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Tomoya's hogging the blankets.
The apartment is small. Too small, really, for two people who spent years sleeping on opposite couches out of sheer stubbornness. But Yuhi likes the way the morning light slants through the kitchen window. He likes the way the bedroom door doesn't quite close all the way. He likes the fact that Tomoya's toothbrush lives next to his now, and that neither of them has ever commented on it.
Tomoya hogging the blanket itself isn't new information. Yuhi's known this for a long time, even before they… got together, so to speak. But he didn't really experience it in full until they stopped pretending they were sleeping on opposite sides of the living room for any reason other than wanting to be closer. Tomoya hogs the blankets, and he talks in his sleep, and he occasionally elbows Yuhi in the ribs when he's dreaming.
Yuhi does not mind any of it. He will never say this out loud, of course. Some things are sacred.
This morning, the light is particularly aggressive. It cuts across the pillows in golden stripes, prying Yuhi's eyes open whether he wants them open or not. He blinks once. Twice.
The clock on the nightstand reads 7:14 AM, and he groans inwardly. It's way too early for him to be waking up, especially on a Sunday. Even if they have dance practice soon.
Tomoya's still asleep.
This is also not unusual. Tomoya sleeps like the fucking dead — limbs sprawled out, mouth slightly open. Sometimes, Tomoya will let one hand curl loosely around the fabric of Yuhi's shirt, like he's afraid Yuhi might evaporate if he lets go. It is, objectively, the most ridiculous thing ever, because he won't leave, can't leave, not after all these years. And yet, the action is also objectively what makes Yuhi's chest ache the most.
Tomoya groans as Yuhi shuffles a little on the bed, and his hand tightens on the shirt. His eyebrows knit together, and he burrows closer, like a bunny seeking warmth, burying his face into the crook of Yuhi's neck.
His breath is so warm. So warm and impossible to ignore. Not that Yuhi even wants to ignore it. He just wishes his heart would stop rabbiting inside his ribcage.
"Stop thinking," Tomoya mumbles against his skin. His voice is rough with sleep, barely audible.
"I'm not."
"It's so loud," Tomoya continues, ignoring Yuhi's previous words. "It's so loud. I can hear it."
Yuhi huffs a laugh.
Tomoya grumbles at that before lifting his head just enough to look at Yuhi. His eyes are still half-closed, his hair is a disaster, and there is a crease on his cheek from the pillow. He looks terrible.
He is also the most gorgeous person Yuhi has ever seen.
"Morning."
"Morning, Moya."
Tomoya does not wait for anything else. He's good at that, not pushing. He presses a kiss to Yuhi's jaw instead — it's soft and unhurried. It's chaste, at least at first, until he presses another lower at the curve of his throat, and then another, just below his ear, where Yuhi is embarrassingly sensitive.
"You're doing this on purpose," Yuhi accuses, but his voice comes out weak.
"Doing what?"
"Being annoying."
Tomoya hums, the timbre of his voice vibrating under Yuhi's skin. "Is it working?"
Yuhi does not dignify that with a response. He, instead, tangles his fingers in Tomoya's hair and pulls him up, and then they're kissing properly — slow and warm and easy, the way they've learned to do in the months they've been together.
Kissing had always come so naturally for Tomoya, Yuhi sometimes thinks. There was a time when he'd been insecure about his lack of experience… until Tomoya admitted he didn't really know what he was doing either. It got easier after that. knowing that he and Tomoya both were just stupid people doing stupid things for the first time, and that there will be more kisses to practice with later, and more after that, and more after that.
When they break apart, Tomoya is smiling, and Yuhi thinks his lungs have stopped working. It's a rare smile, one where he saves only for moments like this. He smirks on stage, grins teasingly when he provokes the other boys, especially Yuhi, into arguments, but this smile is smaller and private. It belongs only to Yuhi.
"I love you," Tomoya whispers.
The words settle into the fragile space inside Yuhi's bones like they always do; it's a warm and familiar feeling. Tomoya says those words so easily now. He says it every morning, before coffee. He says it when he steals Yuhi's hoodie. He says it when they're washing dishes, and no one else is listening. Once upon a time, it was slow, painful work. Somewhere in the distant, foggy memories of his brain, Yuhi can recall a time when they danced around each other for years. But it seems so hard to even comprehend when this Tomoya exists, right now, when the words flow so freely from his lips.
Yuhi, on the other hand, feels like he's still struggling. Still drowning.
He knows this about himself. He has known it for as long as he has known Tomoya, probably. Words have never been his language — not in Japanese, not in Korean, and probably not in any other languages, either. He grew up showing rather than saying; his mother always said that, and she always understood this about him. She never needed him to say I love you back to her when he was little. She let him leave his little gifts, and she kept every single one, treasuring them in her palms.
Once, he'd asked her if that made her sad. She'd responded with a hug and told him that he made her the happiest in the world.
Tomoya is not his mother. But he has learned to understand Yuhi anyway.
"I know," Yuhi replies when he realises he'd been lost in thought for too long. It comes out softer than he intended.
Tomoya's smile doesn't falter. He knows what I know means. He's learned to translate it the same way Yuhi has learned to translate Tomoya's teasing jabs over the years. They have been doing this dance for long enough.
"We should probably get up," Tomoya declares. "Practice in an hour."
"Mm."
Neither of them moves.
"Yuhi."
Yuhi hums.
"We're going to be late."
"You're the one who started kissing me."
"You're the one who pulled my hair."
"You liked it."
Tomoya's ears go pink. He does not deny it.
They do eventually get up, because Yuki doesn't know how to mind his own business and had banged on their door yelling about breakfast; when that didn't work, he'd swung the door open and promptly screamed and ran out of the room when he stumbled into the incriminating mid-makeout position they were in.
Yuhi throws a pillow at the door as Tomoya laughs.
The kitchen is chaos, as always. Yu is trying to make toast. Geon is still asleep with his head on the table. Haru is making coffee, while Yuki and Seita are arguing about something, and Yuki still looks traumatised.
Yuhi makes two mugs of coffee — black for Tomoya, sugar and milk for himself — and tries not to think about how automatic this has become.
"You two are fucking disgusting." Yuki mumbles. Seita laughs at his expense, and Yuki slaps him on the arm miserably.
"We aren't even doing anything." Tomoya teases.
"Maybe next time, yell out a warning." Yu offers kindly from the stove.
Tomoya grins and slings an arm around Yuhi's waist. Yuhi elbows him. Tomoya does not let go.
"See?" Yuki whines out. "Disgusting."
Yuhi should be annoyed. He is, a little. But Tomoya's arm is warm, and the coffee is hot, and the kitchen is full of people who feel like family. And this is what they fought for, isn't it? Not just debut, but this. The morning and the chaos of it all. There's something strangely poetic in all of it.
So Yuhi lets Tomoya's arm stay.
Tomoya beams as Yuki fakes gagging noises.
Practice is long. It is always long. Their bodies move through choreography they could do in their sleep, and Yuhi's muscles ache in that familiar, satisfying way. Tomoya is next to him, as always, and sometimes their hands brush during transitions. Sometimes Tomoya's fingers linger for a fraction of a second too long.
No one notices. Or maybe they do, and they have just learned not to comment.
During a water break, Yuhi sits against the mirrored wall and watches Tomoya across the room. Tomoya is talking to Haru about something, probably a formation issue or something. His face is serious, focused. It's the face of a leader. It feels like a front.
Yuhi knows that face intimately. He's known it for years.
He also knows the other face — the one Tomoya hides more. It comes out late at night, when he thinks Yuhi is asleep. Tomoya cries sometimes; there are times Yuhi tries to turn around and comfort him, but he just shrugs him off and shies away.
It's breaking Yuhi's heart.
Tomoya is good at saying I love you. He's gotten very good at it. But sad emotions? Asking for help? It's different then; Tomoya still deflects. Still smirks when something cuts too deep. Still says I'm fine in that clipped tone. He's gotten better — they both have — but some wounds take longer to heal than others.
Yuhi wishes he knew how to help with that. He wishes he had the words.
But he doesn't. So he does what he always does: he stays through it all.
After practice, they shower, change, and order takeout because no one has the energy to cook after dance practice. Yuhi ends up on the smaller couch after, and Tomoya ends up next to him, and somehow — without anyone commenting — Tomoya's head ends up in Yuhi's lap.
Yuhi stares down at him. "What are you doing?"
"Resting."
"Comfy?"
"Very."
Yuhi doesn't push him off. His hands find their way into Tomoya's hair, fingers threading through the still-damp strands, and Tomoya's eyes flutter closed.
Something inside Yuhi twists sickeningly.
The intrinsic trust Tomoya hands to him on a silver platter… Yuhi has had to learn how to hold Tomoya, who deflects and jokes and smirks and is so careful with everyone else, who hides all of it, always being the perfect leader, the person everyone relied on, letting it all fall away for Yuhi and Yuhi alone…
He's so vulnerable right now, vulnerable in a way he never is with anyone else. Tomoya, trusting Yuhi not to hurt him. Tomoya, handing over the softest parts of himself like it's nothing.
Yuhi's fingers move automatically, scratching lightly at Tomoya's scalp, and Tomoya makes a small sound — not quite a sigh, not quite a hum — that makes Yuhi's chest ache.
He doesn't even know what they are. Boyfriends? Partners? Something else entirely? They have never had that conversation. They have never needed to. But sitting here, with Tomoya's weight against his thighs and Tomoya's hair slipping through his fingers, Yuhi thinks maybe the label doesn't matter. Maybe what matters is this: Tomoya chose him. Tomoya keeps choosing him. Every morning, every coffee, every whispered I love you that Yuhi still struggles to return.
Because this is the thing, this is the thing Yuhi has never known how to put into words. It is not about labels or definitions or what they call each other, but rather this: Tomoya, who never lets his guard down, lets it down for Yuhi, in some small way or another, even if it's not fully. He tries. Every single day, without hesitation, without asking for anything in return.
They spent years beating around the bush. All those fights, all those tears. And now—
Now Tomoya is half asleep on his lap in a dorm all his friends are in, in the open, because he doesn't care, and no one is asking questions, because this is just how they are now. This is what they have become.
It is terrifying, sure. It is also the most breathtakingly beautiful thing Yuhi has ever had the pleasure of witnessing.
"What's on your mind?" Tomoya's voice is soft, muffled against Yuhi's thigh.
"Huh?"
"You've been so spacey today. What are you thinking about?"
"Nothing."
"Liar."
Yuhi looks down at him. Tomoya's eyes are closed, but if they were open, Yuhi could imagine the look on his face. Tomoya, watching him, reading Yuhi's expressions, gauging his reaction.
Yuhi's mouth twitches into a small smile.
Tomoya's been so patient, so so patient for him. Been waiting for Yuhi to catch up for months. Waiting carefully not to scare Yuhi away.
"I'm bad at this," Yuhi lets out a sigh.
"Bad at what?"
"Talking. Saying stuff." He gestures vaguely with his free hand. "We've never — you and I — we never actually talked about what this is."
Tomoya opens his eyes. He looks up at Yuhi, and his expression is unreadable.
"Does it need a name?" he asks.
"I don't know. Maybe." Yuhi's throat is tight. "I just— I know how I feel. I've known for a long time. But I don't say it enough. I don't say it at all, really. And you— you said it all the time, and I just— I don't know why it's so hard for me."
Tomoya's quiet for a moment. His hand finds Yuhi's free one, fingers threading together.
"It's okay," Tomoya says finally. "You've always shown it. I can feel it. It's okay if you're not saying it all the time." He squeezes Yuhi's hand. "I know. I've always known."
"But you deserve to hear it."
"I do hear it. I hear it every time I wake up next to you."
"It's not fair. I'm sorry." Yuhi's eyes sting. "That's really not the same."
"It is to me."
Patient, even when Yuhi does not deserve it. Tomoya waits and waits and waits. Waits through all the years of Yuhi struggling to articulate his thoughts into actual works, through Yuhi's clumsy attempts at communication. Through it all.
"I guess I just want to say I'm trying," Yuhi mumbles as he starts to fiddle with his fingers. "I am. I'm trying to be better at it. Swear."
"I know."
"I don't want you to think— I don't want you to think I don't feel it just because I don't say it."
"I don't think that." Tomoya sits up, shifting so they are face-to-face. His hand is still in Yuhi's. "Yuhi. Look at me."
Yuhi looks.
"I have never, not once, doubted how you feel about me," Tomoya asserts. His voice is steady, certain. "You show me every day. You showed me for years before we even got here. The coffee. The couch. The way you stayed even when I was being an idiot. I know, Yuhi. I've always known."
"But—"
"No buts." Tomoya's free hand comes up to cup Yuhi's face. His thumb brushes Yuhi's cheekbone, gentle. "You don't have to be perfect at this. You just have to be here. And you are. You're always here."
Yuhi's eyes are burning. He blinks, and a tear slips out, and Tomoya wipes it away before it can fall.
"I love you," Yuhi says.
The words come out rough, uneven, like they are learning to walk for the first time. But they come out.
Tomoya's breath catches. "Say it again."
"I love you, Moya. I love you. I've loved you for so long, since you walked into that stupid room and just— and I'm sorry I don't say it more. I should. I will from now on. I'm—"
Tomoya kisses him.
Yuhi's breath stutters as Tomoya presses insistently into him, his hand reaching up and cupping Yuhi's face like he's something precious. Yuhi fists his hand in the front of Tomoya's hoodie — his hoodie, the one Tomoya stole months ago and never gave back, and holds on. Holds on while he tries hard to breathe in the air that Tomoya is exhaling. Holds on while he tries to mould himself to Tomoya, and let him fuse them into one being. Yuhi doesn't even know where he ends and where Tomoya begins anymore, not when all of his senses are just overloaded with nothing but them.
When they break apart, Tomoya is crying. Just a little. Just enough that his eyes are bright and his voice is thick.
"Took you long enough," Tomoya says.
Yuhi laughs, wet and shaky. "I know."
"I love you too. Obviously."
"Obviously," Yuhi echoes.
They sit there, forehead to forehead, breathing the same air. Somewhere in the kitchen, Yuhi's pretty sure someone's making something with far too much noise than what's necessary. He thinks he hears two other people loudly talking in one of the rooms, probably arguing over video games.
But here, in this small space between them, it is quiet.
"I love you," Yuhi whispers into the dark.
It's later, when everyone has gone to bed. The dorm is dark, yet Yuhi lies awake next to Tomoya. Tomoya is already asleep, his arm draped across Yuhi's chest, his breathing slow and even.
Yuhi's been staring at the ceiling. He lets his eyes trace over the bumps and imagines fake constellations.
He's learning. Slowly and imperfectly. But he is learning.
Tomoya shifts in his sleep, mumbles something incoherent, and presses closer.
"I love you," Yuhi whispers again, pressing a kiss into his skin. His heart beats faster, giddily. "I love you so much, Tomoya."
Tomoya does not wake up. But his arm tightens, just a little, like he heard, even in the depths of slumber.
Tomorrow, he will make coffee. Black for Tomoya, sugar and milk for himself. Tomoya will say I love you, and maybe Yuhi will say it back. Or maybe he will say I know, and Tomoya will understand anyway, and that will be enough.
Yuhi closes his eyes and lets himself fall asleep.