Chapter Text
It was Hotta's fault. Obviously.
He'd left his sneakers right inside the doorway again, even though Hioki had asked him maybe fifty times not to. The purple ones with the scuffed toes. Hioki was carrying a cup of tea, looking down at his phone, and his foot caught on the heel.
The mug flew. The tea splashed. Hioki's head hit the edge of the low table.
Not hard. Just hard enough to sting.
"Shit—" Hotta was already kneeling beside him, hands hovering. "Babe, I'm sorry, I didn't—are you bleeding?"
Hioki touched his forehead. No blood. Just a small bump forming, warm under his fingers.
From the couch, Watarai stood up so fast he knocked over a magazine. "What happened?" His voice was sharp. He was already crossing the room, already pushing Hotta aside with his shoulder. "Move."
Morisaki looked up from his book. Didn't move. But his eyes stayed on Hioki.
Nakazato, who had been folding laundry in the corner, dropped a shirt and hurried over. "Oh no, oh no, let me see—"
"I'm fine," Hioki said. And he was. It was just a bump. A little stupid bump from a little stupid sneaker.
Hotta was still apologizing. "I swear I'll put them in the genkan from now on. I'll build a shrine for them. I'll—"
"You'll shut up," Watarai said. He cupped Hioki's face with both hands, tilting his head to inspect the bump. His thumbs brushed Hioki's cheekbones. The touch was firm. Possessive. Normal for him.
Hioki let him look. Watarai's face was close. His eyes were dark and intense, like he was trying to read damage directly through Hioki's skin.
"It's just a bump," Hioki repeated.
Nakazato handed him a cold compress wrapped in a towel. "Here, press this. Does it hurt? Do you feel dizzy? Should I call someone?"
"I'm fine, Nakazato."
Morisaki finally spoke. "He's not bleeding. Stop crowding him."
Watarai shot Morisaki a look but didn't let go of Hioki's face. "Can you stand?"
"I wasn't lying down."
"Funny." No smile. Watarai pulled him up anyway, hands on his arms, steadying him like Hioki might topple over from a tiny bump on the head.
Hotta hovered nearby, guilty and fidgety. "I'll buy you new tea. The expensive kind. The one in the gold bag."
"It was a tea bag from the convenience store."
"Gold bag next time," Hotta promised.
Hioki sat back down on the couch. The bump throbbed a little. Nakazato sat beside him, close. Morisaki went back to his book but shifted so his knee pressed against Hioki's. Watarai remained standing, arms crossed, watching Hioki like a hawk.
Hotta, to break the tension, said, "Imagine if he forgot us."
Everyone looked at him.
"What?" Hotta shrugged. "Like in dramas. Bump on the head, poof, memory gone. 'Who are you strange men in my apartment?'"
"That's not funny," Nakazato said.
"I'm just saying—"
"Don't," Watarai said. His voice was flat.
But Hioki's brain caught on the idea. Hotta's stupid idea. He looked at the four of them: Watarai glaring, Morisaki pretending to read, Nakazato's worried face, Hotta's guilty grin.
And he thought: What if I pretended?
It was a bad idea. He knew it was a bad idea. But Hotta's sneakers were still in the doorway, and his head still hurt, and there was something funny about the way Watarai was already gripping his knee like he might disappear.
So Hioki blinked slowly. Let his face go blank.
"...Who are you?"
Silence.
Hotta laughed. "Good one."
Hioki didn't laugh. He looked at Nakazato first, then Morisaki, then Watarai. His eyes moved slowly, like he was seeing them for the first time.
"Seriously," Hioki said, quiet. "I don't... I don't remember."
Nakazato's face crumpled. "Hioki?"
Morisaki closed his book. His jaw tightened.
Hotta stopped laughing.
And Watarai—
Watarai grabbed Hioki's face again, harder this time. His fingers pressed into Hioki's cheeks. His eyes searched. "Look at me."
Hioki looked.
"You know me," Watarai said. It wasn't a question. "Say my name."
Hioki said nothing.
Watarai's grip tightened. Just slightly. Not painful, but intense. Like he was trying to squeeze the memory back into Hioki's skull.
"Watarai," Hioki finally said.
Watarai's whole body went still. "You remember."
"No," Hioki said, keeping his face blank. "You just told me to say your name. That's not remembering. That's obeying."
Morisaki snorted. Quietly. Almost under his breath.
Watarai didn't find it funny. His hands dropped from Hioki's face to his shoulders. Then to his wrists. He held Hioki's hands like he was holding something breakable.
"Hioki."
"I'm sorry," Hioki said. And he was sorry. For the lie. For the panic rising in Nakazato's eyes. For the way Morisaki's knee had pulled away.
But he was also curious. Terribly, stupidly curious.
What would they do?
Hotta ran a hand through his hair. "Okay, okay, this is fine. This is—we'll just tell him everything. We'll make him fall in love with us again. Easy."
Nakazato shook his head. "You can't just—that's not how love works—"
"We'll figure it out," Morisaki said. His voice was calm, but his hands were gripping his book too hard.
Watarai didn't say anything. He just stared at Hioki.
Then he pulled Hioki closer. Wrapped an arm around his waist. Pressed his lips to Hioki's forehead — right next to the bump.
Soft. Possessive. Freaky, almost, in how deliberate it was.
"Fine," Watarai whispered against his skin. "I'll make you remember. Even if it takes forever."
Hioki's heart skipped.
This was a mistake, he thought.
But Watarai's arm was still around him, warm and heavy. Nakazato was already crying quietly into a towel. Morisaki was pretending to read the same page for the fifth time. Hotta was on his phone, probably googling "how to cure amnesia fast."
And Hioki was trapped.
In the best possible way.