Archive of Our Own

Yuhi does not hold grudges. Whatsoever.

This is a woefully childish claim that he's not sure he even believes, but… whatever. It's two in the morning, and he's staring at the ceiling of the dorm room he has shared with Tomoya for three years, four months, and roughly eleven days. But in between the lapses of his delirious, half-awake thoughts, he thinks he holds grudges the way a river holds jagged stone — temporarily, with the understanding that eventually the current will smooth everything down and carry it away.

But this metaphor is probably stupid, and Tomoya is not a stone. Maybe more driftwood-y. And he's particularly stubborn, floating back and hitting Yuhi repeatedly on the shin.

He shifts around on the cushions, the duvet tangling around his ankles. Across the room, Tomoya breathes, slow and even — it's infuriating how Tomoya can sleep now, with not a care in the world, like he hasn't lain awake ever replaying a conversation from six hours ago. His face is half-buried in his pillow, one arm thrown over his head, and in the dim light from the window, he looks younger. Softer. not like the person who spent the entire car ride back from the music show poking Yuhi in the ribs every time he tried to close his eyes.

You look tired, Tomoya had said when Yuhi finally snapped. I was helping.

That is Tomoya's entire philosophy, Yuhi thinks. Or at least Tomoya's entire philosophy for him. Caring for Yuhi by irritating him. Affection shown through copious amounts of sabotage.

Bitterly, Yuhi selfishly wonders why Tomoya doesn't do the same with the others.

Yuhi pulls the blanket higher and tries not to think about why he's on this couch instead of in his own bed. Some things are easier left unexamined — like the exact moment he stopped sleeping in the room he technically shares with Seita, or the reason his body always ends up oriented toward Tomoya's couch, or the conversation they never had about any of it.

Whatever. Whatever.

He closes his eyes and lets the silence answer for him.

The first time Yuhi met Tomoya, he was twelve and had been training at JYPE for two and a half months.

The JYPE training centre smelled like sweat. Yuhi kept his shoulders hunched and his mouth shut because of both his lack of experience with Korean and because that's what he's learned to do in places: observe first, take everything in, and then speak. Okaasan told him to be confident, but confidence is hard to feign, and he understood that fact when he'd auditioned for JYPE, when his lips had opened with the beginning notes of "Wherever you are," when he first landed in Korea. He felt it now, even when he'd finally stopped flinching every time the door opened. Even when he'd learnt the layout of the building, the fastest route to the practice rooms, and the water fountain with the coldest water. He was not comfortable, exactly, but he had stopped feeling like a guest in someone else's home.

That's when he met Tomoya.

The boy had a dancer's posture and the biggest smirk in the world. He looked like he found the whole situation amusing rather than intimidating. His hair is a disaster; it's straight, but parts of it are sticking up, as if he'd just rolled out of bed. He looked around the practice room for a moment, eyes assessing. He didn't seem new at all.

"You're not new, right?" Yuhi is slightly taken aback by the timbre of the then-unknown boy's voice, and his eyes dart up to see him stopping directly in front of Yuhi.

"Uh, no." Yuhi tilts his head, confused. "I joined in July. Why?"

"Great." Tomoya bows before sticking out his hand. "I'm Tomoya. I just got here. Show me around."

Yuhi stares at the hand. Then at Tomoya's face. Then back at the hand. His spine remains rigidly straight.

"Why?"

Tomoya's smirk doesn't falter. If anything, it grows bigger. "Because you look like you know what you're doing," his voice lilts gently, amused. "And I don't want to get lost."

That should be flattering. It is flattering, actually, and later Yuhi will replay this moment and marvel at his own willingness to be led around by a boy who opened with I just got here, show me around. But twelve-year-old Yuhi is still lonely; he has made something of acquaintances, but not friends, and Tomoya's demand feels less like an order and more like an offering.

So he bows. And takes his hand.

Tomoya's grip is firm. Warmer than expected.

"Okay," Yuhi murmurs. "I'm Yuhi."

"Okay, Yuhi," Tomoya repeats, and then he's dragging Yuhi down the hallway, asking rapid-fire questions about each room with such a fervour that Yuhi has to pause and think about his answers. They pass by room by room as Yuhi attempts to give a brief overview of each. They're passing by a particular vending machine when Yuhi stops them.

"Wait," Yuhi says, pulling out a small wad of cash. "Watch this."

He inserts the change and presses the code for the protein bar he'd been eyeing; they're his favourite.

"What are you doing?" Yuhi can feel Tomoya's curious eyes peering at him.

"Just watch."

Yuhi steps back a little as the protein bar starts to slide forward. Then, at the critical moment, when it's about to fall, Yuhi turns and strikes the bottom of the machine with his heel. The machine rattles, and another bar falls with it.

"See? I know things." Yuhi smiles as Tomoya cheers, bending down to grab the two protein bars now sitting at the bottom, waiting to be collected. He tosses one to Tomoya.

Tomoya catches the bar, barely, and grins. "You've only been in here two months."

"Two months longer than you."

"Brat." He tears open the packaging and takes a bite before his face morphs into a concerning shade of green, and he grimaces, running to the trash can to spit the protein bar into it. "What the fuck, Yuhi, these are disgusting."

Yuhi laughs so hard he almost chokes on his own bar. "Wait til you see what they serve us for lunch. These are the best snacks you're gonna get."

"What the hell. How am I supposed to survive here?"

"That's the price you pay to be an idol."

And that is the beginning.

The jealousy comes later, but it comes hard.

He is thirteen, and Tomoya has just been chosen as the centre for their showcase performance. Yuhi watches the announcement from the back of the practice room, arms crossed, face carefully blank. He is happy for Tomoya. He is. The boy has worked for this, bled for this, spent hours in the practice room after everyone else went to bed.

But there is a voice in Yuhi's head that sounds like his own and also not like his own, and it whispers: Why not you?

Tomoya finds him an hour later, sitting on the rooftop of the training building. Yuhi does not remember coming up here. His legs carried him automatically, the way they always do when he needs to think.

"You missed dinner," Tomoya says, settling down next to him. He is holding two convenience store rice balls and a bottle of water. "I brought you food."

"I'm not hungry."

"You're always hungry." Tomoya presses a rice ball into Yuhi's hand. "Eat."

Yuhi eats. The rice is sticky and slightly cold, and he hates that Tomoya was right.

They sit in silence for a while, watching the Seoul skyline blur at the edges. The city is too bright and too loud even from up here, but the rooftop has always felt like a pocket of quiet. It's a place where time moves more slowly, and the pressure eases, if just a little.

"I'm not mad," Yuhi blurts, eventually.

"I didn't ask if you were."

"You're thinking it."

Tomoya turns to look at him, and his expression is strange. It's too soft, and it looks weird on him. Someone who regularly pokes fun at Yuhi and never misses an opportunity to take a jab at him is not angry, nor smug. He looks… guilty.

"I know you wanted it," Tomoya remarks. "The centre position."

Yuhi's stomach clenches. "That's not—"

"You don't have to lie to me." Tomoya's voice is quiet, matter-of-fact. "I've known you for like, two years. I know when you're jealous."

"I'm not jealous."

"Komori, I'm-not-angry-or-jealous-but-I-hide-away-from-everyone-and-miss-dinner Yuhi?"

He hates Tomoya. He hates him so much, with his perfect memory and his sharp eyes and his ability to see straight through every wall Yuhi has ever built.

"I'm not jealous," Yuhi says again, but it comes out weaker this time. "I'm… I don't know what I am."

Tomoya is quiet for a long moment. Then, the words of a whispered confession linger in the air. "I used to be jealous of you."

Yuhi blinks. "What?"

"When I first joined. You'd already been here for two months, and you were so… settled. Quiet, sure, but everyone wanted to know about you. I'd just arrived, and I felt like I was drowning." Tomoya laughs, a short, self-deprecating sound. "You showed me around. Showed me the shitty trick with that vending machine near the practice rooms. You made it all look so easy."

Yuhi does not know what to say to this. He has never considered that Tomoya — confident, irritating, impossible Tomoya — could feel like he was even capable of drowning.

"I'm not jealous anymore," Tomoya continues. "Now I just think you're annoying."

Riveting. "Wow."

"But I was." Tomoya bumps his shoulder against Yuhi's. "So stop sulking, okay? We're even."

And maybe on a different day, one where Yuhi isn't exhausted to the bone and glimmer-eyed and feels that overwhelming urge to tuck his metaphorical tail between his legs, and run back home to Japan, he'd argue that it's not even the same, not how jealousy works. But. Well. Tomoya is looking at him with something like hope, and Yuhi has never been able to say no to that look.

"Fine," Yuhi mutters. "We're even."

Tomoya grins. "Good. Now finish your rice ball. The others are going to eat all the chicken if we don't get back soon."

They walk back inside together, and Yuhi's shoulder is warm where Tomoya kept bumping against it, and he does not think about the centre position again for the rest of the night.

In the present, in the room he now shares with Seita, that memory floats back into his consciousness, where it'd been lying, buried and dormant, for the last several years. Yuhi has to blink several times at the recollection; it'd been a long time since he'd thought about that night.

I used to be jealous of you.

Yeah. Nothing at all. Like it didn't change the fundamental way Yuhi forever viewed Tomoya.

He thinks back to the roommate assignments. Once upon a time, someone had suggested pairing them together, and someone else had laughed.

"They'd kill each other!" Someone had said.

Yuhi had grinned, teeth on display, fake and brilliant. He doesn't look at Tomoya.

He wonders now, after three years of growth and self-reflection and three years of establishing in their careers and three years of letting the fire simmer out, if Tomoya's heart was pounding as hard as his own.

The thing about living in a house with seven other people is that you learn things about everyone, whether you want to or not. Yuhi learns, through his time here, that Yu talks in his sleep, but only in Japanese, and only about food, and that Haru cannot fall asleep without a fan running, even in winter. Learns that Geon never wakes up to his alarms, and everyone has to wake him up if it's urgent, and that Seita has zero tolerance for spice, and all the members have to accommodate that when making food, and that Yuki hums when he thinks no one is listening, always the same off-key version of whatever song is stuck in his head.

He also learns that Tomoya is the most infuriating person on this planet, yet he'd still choose him over anyone else, deep down, even if he is technically supposed to be sharing a room with Haru and not him.

Yuhi is thinking about it all now, standing in the kitchen of the dorm at seven in the morning, waiting for the coffee to finish brewing. He is wearing an oversized hoodie that might be his or might be Tomoya's — at this point, the distinction has become meaningless — and his hair is doing something very unfortunate on the left side. He does not care. No one is awake except for—

"You're up early."

Tomoya's voice comes from the doorway, rough with sleep. He is wearing a pair of shorts and nothing else, which is not unusual but still makes Yuhi's brain do a small, unhelpful stutter. He must have wandered out of his and Haru's room at some point. He does that often. They all do. The official roommate assignments are written on a chart taped to the refrigerator, but the chart is old and curling at the edges, and no one has looked at it in months.

"I'm glad we don't room together. We shouldn't." Tomoya's voice from ages ago echoes in Yuhi's head; it was a brief, stupid conversation in the hallway about these assignments years ago. "We'd just fight all the time."

And Yuhi, who was three years younger and perhaps three times more volatile, almost wanted to turn his nose up at Tomoya and go hmph!, but he didn't. Thank god.

Instead, he'd shrugged and said: "Fine by me. I don't wanna room with you anyway."

They both lied.

And now, every night, they end up here, on opposite couches in the living room, three doors away from their actual beds, pretending it's a coincidence. Yuhi never asked Tomoya why he preferred to sleep on a bed in the living room, and Tomoya never asked why Yuhi, almost every night without fail, instead of returning to his room, goes to the already set up bed on the couch. It is the longest-running unspoken agreement of their lives.

"Coffee," Yuhi murmurs, because Tomoya is still looking at him, and he needs to say something, anything, before something akin to the words I miss you even though you're right there slips out.

Tomoya shuffles into the kitchen and leans against the counter, close enough that his shoulder brushes Yuhi's. His eyes are still half-closed. He's still got that sleep-ridden musk to him.

"You were awake late," Tomoya states. It is not a question.

Yuhi considers lying. He considers saying I sleep fine or I don't know what you're talking about. But Tomoya has known him for over six years now, and lying to him, now, after everything, just feels like pouring gasoline over the roaring flame.

"Couldn't sleep," Yuhi admits.

"Thinking about something?"

You. Always you. About how stupid we were to pretend we didn't want to share a room. About how I'd rather sleep on a lumpy couch three feet away from you than in my own bed.

"The choreography for the new song."

Tomoya snorts. "You are such a liar."

Well. He tried.

"The coffee's done." Yuhi turns away hastily to pour two mugs, black for Tomoya, sugar and milk for himself. He does this without thinking, hands moving methodically and automatically, the way he does everything for Tomoya now — it's like his body learned the routine before his heart caught up.

Tomoya takes the mug and does not say thank you. He never says thank you for the small things, and this used to bother Yuhi until he realised Tomoya's version of gratitude is something like pressing his shoulders against Yuhi's, even though the kitchen is empty and there is plenty of space.

"You always do this, you know." Tomoya's words echo faintly in the empty kitchen air.

"Doing what?"

"You're thinking. You always think. It's loud as fuck."

Yuhi huffs a laugh despite himself. "That doesn't even make sense, Moya."

"You know what I mean." Tomoya tilts his head, studying Yuhi's face in that way that he does; it's sharp and soft at once, and his head tilts, like he's trying to solve a puzzle he already knows the answer to. "You get this look, you know. You're always somewhere else."

"I'm right here."

"Are you?"

The question hangs between them, and Yuhi does not know how to answer it. He has spent over six years learning, six years being present — in this dorm, in this group, in this life that he fought for and nearly lost more times than he can count. But there is a part of him that still stands at a distance, watching. Observing the same twelve-year-old boy who stood in the corner as a room full of strangers buzzed about.

Tomoya has never understood that part of him. Or maybe he understands it too well, and that is the problem.

The night before their final evaluation, Yuhi could not, for the life of him, fall asleep.

This is not unusual. He has not slept well since he was twelve — not really, not the deep, dreamless sleep that his body craves. But tonight is worse. Tonight, everything is on the line. Four years of training, four years of bleeding and crying and wanting, and it all comes down to five minutes on a stage tomorrow.

He gets up and walks to the rooftop. He does not expect anyone else to be there.

Tomoya is sitting on the ledge, legs dangling over the edge, back against the railing. His face is tilted up toward the sky, and in the dim light of the Seoul smog-filtered stars, he looks small. Smaller than Yuhi has ever seen him.

"You too?" Yuhi asks.

Tomoya doesn't turn around. "Yeah."

Yuhi sits down next to him. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that their shoulders would brush if either of them leaned in.

They sit in silence for a while, watching the city blur at the edges.

"I'm scared," Tomoya says quietly.

Yuhi's chest constricts. He has never heard Tomoya say those words. Tomoya is the confident one, the one who walks into rooms as if he owns them, the one who teases and provokes and never, ever shows weakness.

"Me too," Yuhi says.

Tomoya laughs, wet and shaky. "You're not supposed to say that. You're supposed to say something encouraging."

"I don't have anything encouraging to say."

"That's fair."

They sit there, shoulder to shoulder, breathing the same air. The city hums below them, indifferent.

"Do you remember," Tomoya says after a while, "when I told you that you would definitely debut?"

Yuhi nods. He remembers. He remembers it the way he remembers his own name — the way Tomoya had looked at him, serious and certain, like there was no other possibility.

"I meant it then," Tomoya says. "And I mean it now."

"What about you?"

Tomoya is quiet for a moment. Then he says, "I don't know if I mean it for myself."

Yuhi turns to look at him. In the dim light, Tomoya looks young and tired and terrifyingly fragile. Not anything like the boy who walked into the practice room all those years ago with a smirk and bed hair.

"You're going to debut," Yuhi says. He does not know where the certainty comes from — only that it is there, solid and immovable. "You're going to debut, and you're going to be the best leader anyone has ever seen, and you're going to drive me insane for the rest of my life."

Tomoya stares at him.

"That's the most romantic thing you've ever said to me."

"Shut up."

"You said 'the rest of my life.'"

"I was being hypothetical."

"You never say things you don't mean."

Yuhi's face is burning. He wants to look away, but Tomoya is looking at him with those sharp, soft eyes, and Yuhi cannot move.

"I mean it," Yuhi says finally. "All of it. You're going to debut. And I'm going to be there."

Tomoya's breath catches. For a moment, Yuhi thinks he might cry. But instead, he leans his head against Yuhi's shoulder and lets out a long, shaky exhale.

"We have time," Tomoya whispers. "Whatever happens tomorrow — we have time. To figure it out. To fix things. To —" He stops. Swallows. "To be whatever we're supposed to be."

Yuhi's throat tightens. He wants to say something like I love you or I'm scared too or please don't leave, but the words won't come.

So he just leans his head against Tomoya's, and they stay like that until the sun starts to lighten the sky.

They do not talk about it afterwards. They do not need to.

He doesn't know, then, that time will stretch into years.

He doesn't know anything, really. He barely knows Tomoya. Doesn't even know what tomorrow will bring.

So he just sits there, in the dark, and pretends the future isn't hurtling toward them.

They are all crowded around the table in the dorm living room. There are takeout containers scattered across the surface, chopsticks flying, and seven dancers descending upon the food splayed out across the counter. Someone had put on a variety show in the background, but no one is watching it.

"The first time I thought you two might kill each other," Geon says around a mouthful of noodles, "was the sock thing."

He glances over at Yu and Yuki, who are nodding in unison. The three of them, having shared a wall with Yuhi, means they've heard every late-night argument from Yuhi's side of the wall.

"The what?" Haru asks, looking up with interest.

"The sock thing," Geon repeats, grinning now. "You haven't heard this. They got into a whole screaming match because Yuhi threw a sock at Tomoya's face."

"I was returning it," Yuhi gripes flatly. "It was his sock. It was in my laundry. Because he can't keep his shit clean and organised, ever."

"You threw it."

"I tossed it. Gently."

"It hurt, you know," Tomoya grumbles, and he is trying to look serious, but the corner of his mouth is twitching. "It hit me right on the nose."

"You have a very hittable face," Yuhi mutters.

"And then," Geon continues, undeterred, "They started yelling at each other. Like, yelling. I thought the manager was gonna come in."

Haru leans forward, eyes wide. "What were you yelling about?"

Geon opens his mouth to answer, but Tomoya beats him to it.

"He said I was being dramatic. I said he had terrible aim. Then he said about my mother—"

"I did not say anything about your mother, Moya—"

"—and then he said that I always leave my socks everywhere, and I said that maybe if he did his laundry on time, he wouldn't have to worry about my socks—"

"And then," Yuhi cuts in, because he can feel his face getting hot and he wants this story to be over, "I punched my bed and yelled."

Silence.

"Wow," Haru utters slowly.

Yuki snorts so hard that rice comes out of his nose, and then everyone is laughing, loud and unselfconscious, the way they only do when they are tired and full and too comfortable. And Yuhi should be laughing, too. It was funny, in retrospect. All this commotion over a sock and Yuhi's, admittedly, temper tantrum.

But he is not laughing. He is looking at Tomoya across the table, and Tomoya is looking back, and there is something in his expression that Yuhi cannot read.

Yuhi is certain of it. That Tomoya remembers. They've been playing the part, dancing around the real fight for years, both of them holding the truth like a live grenade, neither willing to pull the pin. A mutual lie that let them keep functioning. Keep being in the same group. Keep sleeping in the same living room without killing each other.

Sometimes Yuhi wonders when everything's going to go up in flames.

The night it happened, Yuhi didn't even know they were fighting until it was already too late.

They were fifteen (or maybe sixteen for Tomoya, he doesn't know, the years are blurring together), and the showcase was three weeks away. Yuhi's ankle had been wrapped in a compression bandage for five days, hidden under his sweatpants because if anyone knew — if Tomoya knew — he'd be forced to take a break and management would definitely bench him. And Yuhi couldn't afford to be benched. Not now. Not when debut was finally in sight.

So he'd danced. He'd pushed. He'd limped to the bathroom between runs and pressed his forehead against the cool tile and breathed through the pain.

And truthfully, if he'd sat back and reflected, everything that'd unfolded that night probably was something deeper than whatever even happened that night. Something about the stress was catching up to them all, and Tomoya slipped out of Yuhi's grip to focus on the others, not even noticing Yuhi struggling, but whatever. Yuhi never claimed to be anything but an impatient, crass teenager.

So when Tomoya catches him on the seventh day, in the dead of night, in his room while everyone else is asleep, all hell breaks loose.

"You're limping." Tomoya's tone doesn't suggest a question.

Yuhi was coming back to his room from the kitchen, an ice pack in one hand, his laundry basket full of his clean clothes in the other.

He freezes before setting down the basket. "I'm fine."

"You've been limping for three days."

"You've been watching me for three days? Creep."

Tomoya doesn't answer. His face is unreadable. "Take off your sweats."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Show me your ankle."

Yuhi's grip tightens on the ice pack. "No."

"Yuhi."

"I said no." Yuhi's voice comes out sharper than he intends. He regrets it immediately, but the pain is making him stupid. "I'm fine. Drop it."

Tomoya's jaw tightens. "You're not fine. You're pushing yourself too hard, Yuhi. You're going to get hurt."

"I'm already hurt. Congratulations. You noticed." Yuhi finally looks up, and the expression on Tomoya's face, the concern and frustration, makes something in Yuhi's chest twist painfully. "But I can't stop. You know I can't stop. Not when we're so close."

"You can if you're injured."

"I'm not—"

"You are. I'm not stupid, Yuhi."

Yuhi's throat is closing. "Why didn't you say something earlier, then?"

"Because I thought you'd tell me if it was serious, you stubborn piece of shit."

Yuhi's eyes widen. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

"You would've made me sit out."

"Damn right I would have." Tomoya leans forward, and his eyes are fierce, almost angry. "Because that's what a leader does. They protect their members. Even from themselves."

Yuhi laughs. It's not a happy sound. "Protect me? You wanna play that now?" His head swims as his ankle sends agonising signals up his calf, but he ignores it. Or maybe that's what's causing the stupidly hot feeling of anger that's coursing through his nervous system alongside the pain. "'Cause it's always been about you, you, you, right, Tomoya?"

"What the hell are you even saying, Yuhi?"

"All you do is worry about the others. Worry about how the group's gonna look." There's an acrid taste in Yuhi's mouth, and it's dripping all over the godforsaken floor alongside the condensation of his melting icepack. "You've never asked if I was okay. Not once. You just push and push and push, and now you want to play the concerned leader?"

"You think you're the only one who's tired?" Tomoya is in his face now, close enough that Yuhi could see the anger sparking in his eyes. "You think you're the only one who's scared? News flash — we're all exhausted." He points a singular finger at Yuhi, and he dizzily almost goes cross-eyed staring at it. "But the rest of us don't make it everyone else's problem."

"Everyone else's problem?" Yuhi's voice cracks incredulously. "I've been bleeding into my shoes for a week, and you're calling me a problem? Really?"

"I'm calling you selfish." Venom drips from Tomoya's voice. "You think you're the only one who wants this? You think you're the only one who's scared of failing? Everyone here is fucking scared, Yuhi." Tomoya runs a hand through his hair. It looks even messier and more frazzled than the first time Yuhi met him. "You don't get to just go around accusing me of shit and then crying about it."

"I was just saying—"

"And at least the rest of us, — at least I — don't hide every fucking thing and then act surprised when no one notices. Stop fucking expecting me to see everything if you're actively trying to prevent me from finding out!"

Yuhi's hand shakes. The ice pack slips from his fingers and hits the floor with a soft thud.

"You want me to notice?" Tomoya continues, stepping even closer. "Fine. I'll notice. You can barely walk. You're falling apart. If you continue at this rate, you're going to destroy your ankle, and you won't debut at all, and you'll have no one to blame but yourself."

"Fuck you." Yuhi spits.

"Fuck me?" Tomoya's voice is lilting up higher and higher, rancorous. "Sort your shit out, man. Seriously. I can't fucking read you. Stop hiding and then getting mad at me for shit. You're not some fucking martyr for breaking yourself apart."

"I'm not—"

"You are." Tomoya's cuts in, voice low. "You're so desperate to prove yourself that you're willing to throw everything away. Your ankle. Your career. Our friendship. All of it. Just so you don't have to admit that you need help."

Yuhi's vision blurs with tears. "You never really asked me if I do."

"You don't give me the chance."

"You don't even fucking try!"

The shout echoes through the hallway. Yuhi's breathing hard, chest heaving, tears streaming down his face. Tomoya stares at him, his own eyes bright and wet.

Yet, he doesn't let a single tear fall.

"You think this is easy for me, watching you kill yourself?"

"Actually, no, Moya. I don't. I don't know how you feel. Because you never fucking tell me." Something almost foreign takes over Yuhi's limb then, and, without thinking, Yuhi bends down, grabbing the nearest thing — a stray sock from his laundry pile that had been sitting neatly at the top — and throws it at Tomoya's face. "I fucking hate you."

Tomoya doesn't move, but his jaw works, hands curling at his sides. The sock hangs off his shoulder, ridiculous and damning. For a moment, something cracks open in his expression — something raw and desperate and terrifyingly young.

"Maybe I don't tell you," Tomoya says, and his voice is shaking now, "because every time I try, you throw it back in my face. Every time I get close, you—"

"What the fuck is going on?"

Geon's voice cuts through the hallway like a blade. He's standing in his doorway, rubbing his eyes, squinting at them. "It's like two in the morning. I can hear you from my room."

Tomoya's mouth snaps shut. The vulnerability vanishes, replaced by something smoother, more practised. His face rearranges itself into an easy smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

Yuhi watches the transformation and feels something in his chest splinter.

"Well?" Geon crosses his arms. "You guys were screaming. What's the problem?"

Shit.

In the split second Geon speaks, Tomoya looks at him, looks at the expression on Yuhi's face. And Yuhi must've looked desperate, because Tomoya immediately understood what Yuhi was trying to convey.

Don't say it don't say it don't say it—

"Hello? Guys? Are you going to keep staring at me— what the fuck are you guys doing—"

"Yuhi got mad and threw a sock at me. Sorry."

Geon groans. "Why are you guys even screaming over that? You're waking everybody up. We've got early-morning practice tomorrow."

"Sorry, we'll be quiet." Tomoya's all smiles again, like nothing even happened. Smoothing over the entire situation like it's nothing. "Tell the others if they ask that we're sorry for waking them."

"Okay," Geon grumbles. "Wait— over a sock? What the fu—"

"I'll explain tomorrow, it's late." Tomoya practically pushes Geon out of the room. "Good night, Geon."

As Geon leaves to go back to his own room, Tomoya turns back to look at Yuhi one more time.

They don't hug. They don't apologise. Or even speak about it more. Tomoya simply stares at Yuhi for a second longer before turning and walking back to his room, as Yuhi stands in his room, the sock on the floor between them, and doesn't follow.

The next morning, Tomoya apologises to everyone and tells them that he and Yuhi fought over a sock.

And Yuhi is so tired, so hollowed out, so afraid of losing the only person who's ever mattered, who's ever made him feel seen — let him.

Things never really were the same after that, but eventually, eventually, something of a cautious friendship once again blooms between them, in between the admittedly endearing jabs from Tomoya and the tolerance Yuhi had built up for it. It's easy to fake nothing being wrong when it comes so easily from Tomoya. Yuhi can almost pretend nothing's ever even happened.

They never talk about it again.

Not for years, anyway.

When the others have scattered to their rooms, when the takeout containers have been thrown away, and the TV has been turned off, Tomoya finds Yuhi in the kitchen, washing dishes. Or pretending to wash dishes. He has been running the same plate under the faucet for about three minutes.

Yuhi spots Tomoya from his peripheral vision, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching. There's something almost amused in his expression, but his eyes are too sharp for it to be anything real.

"Yuhi," Tomoya's voice lilts, and Yuhi's heart jumps traitorously, "That plate's not gonna get any cleaner."

Yuhi doesn't turn to face him. "I know."

"…You're still scrubbing, Yuhi."

"I'm thinking."

"About?"

Yuhi's jaw tightens. He knows what Tomoya is doing. This is their dance, their routine. The light teasing, the feigned ignorance — they're always avoiding each other. Never breaching the touchy subjects. Anything too real gets immediately brushed off with a joke or a passing comment. Tomoya is good at this. He's been good at it for years.

And to make it worse, Tomoya only does this dance with him.

With Geon, Tomoya is soft. With Haru, he's patient. With Seita, he's encouraging. With everyone else, Tomoya asks how their day was, notices when they're struggling, and offers a genuine word of comfort. Yuhi has watched it a hundred times — Tomoya's hand on a shoulder, his quiet are you okay?, his gentle take a break.

So why doesn't Tomoya offer the same kindness to him?

Well. He knows the answer.

"The 'sock' incident, right." Yuhi's tone is flat. He finally turns off the water and sets the plate down.

Tomoya's smile flickers, just for a second. Then it's back, easy and careless.

"What about it? It's a good story. The fans love it. Geon loves telling it." Tomoya pushes off the doorframe and walks slowly into the kitchen, his footsteps quiet on the tile. "Sock to the face. Yelling. bed punching. Very dramatic. Very you."

"Very me," Yuhi repeats. His voice is hollow.

Tomoya hums, stopping at the counter, not too close, and picks up a stray chopstick Yuhi had washed earlier. Twirls it between his fingers. "You know, I've told that story maybe fifty times now. And every time, you sit there and let me. You don't correct me. You don't add anything. You just… take it."

Yuhi finally turns to face him.

Tomoya's expression is still light, still teasing, but his hands have stopped moving. The chopstick is frozen between his fingers.

"What do you want me to say?"

"Anything, really."

Yuhi sighs. "What are you doing, Moya?"

"Just making conversation, Hyui."

"Don't even call me that right now." Yuhi's voice is quiet. "I'm so sick of your bullshit. All you do is dance around it."

Tomoya's smile slips. Just a little. Just enough.

"Have I?"

"You know what we were really fighting about." Yuhi steps closer. "You've always known, yet you still tell people that stupid fucking story like it's nothing. Like it's funny."

Tomoya's jaw tightens. He doesn't respond.

"That's your thing, isn't it?" Yuhi's voice is sharper now, edged with something bitter. "Turn everything into a joke. Every fight. Just add a punchline and move on."

"Yuhi—"

"No, seriously." Yuhi crosses his arms, leaning against the counter. His heart is pounding, but he doesn't stop. "I want to know. Do you even know how to have a real conversation? Or am I the only one who doesn't get that version of you?"

Tomoya freezes.

"What the fuck are you saying?"

"I'm saying," Yuhi's voice cracks despite himself, "I've seen you with the others. I've seen you ask Geon if he's eaten. I've seen you sit with Haru for an hour when he's homesick. I've seen you notice when Yuki is quiet and pull him aside and ask him what's wrong."

Tomoya's expression flickers. It's something akin to guilt, akin to fear.

"But with me?" Yuhi continues, and now the bitterness is pouring out. "With me, it's always a joke. A tease. You've never once — not once — asked me if I was okay. Not in six years."

"That's not true—"

"Isn't it?" Yuhi's voice rises. "Then when? When did you ever ask me, Moya? When I was limping through practice on a bad ankle? When I was running on no sleep? When I was crying on the rooftop alone after you got centre and I pretended I wasn't jealous? When you called me selfish, and I threw that fucking sock at your face? You do remember that, right?"

The venom in his voice is like bile; it spills out everywhere and fills every crack and orifice of the godforsaken kitchen. It's uncomfortably quiet, and Yuhi has to force himself not to look at Tomoya out of sheer terror.

"You don't ask me," Yuhi continues, quieter now, but no less sharp. "You push me. You provoke me. You make me the punchline. And that's fine, it's fine—" his voice splinters, and Yuhi feels hot tears welling in his eyes. "But sometimes it's like you don't care at all."

He turns away as the first tear rolls down his cheek.

"So tell me, Tomoya," Yuhi finally breathes out, as the room goes deathly still. "Why am I different?"

Tomoya slams his palm against the counter. The sound echoes through the kitchen, sharp and sudden. His chest is heaving, and his eyes are bright.

"You want the truth?" Tomoya's voice is low, dangerous.

"That's all I've ever asked, Moya."

"Fine."

Tomoya straightens up, and Yuhi's startled by how tired his eyes look. He looks like someone who has been carrying the same weight for just as long as Yuhi has.

"The truth is, I remember exactly what we fought about. Of course I do. I remember every word. I remember the look on your face when I said those words. I remember walking out knowing I'd fucked up and being too proud to go back." Tomoya's voice shakes, "What the fuck did you want me to do, Yuhi? Of course, the sock story is a lie. A convenient lie. And don't you fucking forget what you said to me, Yuhi— it's just. You went along with the lie. You've been going along with it for years. And a part of me has been waiting for you to finally call me out. To say something. To stop me from telling it. But you never did."

"Until today." Yuhi laughs dryly, humourless. It's wet and choked out.

"Until today," Tomoya affirms. His voice cracks until he continues. "And the reason I only joke with you? Because you're the only one who matters enough to scare me. The others — I love them all, I do. But I haven't known them for even half as long as I've known you. I'm their leader above all else, but you were the one who led me around all those years ago. It's different— it's—"

Tomoya huffs out a frustrated breath, running a hand through his hair. His eyes are too bright.

"You're different because you're the only one who can hurt me." His voice is raw, stripped of all pretence. "The others — if they get mad at me, if they're disappointed, it stings, of course it does. But you? If you ever speak to me again like you did that night, if I ever find out you do some stupid sacrificial shit, I don't recover from that. I've been not recovering from it for six years."

Yuhi's heart slams in his ribs.

"I joke with you because it's safe," Tomoya continues, the words tumbling out now, unstoppable. "I make fun of you and say stupid shit because then I don't have to tell you what I think about that night every day. I don't have to tell you that I've been sorry since the second I walked away from you that night.

"I tell the others part of myself because they don't make me feel the same way as I do about you, Yuhi. I'm not at risk of doing something stupid when I'm vulnerable with them."

Yuhi's heart stings, both in the admission from Tomoya, finally, and the fact that he feels more comfortable talking with the others. It's a strange juxtaposition, really. "What do you mean, stupid?"

"You're really going to make me spell it out for you, huh?" The corner of Tomoya's lip curves up wryly before he looks away, seemingly taking interest in the stupid chopstick he'd stopped fiddling with.

"Yuhi, I tease you so I don't have to tell you that I've been in love with you for years and I'm terrified that you'll never forgive me."

The kitchen goes silent.

Yuhi's heart is pounding so hard he can hear it in his ears.

"Say that again," Yuhi whispers.

Tomoya's face crumples. "Really?"

"Moya!"

"Fine, fine."

Tomoya stares at him, fiddling with the chopstick. His lips part. Close. Part again.

"I'm in love with you," Tomoya whispers, his voice barely audible. "I've been in love with you since the first day I met you. I've been in love with you through every fight, honest. Even when you threw that sock at my face. Especially then."

Yuhi's eyes are burning.

"Wow."

"Wow?" Tomoya teases. "Yuhi, I'd really appreciate a confirmation or a rejection like within the next couple of minutes, just so you know."

"You're so dumb." Yuhi laughs out wetly. "I hate you."

"So is that a 'yes, Tomoya, I like you back, you're the sexiest ever' or am I going to have to call our managers and explain this PR nightmare?"

Yuhi reaches out. His hand trembles, but he doesn't stop. He cups Tomoya's face, thumbs brushing away the tears that are gathering at his lash line despite the words.

"I think I've been waiting for those words all my life." Yuhi breathes back.

Tomoya leans into the touch. His eyes flutter closed.

"I'm sorry," Tomoya's voice, for maybe the first time, is trembly and weak. Yuhi doesn't know if he's ever heard Tomoya this vulnerable, ever. "I'm so sorry, Yuhi. For that night. For every night after. Calling you selfish was so unfair. You deserve everything. You've always been enough. You've always been more than enough."

Yuhi's own tears fall.

"Thank you, Moya."

They don't kiss. Not yet. But Yuhi pulls Tomoya into his arms, and Tomoya collapses against him, and they stand there in the kitchen — the plate forgotten, the world outside irrelevant — holding each other for the first time in years.

"I'm still angry," Yuhi murmurs into Tomoya's hair.

"Of course you are."

"I really do dislike you, you know."

Yuhi feels Tomoya smiling into the fabric of his shirt. "That's an upgrade from 'hate', so I'll take it."

Yuhi smiles at that.

"I don't wanna sleep on the couch tonight."

Tomoya pulls back just enough to look at him. His eyes are red, his nose is running; his expression looks utterly wrecked.

"Where are you sleeping, then?"

Yuhi looks at him. At this boy — no, this man — who has been his rival, his tormentor, his best friend, his ghost, his everything.

"With you," Yuhi murmurs, "In your actual bed. Haru can survive one night on the couch."

Tomoya laughs — a real laugh, shaky and bright.

"I don't think I've used that bed since we moved in. Haru's going to be so confused."

"He can deal with it."

Tomoya's hand finds Yuhi's. Their fingers slot together like they've been doing it their whole lives.

"Okay," Tomoya says.

"Okay," Yuhi echoes.

They leave the kitchen without looking back.

Yuhi wakes to sunlight streaming through unfamiliar curtains. For a disorienting moment, he doesn't know where he is — the ceiling is wrong, the angle of the light is wrong, and there's an arm draped across his stomach.

Then he remembers.

Tomoya's bed. Tomoya's room. Tomoya's face, inches from his own, is still slack with sleep.

Yuhi doesn't move. He lies there, counting Tomoya's breaths, watching the way his lips part slightly with each exhale. In sleep, Tomoya looks young. Unburdened. Like the boy who'd walked into that practice room all those years ago, smirking, asking to be shown around.

The arm across Yuhi's stomach tightens.

"You're staring," Tomoya mumbles, eyes still closed.

"You're supposed to be asleep."

"I was. You're thinking too loud."

Yuhi huffs out a laugh. "You're so dramatic. That doesn't even make sense."

"You know what I mean." Tomoya's eyes flutter open. They're soft, still hazy with sleep, and when he looks at Yuhi, it's like something's finally been cracked open and seeing sunlight for the first time. The walls that had separated Yuhi from the inside workings of Tomoya all these years had finally been torn down.

"Hi," Tomoya's eyes close as he smiles, words lingering in the air like the gentle breeze coming through the windows.

"Hi."

They lie there for a moment, neither speaking. Then Tomoya's hand slides up from Yuhi's stomach to his chest, right over his heart.

"It's beating fast," Tomoya observes.

"Shut up."

"Are you nervous?"

"No." Pause. "Maybe."

Tomoya smiles again, but this time it's a fragile little thing. "Me too."

Yuhi covers Tomoya's hand with his own. "We should probably talk about what happened. Last night. All of it."

"Yeah," Tomoya agrees. "Probably."

Neither of them moves.

"We have time," Yuhi says finally. It's what Tomoya had told him, once, in a practice room on the night before debut. We have time.

Tomoya's eyes glisten. "Yeah," he whispers. "We do."

They don't talk about it immediately. Instead, they stay in bed until Haru barges in, demanding to know why Tomoya wasn't in the living room, before pausing and taking in the scene before him and abruptly turning around and storming out. It leads to copious amounts of subtle jabs from him for the rest of the day, as the rest of the group looks on, puzzled.

But it's all okay, Yuhi thinks, as they make coffee together — black for Tomoya, sugar and milk for Yuhi — because a little teasing is okay, when he gets both of Tomoya's arms slung around his shoulders as he hugs him from behind.

But when the others aren't looking, Tomoya's hand finds Yuhi's under the table. And Yuhi doesn't pull away.

It's a start.