something. “Oh my God.”

“Congratulations,” Jo says politely. He’s the only one who seems to be taking this well; Taki’s gaping like a fish, tripping over his words as he puts two and two together.

“You two—I mean, you actually—”

“I’m trying to tell you, we didn’t do anything,” Harua insists, but something warm stirs in his stomach. Leftover sensations from the night before. “Well . . . not much.”

“Jesus, Harua,” Maki says, back still turned, sounding equally impressed and mortified. “When I said ‘talk to Yuma,’ I didn’t mean hook up with the guy.”

“Is that a hickey?” Taki squeaks.

“We didn’t hook up!” Harua pulls the sheets up to his chin, but it’s too late. His case is blown. It finally rouses Yuma, though, a cranky voice rising from beneath the blankets.

“Can you guys shut up already?”

Harua reaches out to touch him, notices the intent way Jo and Taki watch the movement, and immediately pulls his hand back in. “Sorry,” he says. “Our friends just don’t know how to mind their business instead of jumping to insane conclusions.”

“Figures.” Without sitting up, or even looking, Yuma waves a limp arm in their general direction. “Yeah, yeah, we made out. With tongue. I gave Harua every virus. Better get out of here before he infects you, too.”

Somehow, this actually works. Harua watches as their friends’ faces light up like a traffic sign—horror, delight, and shock in turn—before they flee from the room snickering (and, in Maki’s case, gagging). Real mature. It’s like they’re in school all over again.

With no energy to do damage control, Harua flops back onto the bed, sinking into the comfortable mattress. It was a ridiculously better sleep than the night before. Yuma really did get the best bed of the bunch. “My throat’s killing me,” he mumbles.

“Oh, yeah?” Yuma rolls over, his face appearing from under an arm. Despite his morning moodiness, he actually manages a smile, conspiratorial and a little giddy. Harua’s won the lottery. “Should I make you some tea?” he coos. “Take care of you this time, Rua?”

Harua scrunches his nose, pretending he doesn’t love the idea. “Just pass me a cough drop from the board. You barely touched it. I worked hard on that, you know.”

“My bad.” A yellow wrapper is flicked in his direction after some lazy fumbling on Yuma’s end. “Was too busy owning you at cards and getting kissed without my consent.”

“Are you going to be like this all weekend? Maybe I’ll ask Taki to nurse me back to health instead.”

Yuma’s lips turn downwards into a frown—cute. “Excuse me?”

He takes the bait so easily. Harua’s starting to realize that there’s two sides to this little dynamic of theirs—that Yuma’s just as easy to tease as he is. Maybe it’s their love language. “I mean, we spent so much time together yesterday. You’ve got to be sick of me by now, right?”

“I know what you’re doing,” Yuma grouses. This doesn’t stop him, however, from throwing a leg across Harua and trapping him in place. “You aren’t going anywhere. Rest is the best medicine.”

Harua turns onto his side, fluttering his eyelashes in his own attempt at sweetness. “And, apparently, nonconsensual kissing.”

“You’re never getting my consent again if you don’t shut the hell up.” Another empty threat; Yuma’s arm is already slithering coyly around Harua’s waist, his other foot nudging his beneath the covers. Somewhere in between, their hands tangle, fingers slotting perfectly together. That might be the warmest feeling of all. “Seriously, you’re such a pain.”

After years and years of misunderstandings, Harua thinks he finally gets him—the ever-complex mystery of Nakakita Yuma. He isn’t mean to be taken at face value. He works in contradictions, reluctant affection paired with doting insults, and his true feelings lie in subtleties that, with each passing moment, Harua gets better at picking up on. So, with new confidence, he leans in for a long overdue kiss—and, for once, he’s expecting it when Yuma kisses him back.

It’s so perfect, Maki’s complaints from the hallway are little more than fuzzy background noise.

(“Can you at least close the door? Seriously, who raised you two?”

“Aw, leave them alone. Social cues don’t matter when you’re in love. Right, Jo?”

“. . . I think it’s kind of sweet.”

“Just one normal vacation, that’s all I ask. Is it so wrong to ask for that? I was hoping they’d work out their issues, obviously, but not in the rented cabin bedroom—”)