Chapter Text
Shuu Iura had a special knack for not letting silence linger for too long.
It wasn’t exactly a conscious choice; it felt more like a reflex, the kind the body learns before the mind. He’d walk in already chatting, starting a conversation before he even dropped his stuff, filling the whole room with his lively energy as if any longer pause might turn into something too awkward to sit in the middle of the floor.
“Ishikawaaa!”
The door swung open at the same moment, and Iura burst in, his backpack sliding off his shoulder until it thumped against the side of the desk next to Tooru’s, askew. Without breaking stride, he hooked his foot under the chair, pulled it out, plopped down sideways, and swiveled toward his friend in one flowing motion, resting both arms on the desk—too close as always, his face almost level with the notebook.
“Hey, tell me, did you do the homework?” The green-haired boy said, his face twisted into that classic puppy-dog plea.
Tooru was still writing. The pencil finished the line before stopping, and only then did he lift his gaze slightly, with that somewhat weary calm of someone who already knew the day was going to start like this.
“I did.” He said sharply, avoiding looking directly at his friend and his current begging expression; he already knew what would happen next.
Iura tilted his head, staring at him instead of the notebook.
“You did...?”
“I did.”
“All by yourself?”
“Yep.”
“Didn’t cheated?”
Tooru let out a short breath through his nose, closing the notebook with his thumb still marking the page.
“Do you want the answer, or do you want to keep asking the same question?”
The corner of Iura’s mouth turned up.
“Both.”
He yanked the sheet without asking, dragging the paper toward him as he leaned even further back in his chair. His elbow rested on the table, his brow almost furrowing for real from how hard he was pretending to study it.
“No, wait...”
His finger stopped on one of the answers.
“Is this even a number, or did you just scrawl something and hope it stuck?”
Tooru glanced away for a second, anchoring his arm more firmly on the table.
“It’s the answer.”
“Nope, sure doesn’t look like it,” Iura fired back immediately, pulling the paper closer. “Look at this here…”
He squinted.
“This seems like a ‘3’ that got tired halfway through… and this…” his finger moved down to the line below, “what is this? An ‘8’? A ‘B’? A cry for help?”
Tooru turned his face slightly, his hand rising to the back of his neck as if to simply fix his hair, but the corner of his mouth twitched before he could stop it, and a low laugh escaped him.
“Hehe… It’s not that bad…”
The words came out amidst his laughter.
Iura froze, then lifted his eyes until they met Tooru’s, and his grin slowly grew, utterly satisfied.
“Ah… you laughed.”
Tooru looked away immediately.
“No.”
“You did laugh,” Iura insisted, leaning closer, “you really did laugh just now.”
Tooru ran a hand through his hair, avoiding eye contact.
“Don’t start.”
“Fine...” Iura went back to tapping the tip of his finger on the page, as if trying to keep the focus on the writing and not the laughter. “Then explain this here.”
Tooru tugged the sheet back with two fingers.
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine at all!” Iura shot back, leaning in again to peek. “You’re just saying that to shut me up!” He gave a dramatic pout that deserved an award, then scowled for a split second.
Tooru tugged the page closer, narrowing the distance between the ink smudges and his eager curiosity.
“I said it because it’s true.”
Iura stared for a beat, then tipped back, propping his chin on his hand.
“Fine… whatever, but it still looks awful!”
The corner of Tooru’s mouth twitched again, more subtly, and Iura noticed—of course he noticed—but didn’t say anything. He just stood there, staring a second longer than he needed to, until Tooru’s rhythm faltered slightly. His fingers paused on the table. His gaze fell unfocused for a moment that was too brief before returning.
Tooru noticed.
“You’ve got dark circles under your eyes.”
Iura blinked, taken by surprise, and the smile returned quickly.
“Wow… just like that, out of nowhere?”
He brought his hand to his face, gently rubbing near his eye.
“Did you sleep badly?”
“Ah… sort of.”
The answer came out low and simple, and he didn’t let it hang in the air.
“My sister was in the bathroom for ages this morning, seriously… I was almost going to brush my teeth in the kitchen.”
Tooru braced his arm more firmly on the table, watching without interrupting.
His words were light, in his easygoing tone, but there was a tiny bit of effort there, barely concealed, and it didn’t fit with the rest. Why is this striking me now? The question came quickly and annoyingly, and he didn’t like it even a little.
The room slowly filled up, the clatter taking over — chairs squeaking, backpacks bumping, voices overlapping — and Iura started spinning around in his chair, taking advantage of the commotion.
“Everyone, attention!”
He held the sheet of paper above his head.
“Ishikawa’s handwriting is really weird!”
Tooru snatched the paper back fast enough to stop the whole announcement.
“Oh, not again…”
Yuki, strolling down the aisle between the desks, slowed her pace next to the table, resting her hand on the back of the chair in front of her to lean in a bit, her gaze falling right on the sheet.
“Let me see...”
She leaned in close, her eyes sweeping the lines with easy calm, then looked up with a small smile.
“It’s not that bad... you can at least read it.”
“Of course you can, obviously.” Tooru confirmed.
“No, you can’t!” Iura retorted immediately, folding her arms in genuine offense.
Yuki let out a short snort.
“Yes, you can. It’s a bit messy, but you can.” She finished.
“I refuse to accept that.”
Hori walks past them at that moment, heading down the side hallway with her backpack slung over her shoulder, and slow down when she notices the scene.
“You’re really annoying, you know?”
Iura swivels his chair toward her.
“Me?!”
Hori stops half a step ahead, turns her body sideways, and crosses her arms.
“You’re exactly right. No one asked you to analyze anyone’s handwriting.”
Iura slapped his hand over his heart in a dramatic, automatic move.
“This isn’t annoyance, this is critical thinking.”
“You’ve got nothing better to do, that’s all.” Hori replied, dryly.
Yuki let out a soft laugh beside them, her hand rising to her mouth, as she usually did.
“A little...”
Iura spun toward her.
“Hey!”
Yuki shrugged, still smiling.
“Am I lying?”
Remi slid up beside Hori, leaning in with wide-eyed curiosity, her gaze flicking from the paper to Iura and back to Tooru.
“What’s going on?”
She smiled even more.
“Oh, is he messing around again?”
“He’s always messing around,” Hori replied, already adjusting the strap of her backpack on her shoulder.
Sengoku glided up behind them, stopping a step back so he wouldn’t block the aisle, and pushed his glasses up as he sized up the scene.
“You guys are blocking the way.”
“We’ve been standing here for, I don’t know, two seconds.” Iura replied, still swiveling in his chair.
“That’s long enough.” Sengoku retorted, with that thin veneer of patience he always pretended to have.
Miyamura, a few meters back, propped against his desk, watched the whole scene without getting involved. When Iura looked in his direction, seeking support, he raised a hand before Iura could even speak.
“Don’t even look at me.”
Iura narrowed his eyes.
“Traitor.”
Yanagi glided around the group, slicing his path neatly so he wouldn’t bump into anyone, and Sakura trailed right behind him, hugging her stack of books tight against her chest; when she spotted the tiny roadblock, she eased her pace almost without thinking. Yuki hopped a half-step to the side to open up space.
“Go ahead.”
Sakura nodded slightly.
“Thanks.”
Remi watched the whole thing with a smile.
“She’s so cute!”
“Remi.” Sengoku groaned, already fed up.
“I’m just saying, come on,” she shot back, feigning offense and puffing out her cheeks.
Meanwhile, Iura was still there, spinning in his chair, soaking up everyone’s attention, shooting back replies, shifting, taking up space like he always did, but in the middle of a quick exchange of glances — between one answer and the next — his face faltered for the briefest instant, the smile slipping away before vanishing for a split second, his gaze going blank and returning right after as if nothing had happened.
This time, Tooru catches the glitch like a radar, and the uneasy feeling it left wasn’t new; the worst part was precisely that detail. He’d been noticing something off about the way Iura acted for a while, he just couldn’t say exactly what. He couldn’t tell if it was plain tiredness, irritation, distraction, or some other feeling too vague to name, but it was definitely there. That was enough to make him glance down at his own notebook for a second, fiddling with the edge of the page even though he didn’t need to, before looking up again.
----------
During the break, the courtyard was buzzing with nonstop movement. Iura sat on a bench, with Miyamura on one side and Sengoku on the other. He kept leaning forward, talking a mile a minute and flailing his arms as if each sentence needed a push to get out in one piece. Remi stood beside them, laughing even before the tales reached their punchlines, while Sengoku tried to guide the chat with more and more tense gestures, which only made Iura talk louder.
Tooru was propped up against a pillar farther away, squeezing a crinkled juice box so hard that the plastic gave way under his fingers, when Yuki strolled over, casual as a Sunday afternoon, and leaned her shoulder against the same pillar. She followed the line of his gaze before saying a word. For a beat she just watched the bench, as if she wanted to be absolutely sure before speaking up.
“You spotted it too, right?”
Tooru tilted his face a little, but not quite enough to meet her eyes.
“Spotted what?”
Yuki let out a short snort through her nose, almost a laugh, and twirled the straw between her fingers on the juice box.
“Oh, come on.”
He finally looked at her.
“What's wrong?”
Yuki tilted her chin toward the bench, without losing her small grin.
“Him.”
Tooru followed the gesture with his eyes. Iura was saying something to Remi now, his whole body getting into it, while Sengoku looked like he already regretted listening and Miyamura just watched, quietly, as if he knew that interrupting wouldn’t do any good.
“He’s always like that,” Tooru said, but the words came out weaker than they should have, and he realized it right away.
Yuki also noticed. She took another sip of juice before answering, still looking at the bench.
“You know what I’m talking about, Ishikawa.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was just pensive. Across the courtyard, someone bellowed; closer by, a door slammed. Remi burst into a deep laugh, leaning forward, and Iura laughed too, but a second too late.
Yuki saw it. Tooru saw it too.
“He looks tired,” Tooru murmured, without taking his eyes off them.
“He does…” Yuki agreed, and this time the light in her face faded a little. “More than usual.”
Tooru squeezed the little box between his fingers without realizing it. Yuki caught the movement out of the corner of her eye, but chose not to say anything. She just rested her head more firmly against the pillar and let her gaze return to the group.
“When he overdoes it, it’s usually because there’s something in between that he doesn’t want to let show,” she said, quietly, as if talking to herself.
Tooru frowned.
“You act like you know exactly when he’s faking it and when he isn’t!”
Yuki smiled without showing her teeth.
“Not exactly.” She shrugged. “But you can tell.”
Tooru let out a quiet sigh through his nose.
“To you, everything is ‘you can tell.’”
“Not everything.” Yuki turned her face slightly toward him, her smile sharp and playful. “You, for example, are a pain to read, for heaven’s sake!”
Tooru finally met her gaze.
“That was rude.”
“It was an honest opinion.”
“Same thing, in your case.”
Yuki chuckled softly, and the sound was light, drawing no one’s attention but his.
“Okay, fair enough.”
She turned her eyes back to the bench. Iura had moved on again; now he was chatting with Miyamura, casually slinging his arm around the other's shoulder, while Sengoku griped about some tiny detail that only he seemed to care about. Remi butted in over everyone at once, like always, and for a few seconds the bench turned into a jumble of chatter and wild gestures. Then it happened again.
It was quick. So quick that, if Tooru hadn’t been paying such close attention, he might have missed it.
Iura’s face went blank for a moment. Nothing dramatic. Nothing obvious. Just… empty. Yuki tilted her head slightly, as if she’d caught the same frame.
“See?” she asked, without looking at him.
Tooru paused before speaking.
“Yeah…”
The words came out softer than he’d meant. Yuki slowly twisted the juice box between her hands.
“And he hates it when anyone spots it.”
Tooru looked away from the bench for a moment, glancing at the floor, then looked back. Iura was already laughing again, his body thrown back, one hand on his own stomach as if the joke had been too good. Remi was laughing along with him. Sengoku had clearly already given up on authority. Miyamura just twitched the corner of his mouth.
Everything looked normal. That was exactly the problem.
“You could talk to him,” Yuki said after a few seconds.
Tooru let out another sigh.
“You could, too.”
“I know.”
She answered without a fight, and that made him glance at her again.
“Then why me?”
Yuki made a tiny face, like she was hunting for a gentler way to put it and already knowing she wouldn’t find one.
“Because he lets more stuff slip around you.” Tooru didn’t answer right away; his gaze drifted back to the bench before he could stop it, he pressed his hand to his forehead, and a confused look spread across his face — and obviously, Yuki saw it all.
“Don’t give me that face,” she said, almost amused.
“Which face?”
“That ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about’ face, when you clearly do.”
“But I don’t understand... Really!”
Yuki raised an eyebrow.
“Ishikawa.”
“What?”
“I’ve been watching this for a while.”
She spoke softly, but not coldly; there was a hint of lightness there, almost as if she’d been waiting for that moment longer than he’d care to admit. Tooru dragged his hand back from his forehead to the nape of his neck; he seemed to be trying hard, lost in his own thoughts, and the question slipped out in a whisper before he could stop himself:
“…since when have I been looking at him so much...?”
The words slipped out softly, mostly for his own ears. Yuki turned her face just a little toward him, and the small smile that appeared wasn’t teasing; it was more the look someone gives when they finally hear someone say out loud something that had been obvious for a long time.
“Since before you even knew you were looking at him, I think.”
Tooru didn’t say a word at first. He looked back over at the bench, as if the real answer lived in the way Iura moved, not in what Yuki was saying. Iura was laughing at something Remi had just remarked on, but the laugh came a beat late, starting small and then stretching wide.
Tooru spotted it again, and that was what gnawed at him.
Not because Yuki was wrong, because she wasn’t. He’d been noticing these tiny cracks in Iura for a while — the smile that sometimes didn’t quite fit, the look that faded for a second, the way his energy bounced back too fast, as if he had to rush to cover something up before anyone could see it.
It wasn’t that it was obvious. It wasn’t. It was just that he… noticed.
He noticed too much, and from that moment on, he was aware of it: he picked up on way more about Iura than he’d ever realized.
Beside him, Yuki kept her gaze fixed on the bench in quiet for another heartbeat. Then she twirled the straw between her fingers and thought, without saying it out loud: Finally... Because, honestly, it was taking way too long. Tooru studied Iura the way someone who’s paying too much attention does, and Iura gave away way too much right in front of him. The two of them still acted like nothing was happening between them, but for her, it had been going on for ages.
“It’s not that he’s being so obvious today...” Yuki said later, choosing her words wisely, as if adjusting her phrasing so as not to scare him back into denial. “It’s just that you’re reading more into it.”
Tooru frowned, still staring at the bench; Yuki had just confirmed his hunch, and it didn’t help at all.
“That doesn’t help, damn it!”
She let out a brief snort through her nose, almost sounding like a laugh.
“I know, sorry…”
Tooru stayed quiet this time, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, and in that hush Yuki’s words rang loud in his head. As he kept watching his friend from across the room, a flood of thoughts rolled through him, heavy and dark.
Yuki got it.
She thought, again, without speaking: Yeah… you’ve noticed. You only didn’t want to admit why.
However, she kept that thought locked inside as she gently tilted his face slightly toward Tooru and said, as casually as possible:
“You pay more attention to him than you realize...”
Tooru squeezed the box again, more gently this time. He didn’t respond.
Because he couldn’t answer without lying a little. Yuki let the conversation end there.
Not because she was out of words, but because she’d already said what mattered. She’d seen the words land. She’d seen him really hear. It was during that pause that Iura appeared, crossing the distance between the bench and the pillar with steps too quick for someone who, seconds earlier, looked so tired . Which snapped Tooru out of his “trance.”
“Are you guys badmouthing me?”
Yuki didn’t even flinch.
“We’re just watching you.”
“That’s even worse, geez!”
Iura slapped his hand over his heart like he was hurt, but the show fizzled fast, and he slumped his shoulder against the pillar next to Tooru, more from pure tiredness than for dramatic effect. Up close, his exhaustion was written all over his face.
“Man… I’d really love to just lie down anywhere right now,” the words slipped out before he could stop them, and his friends noticed right away.
Tooru swung his head toward Iura.
“You okay?!”
Iura looked up, almost surprised to hear the question so straight.
“I’m fine, duh.”
It slipped out too easily.
Yuki watched the two in silence, her fingers still playing with the straw.
“You look terrible,” she commented, calmly, as if she were talking about the weather.
“Holy crap, you're welcome!” Iura replied, but even the sarcasm came out half-hearted.
Remi showed up a second later, tugging Sengoku by the arm.
“Iura, you’ve got to decide right now because the president is freaking out!”
“I’m not freaking out,” Sengoku retorted, already on the verge of losing it. “I’m just saying you can’t change the order of the tasks in the middle of the process just because you thought it’d be more fun!
“We thought it was better!” Remi corrected him with sugary sweetness.
Iura looked at the two of them, then at Yuki, then at Tooru. The smile came as it always did — fast, easy, on standby — but Tooru caught the split second before it lit up. He saw that Iura had paused to think for a single beat whether it was worth getting up for this.
“All right, hold on... nobody move just yet... I need a second to think!”
Iura sat up straight, sliding back into the group with his energy finally in the right spot. Tooru watched him until he flopped down on the bench again, even more slumped than before, one arm draped over the backrest. He does that all the time, doesn’t he?
----------
On the way back to the classroom, the hallway wasn’t as noisy as it had been during the break. A chillier breeze blew in through the open windows, carrying the fresh, metallic scent of rain that hadn’t yet begun to fall. Iura was the last to break away from the group because he’d replied to Remi and then to Sengoku almost at the same time, and only after that he started walking toward the classroom
Spotting Tooru a few steps back, he raised his hand.
“Ishikawaaa! Let’s go!”
He kept walking before Tooru could even answer, and Tooru lengthened his stride until he caught up. When he fell into step beside him, Iura naturally slowed down.
Iura was the first to break the brief silence that had settled between them in the hallway; walking beside Tooru, he turned his face slightly toward him, his brow furrowing slightly as if he were still trying to figure out what had been off since earlier.
“You’re acting weird today.”
Tooru kept at the same easy pace, but glanced sideways before answering, his hand still gripping the backpack strap.
“Look who’s talking.”
Iura let out a short snort through his nose, almost offended, and brought his hand to his chest in an automatic exaggeration.
“I’m always weird.”
“But today you’re weirder than usual.” Tooru retorted, his face still stone-faced, and that was enough for Iura to widen his eyes a little before leaning his body just slightly toward him and placing one hand on his chest — the famous "fake drama," a classic Shuu Iura move.
“Wow...” he said, already about to continue the act.
Tooru didn’t even turn around fully; he just raised his free hand in a small, vague gesture, sweeping it from Iura’s head down to his toes.
“D-don’t do that.”
Iura furrowed his brow, tracking the gesture with his eyes.
“What’s that?”
“That right there.”
For a second, Iura stared at him as if the answer had been offensively insufficient; then the corner of his mouth turned up, and he opened one hand toward himself, pointing at himself with an almost mocking confidence.
“That right there is my charm.” He declared, running his fingers through his hair and trying a sultry look that, in Tooru’s eyes, went completely off the mark.
The silence that followed hung a little longer. The hallway was almost empty now, the footsteps of the others ahead, and the distant chatter of voices muffled by the classrooms. Iura looked ahead, then to the side again, and without warning rested his forehead against Tooru's shoulder.
The gesture was quick, but not entirely a joke.
“I’m tired...”
His voice came out low and rough, muffled by the thick uniform fabric and their closeness. Tooru didn’t even flinch.
“I can tell.”
Iura let out a short sigh, almost a weak chuckle.
“Thanks a lot.”
They walked like that for another two steps before Iura straightened up on his own. Yuki was up ahead, near the classroom door, and he gave them a quick look when she heard Iura’s voice again, but he looked away so fast that, if Tooru hadn’t been paying such close attention that day, he might not have noticed at all.
The next class dragged on. The teacher wrote on the board as if anyone still had the energy to honestly follow along, and the classroom gradually sank into that early-afternoon lethargy. Remi whispered to Sakura twice before Sengoku shot an exhausted glance in their direction; Hori answered a question without even getting up from her desk; Yanagi seemed genuinely focused. Tooru wrote down half of what he was supposed to and spent the other half glancing — without wanting to admit he was looking — at the corner where Iura was sitting.
It wasn’t that he was doing anything particularly different; that was precisely the problem. Iura answered when called, joked when he had to, and leaned over to chat with Miyamura, but there was a tiny pause between each move. It was as if he was always half a second late in snapping back to himself.
Once, Hori yelled his name from across the room because a sheet of paper was stuck under the desk. Iura answered right away, bent down, picked up the paper, smiled, and handed it back. Normal, yet even so, before the smile, before the words, there was that void again. Brief. Sharp. And it only grew more clear as the day went on.
Tooru began to hate the way he could now see it as clearly as the midday sun.
----------
At the end of the day, the rain came down all at once, heavy, pounding against the windows and drowning out the last echoes of the school. The classroom was almost empty by the time Tooru finished packing up; that’s when he heard the chair next to him scrape across the floor and saw Iura flop into it with far less energy than usual, his backpack sliding close to the foot of the desk as he rested an arm on the table and let out a long, tired breath, as if just sitting down had already taken more energy than it should have.
“You’re still here?” he asked, glancing over.
Tooru snapped his pencil case shut before replying.
“So are you, apparently.”
Iura turned his face toward the window.
“Fair enough.”
The quiet that fell wasn’t exactly awkward, but it still stood out. The rain was so heavy it seemed to have shut the classroom off from the world, and the two of them listened to it for a few seconds, until Iura tapped his fingers lightly on the desk and mumbled, without taking his eyes off the steamy glass:
“It’s raining super hard today…” The sitted boy says, still looking at the window.
“It sure is.”
“...that’s nice.”
Tooru, his dark brow furrowing like a storm-line, glances sideways.
“Nice?”
Iura shrugged, too tired to come up with any excuse.
“So I can stay a little longer.”
Tooru stares at that profile, mouth slack, gaze unfocused, and the question slips out before his brain can catch it.
“You wanna dodge going home?”
This time the question didn’t die in the air; it hung there, buzzing like a fly trapped in the car.
Iura doesn’t answer right away; he keeps watching the rain, like he was about to decide whether to pretend he hasn’t heard, and only then turns his face slightly. The smile that appears is small, crooked and too tired to hide anything.
“...you’re being pretty direct today, huh.”
“Sorry.”
“No,” Iura replied, still not looking directly at him. “It’s just that… I don’t know. Today I wasn’t really in the mood to leave right away.”
Voice low, almost a rumble, but every syllable still lands like a punch. Tooru, mouth dry, brain spinning, can’t come up with a single cool thing to say, so he just stays quiet, shoulders sagging. Iura spots it and lets out a weak laugh, then rubs his forehead with two fingers, eyes flicking up like a tired cat.
“Don’t make that face, okay?” Iura says.
“What face?”
“That one, like you’re overthinking things.”
With a look of surprise, Tooru replies.“…because I am.”
Even though he's so exhausted, he seems to be able to read my mind... How?
The corner of Iura’s mouth twitched, like a ticking clock about to spring.
“I noticed.”
Outside, a clap of thunder rang out in the distance. Iura ran his fingers across the table for a moment, then swiveled his chair slightly, crossed his arms on the desk, and rested his head there, sideways, giving in to his exhaustion without paying it much mind — after all, it was just Tooru there, wasn’t it?
“I’m really sleepy…”
Voice muffled by his own arms. Tooru glances sideways—from that angle Iura looks even more tired; no smile, no rapid-fire chat, no body-language-a-whirl—all that’s left is sheer, yawning exhaustion, just... Iura.
"I can tell."
Iura lets out a short, half-laugh, like a hiccup.
“Wow, what a déjà vu.”
But even the attempt at humor didn’t come across strongly. Iura stays there, face resting on his arms, eyes half-closed, and that’s when Tooru—in one smooth glide—pulls his own chair a little closer, the wheels squeaking like tiny rusty mice. Soft thump on the floor; Iura hears it, lifts his eyes just enough to glance at his buddy from the side.
Tooru hesitated, glanced away, spoke like he was shrugging off the whole scene.
“You’re gonna snap your neck, dipshit.”
Iura didn’t answer, just kept staring. Tooru took a breath, tapped his own shoulder lightly, and added, still unable to meet Iura’s gaze:
“If you want… Y-you can lean on me here.”
Iura freezes, shock zapping his eyes like a static spark, then creeping down his jaw.
“Seriously?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.
Tooru shrugs, a quick lift-drop of his shoulder, almost a hiccup.
“Before I change my mind.”
Iura’s grin, small and tired, glows weirdly honest, like a street-light bulb burning too bright on its last night.
"Okay..."
Iura uncrosses his arms, lifts his head slow, and pivots his whole frame toward Tooru, still perched in his own chair. Then, like a cat testing a new scratching post, he leans sidewise, drags his temple across Tooru’s shoulder, and, when he feels zero flinch, sags all his weight there, heavy and content.
“Better this way…” he murmurs, eyes already sliding shut. “D-don’t complain.”
Tooru, eyes wide, mouth half-open, about to fire back, then—clip—the words vaporize. Weight, barely there, like a cat curling onto a lap; still, it snaps everything into high-def focus: shoulder, arm, the hitch in each breath, the space that vanished so slyly.
“I didn’t even say anything.”
The corner of Iura’s mouth turned up slightly, now hidden against Tooru’s uniform.
“But you were thinking.”
“So full of yourself.”
“I’m comfortable. It’s different.”
Tooru lets out a long, shaky sigh through his nose, almost a laugh, and he plants his arm heavier on the table, not budging his shoulder; only then he notices how many little signals he’s been tracking—Iura’s hair tickling his cheek, the warm press of their bodies, the way every muscle finally unclenches.
Rain slaps the roof, steady and loud; silence drapes around them, light as a feather. Iura’s breaths roll slow and deep, almost purring. Tooru feels his own tiredness slide in, heavy as a sack of wet books. The day had already dragged on by itself, with boring class after boring class, those long hours that seemed to never end, and a certain green-haired boy had managed to make everything worse just by occupying his mind the whole time. In the end, he was tired in a way much deeper than he wanted to be.
What a drag.
Next to him, Iura shifted again, totally unbothered, and snuggled closer into Tooru’s shoulder, taking full advantage of the height gap.
Iura, voice thick with sleep, murmurs, “You gonna stay right there, buddy?”
Tooru glances sideways.
“I am.”
Iura, dark hair flopping, nose twitching like a small animal, lets out a low huff, almost purr.
“K, whatever.”
Annoying, right? Tooru glances over, eyes half-slits, and thinks: when Iura shuts his usually chatty mouth like this, he’s as easy to read as a signpost; no jokes, no noise, no darting away. Just tired, limp, real—and that bugs Tooru more than he’ll ever admit.
Sleep slinks in slow, pulled by the patter-patter rain, the sticky-hot air, and the full-day weight. Tooru fights it, stays upright, stares through the smudged glass, but his head feels like a water-logged sponge, heavy as a cinder block; eventually he sags, gives in, lets the slump win.
Head lolling, Tooru drifts closer, like a ship on autopilot, and — bam — forehead nudges Iura’s, soft as a feather. Iura mumbles, “Hey”, but doesn’t budge, so Tooru stays, grinning like a kid who just stole the last slice. Iura sighs, shifts, and snuggles in even closer, as if Tooru were a giant pillow.
A few seconds tick by, quiet as a mouse. Tooru whispers, voice scratchy, “You don’t have to keep trying to seem cheerful all the time, Iura.”
Iura stays still, warm breath tickling Tooru’s neck, and for a split-second Tooru thinks his buddy’s already sawed logs. Then with a slight shift, Iura’s body goes rigid, almost imperceptibly, just enough to prove he heard.
“...Huh?”
Tooru doesn’t flinch, keeps his head right there, gaze sliding sideways till he frames Iura’s profile.
“I’m serious, pay attention… I-I… I didn’t like seeing you pushing yourself all day today, you know?”
Iura lifts his head a hair, not pulling back, like a cat eyeing a new scent; he’s trying to read the label on Tooru’s face—teasing, worry, or just another line he’ll disown later?
“You talk as if it were easy,” he says, voice low, rough with sleep and sarcasm. “As if it were just… stopping.”
“I know it isn’t.”
“Really?”
Question slides out quiet, but not empty; it’s weary, like a cat yawning through the fifth nap.
Tooru pauses, not ’cause he’s clueless but ’cause he’s aiming for the perfect line.
“Maybe I don’t understand everything… but I can see you’ve been wearing yourself out over this for a long time.”
Iura flinches like a cat dodging a splash. His gaze wobbles, fast but definite, and Tooru catches the slip. Iura bites his lower lip, holds it, then lets go slow, and when he speaks again his voice is an octave lower, almost defenseless.
“Then why don’t you just pretend you didn’t see-”
Tooru didn’t wait nor had enough time to blink; he cut his friend off mid-phrase, hands slicing the air like a chef at lunch.
“Because I’m worried about you, man…” he says, still quiet, voice rough like sandpaper. “Makes total sense I’d notice; you’ve been my buddy for way too long for me to pretend I don’t see it or just… do nothing.”
Iura, with hair as green as a ripe lettuce, stays stone-still; his hand grips the blue uniform, wrinkles popping up like tiny mountains, and his gaze drifts unfocused, then snaps back.
“That just makes it worse.”
Tooru feels a sharp pinch across his chest, like someone just yanked a rubber band, and his mind spins with a thousand reasons this could get worse for his buddy.
“Why?”
Iura, dark-haired and usually cool as a cucumber, lets out a short, humorless snort through his nose, pauses, then pushes on.
“Because then I can’t pretend everything’s fine anymore…” He rubs the back of his neck, a nervous tick Tooru’s seen a million times. “When no one notices, I can still handle it, make a joke, say something, and carry on. But when you talk like that… it’s hard to keep pretending it’s nothing.”
The pause stretches, paper-thin and electric. Tooru doesn’t bolt for words; he lets the moment sag, then springs.
“So why’d you go and do that?”
Iura, eyes like two wet pennies, pauses, lets the air slide outta his mouth in a quiet whoosh; he’s thinking, or maybe just stalling, who knows. Then—hah, a half-laugh, sharp and sour, like lemon rind stuck in the throat.
“Because it’s easier.”
The words tumble out fast, almost automatic, like a well-oiled spring-gun; no pause, no breath, just bam-bam-bam.
“If I act normal…” He cuts himself off, brow knotting like a twisted rubber band. “I don’t know. If I stay quiet, or pause too much… it feels like they can see right through me. That I’m tired, that I’m losing patience, that I can’t handle it… so I just talk more, crack jokes, anything like that, to protect myself.”
Tooru just sits there, quiet as a mouse; his silence works like a key, turning the next flood of words.
“And I hate that.” Iura mutters, eyes closed again, but the calm’s gone. “I hate it when it’s, like, painfully obvious, I hate it when you can tell I’m tired, or fed up, or… you get it…”
Voice wobbles at the end, barely, but it wobbles. Iura bites his lip, hard, grips the crinkled fabric of his shirt, and squints his eyes shut for a beat, like he’s trying to shove a bubble of panic back down his throat.
Tooru, dark-haired and lean, listens in silence, chest tightening like a too-tight T-shirt.
"And does it work?"
Iura lets out a short laugh—too weak to be a real laugh.
“Sometimes.”
“And today?”
Iura, his brow a furrowed map of doubt, stares at the ceiling like it’s gonna give him the answer. Long pause. Tooru, voice a quiet challenge, pushes on: “Seriously, man, you gotta tell me.” Iura sighs, the sound like air leaking from a tire; he rubs the back of his neck, skin prickling. “Today… nah.”
“Not today.”
Silence, thick as warm soup, stretches between them; outside, the rain slaps the roof like a thousand tiny fists, and neither of them seems keen to fill the space. Iura, his dark brows knit, his white T-shirt clinging to wet skin, lets his grip slide off the fabric, knuckles white, hand hovering, kinda lost.
Tooru, eyes like wet asphalt, chest still rising slow, lets the next breath slide in.
“Then stop for a moment.”
Iura’s mouth twists into a tired smile, like a sunrise yawning through a storm cloud.
“It’s easy to say.”
“I know it isn’t…”
“Do you really?”
Tooru, dark hair spiked like a hedgehog, holds the pause, eyes darting like a kid who just swiped the last slice of pizza.
“Not in your shoes, bud, but I know you’re dead-dog tired… and I got nothing else to say to someone this fried!”
Iura, dark hair flopping, silence thick. He nuzzles closer, almost shy, like he’s too tired to hide it.
“Yeah.” Iura's voice is barely there, a puff of steam in the quiet. “I am.”
That raw admission hits Tooru harder than a ton of bricks, and he swallows, hard, his forehead still pressed against Iura’s, and when he speaks again his voice comes out extra careful.
“So with me, you can stop… at least try to stop forcing yourself around me!”
Iura, dark hair flopping, exhales slow and loud, relief-scented breath fogging the air; Tooru grins, because that sigh sounds like a tiny victory bell. A tiny smile tugs at Iura’s lips, tired but real, and Tooru feels his chest clench, ow, that’s gonna leave a mark.
“Seriously, you’re unbelievable today.”
Tooru feels the corner of his mouth twitch, but the smile never fully lands. He turns his face just a hair, enough to glance sideways, and there’s Iura, eyes nearly shut, expression limp with exhaustion, that last coil of tension still stretched across his features like a string someone just cut.
"And you're exhausted."
Iura lets out a low, rumbling huff through his nose, a laugh that dies halfway, leaving a half-smile that’s like a crinkled paper boat on calm water.
“That was cruel.”
“Well, it’s the truth, isn’t it?”
"Even worse."
The reply came out weakly, but this time the corner of his mouth turned up just a little, and Tooru clocked the exact second it happened. Tiny. Almost nothing. Still, enough.
Silence slides in, thick as steam, warm and weary; Tooru watches the rain slap the window, feels Iura’s shoulders sag heavier against his own, and thinks, score one for the little guy. Iura’s fingers twitch, then loosen, then twitch again— forehead bounces, finds a softer nook, settles; breath expands, slow and wet, like steam hitting cold glass.
“Try to sleep.” He murmurs, breath warm against Iura’s ear.
Iura, heavy-lidded, takes his sweet time, like the words gotta swim through dream-muck first.
“You too.”
Tooru lets out a short breath through his nose.
“Bossy.”
The corner of Iura’s mouth twitched again, like a tiny earthquake on the verge of a grin.
“Says the guy who decided to become a therapist at the end of class.”
Tooru, chest heaving, eyes like wet coal, almost laughs for real; the breath escapes faint, swallowed by exhaustion.
Tooru, jaw tight, eyes like slits, snaps back. “Shut up.”
“Rude.”
“Go to sleep, now.”
So, Iura let the air slip out slow, and when he spoke up again, his voice was soft and gentle, almost like a far-off song.
“Gonna nod off, bro.”
Tooru, eyes still open, listens to the rain, feels the warm weight of Iura’s body against his own, and, as sleep creeps in like a slow tide, he lets his head drop heavy, then the rest of him follows, whatever.
He slides his temple closer to Iura’s, skin-to-skin, like two puzzle pieces finally clicking. Iura hums, low and content, and squirms tighter, half-asleep; his body gets the memo before his brain does. Already half-dozed, Tooru drags his free arm up, wraps it around Iura’s waist, tugs till the mismatched puzzle pieces lock.
Hand drifts up, strokes hair slow-www, lazy-rhythm, like a cat licking cream.
Iura finally lets go, heavy-lidded, skin soft.
Tooru felt every last knot in Iura’s shoulder melt away, his breaths turning slow and deep, like ocean waves on a calm beach.
"Lazy…" He murmured, voice already soft.
Two seconds, no more.
“You’re the one who let me.”
Tooru almost smiles, heat-lamp grin spreading slow.
“Go to sleep already.”
Iura doesn’t even answer this time; he just pulls a deep, lazy breath and—whoosh — is gone. A few heartbeats tick by, the rain outside pitter-patter-pitter, and sleep yanks Tooru under too.
The rain hammers a steady rhythm, the table wobbles like a drunkard, and their breaths mesh, slow and warm. Sleep drags Tooru under, too. They end up dozing like that, crammed between the chair, the table, and the downpour, bodies locked together, Tooru’s head on Iura’s, Iura’s arm draped heavy and warm, hand still lost in his friend’s hair, the rest of the world way the hell out there, too far to matter.