Archive of Our Own

Since when did he become so close to Matsumura? No, actually, scratch that. Since when did they become friends?

He weighed the term as if he were a critic assessing the appeal of a dish. He rewound it in his mind like a kindergartener learning the vowels. He completely rethought his concept of friendship as if he had never grasped its meaning before.

Indeed, Nakamura believed he never did. He always felt like he was running late, lagging behind everyone else—both figuratively and literally—when it came to forming connections. It was normal to have something you weren't good at; you couldn't be perfect, could you? By that logic, Nakamura was never a social prodigy. He remembered the concerned grooves on his parents’ faces during his early school years when they asked him how his day had been, if he'd made any friends, and his answers never gave them the blessing of impressing them with anything other than a resounding no. As time went on, they refrained from asking, taking it for granted when he never brought anyone home and no one ever asked about him after going to the playground. He also remembered sitting at the back of each classroom he was in, silently observing how his classmates gathered to greet each other, play, or chat before classes began—how everyone seemed to have someone special, a friend, to turn to for companionship in mundane things like walking home together or completing assignments.

When he was a child, he used to wonder if his parents were disappointed in him for not being like the other children, for not being able to make friends as any normal child would do without difficulty. So he tried, Nakamura really tried, but he was never noticed. He was like a ghost, a shadow, isolated from the life of the world around him. The perspective of being in the most inconspicuous corner of the class is a memory so deeply ingrained that it persists even now.

And when they did notice him, it was never for the proper reasons. Because, yes, Nakamura tried to open up to kids his own age, but he never quite fit in. There was always something that singled him out from them, something that made them raise an eyebrow, point him out as weird, and walk away without looking back, tacitly agreeing never to speak to him again. And, if he was honest with himself, it hurt not to belong where he was supposed to be, with whom he was supposed to be. Feeling that just by being himself, liking what he liked, acting the way he acted, he was somehow flawed—that was painful.

He never understood, so he resigned himself to it. He stopped trying, making peace with the fact that he was destined to be the introverted/asocial son who would never make friends and would shut himself away in his room, figuring out how to create his own fun—which is, in fact, why his prevalent fanciful introversion emerged—because doing so by going to parks was a waste of energy. He resigned himself to Kana being the pride because of her rich social life, bringing friends over to play with dolls or watch something on TV as if it weren't something Nakamura silently longed for.

He resigned himself even further when he learned he was gay. When he thought about the concept of “gay awakening”—which he’d seen circulating in various forums while browsing the internet in an effort to find understanding and feel less alone because of his non-standard orientation—he never thought of himself. Nakamura believed he'd always known, only that there was just a pivotal moment when he was able to assign a name to it, like someone discovering something, making it official in a certain way, even though it had existed long before they became aware of it. It was almost like being instructed on certain anatomical functions of the human body, something that had been a part of them since birth, yet only now were they beginning to grasp its purpose.

He remembered that when he deciphered the name of what he felt, at a fairly young age, one of his conclusions was that this was the only, or the last, divine sign he needed to truly surrender to the illusion of forming any friendships. A boy who liked other boys? A radioactive substance to any other boy who happened to find out about his deviation. If boys didn't want to be with him for reasons he didn't quite understand, like his fondness for octopuses, or his fixation on the color blue, or his strange scribbles of aquatic life, they would want him even less for a reason Nakamura did understand why they wouldn't want him.

That's why, when Hirose appeared in his life, it was like a light.

Not only was it the first time he'd liked someone so scandalously, with fireworks blazing from the deep recesses of his heart, the ground a precarious platform disintegrating as it morphed into a conspiratorially open compartment, unable to withstand him as he was propelled into a spiral of hearts, colors, and light, with no way back to glimpse how empty, lonely, and monotonous his life had been before his arrival, but also, with that, a hope was resurrected that he had believed was dead, buried in the most remote rubble of each of his dreams—so putrid and abandoned that not even the morbid dust subsisted after a body had shed hope and vanished into the nothingness of death was left behind. And that was the illusion of having a friend.

Before Hirose, Nakamura couldn't recall feeling that intensely interested in someone. Perhaps he'd experienced it as a child, wanting to befriend someone in particular, wanting to talk about what most occupied his mind, enthralled by the charm of such amazing animals, so that his potential friends would also know how wonderful they were, before he learned that his interests would lead others to judge him for being unusual and that no one would approach him—even without him making any effort to get them to do so. It seems silly, insignificant, but it left such a deep mark on him that it crushed any desire to be known, since that experience taught him that he would be rejected the moment he even thought of showing who he really was: a freak, a weirdo, an awkward nerd. So he shut himself off, inhibited himself, and trained himself to hide his true self from those around him behind a somber, indifferent, and sullen outward appearance.

So much so, it even carried over into the way he related to his family. Nakamura believed that the only reason they knew about his fondness for octopuses was because his passion for these aquatic animals had surfaced at a very early age. Nakamura was certain that, had it manifested at a different time and in a different place, they wouldn’t have known about it.

Therefore, Hirose’s involvement in his life, his mind, and his daily routine came to restore a dream that had slipped away, battered by despair and devastated by a harsh life lesson, a bad experience that forever shaped his attitude toward those in his circle, his everyday life. The fact that he was in love with Hirose was an added bonus, of course, because Nakamura had obviously imagined a thousand and one times Hirose and himself enjoying a domestic life as a happy married couple, or, if that was aiming a little too high, as a couple who would hold hands on their way home from school, share their lunches, or spend the night at each other’s houses. However, most of those activities were ones that could easily be done by friends, setting aside their nature, or rather, their saccharine or romantic connotations.

Nakamura wanted to be Hirose's friend more than anything else, even before achieving the monumental goal of becoming more than that. It's ironic that wanting a boy as a partner rekindled his longing to have a friend, a longing that had been pulverized since childhood. He assumed it was normal for someone who never established a bond with another boy his age to live engulfed in the fantasy of becoming close to the one who magnetized him so instantly, so powerfully, that he demolished years of fear, of resistance to gaining a friendship. Friendship was never that relevant to him, that was the indolent conviction he adopted to shield himself from being overcome by the feeling of being cast aside by the whole world, so that the pain wouldn't knock him down too harshly as he watched how every classmate at every school he attended had someone, while he, year after year, could only grow more and more lonely.

But Hirose arrived, and suddenly, he had hope again. Suddenly, his solitude wasn’t so comfortable anymore; suddenly, he urgently wanted to rid himself of that void in which he remained, in which he kept everyone at a distance. Suddenly, and without giving it much thought, he began devising plans with extreme meticulousness to get closer to him; he rehearsed every possible scenario; he pondered every variation of what might unfold. Suddenly, he was jolted out of his reverie, his mindset, and a burst of unforeseen, intense longing welled up within him; the hope that everything he’d dreamed of might transcend the realm of reality, rekindling his long-lost belief that someone could become special to him, just as he could become special to someone.

That's why it made him so happy when Hirose told him, on that occasion, that they were friends. Hirose was the first official friend he'd ever had. But even with the confirmation of what they were, Nakamura felt that something was missing.

He was aware of what was missing, since his goal wasn’t just to become just any friend of Hirose’s, but the friend—one so close that they’d be together before, during, and after school; they’d go out on weekends or make a detour to go to restaurants. He was his only friend, it was only natural that he wanted to rule his time; he'd never had one, so he’d gotten it into his head that, as officers, he'd immediately start experiencing all those things with him. But no, reality slapped him in the face, letting him know it wasn't that simple.

With Hirose, there was always effort, hours of daydreaming, careful planning, mental exercises involving virtual outcomes, scenarios, and circumstances. It was like that with Hirose because he didn't want to mess things up, because he was the first boy he'd been interested in for a long time, because he was the only one capable of restoring the light of optimism, of reawakening the forsaken strength that drove him to strive to build a bond, because he wanted to be so cool and self-assured to prove he was worthy of being with him. He wanted to impress Hirose as he had never wanted to impress anyone before. More than anything, he wanted Hirose to stay—not to leave him behind, condemning him to blend into the shadows, unnoticed as darkness itself, the way everyone else had.

He was happy that Hirose was his friend because Hirose was the one who showed him that there would be people who knew him and wouldn't judge him, that his preferences didn't make him undesirable, that only the select few would appreciate just how incredible he could be. He remembered that, at that moment, he was so happy to have fallen in love with him because, with a few simple words, Hirose shattered a mistaken belief he’d clung to for years. Deep down, Nakamura knew this; he had only convinced himself of the opposite to protect himself from the risk of exposing himself to the painful possibility of being rejected again. But Hirose came along to teach him a lesson he would never forget.

Although Hirose and he were good friends, a friend he cherished with all the yearning vigor he preserved in his heart, there was still something missing. Perhaps it was the outgoing nature of his greatest love, the fact that he had a circle of friends that wasn’t all that wide, but was wide enough to keep him at arm’s length as he attended to more than just one person. Hirose, being a social butterfly, lacked the exclusivity or focused attention that Nakamura had so longed for. The one who seemed to take precedence in Hirose’s life above his current or more recent relationships, was Oomori, something Nakamura, much to his chagrin, learned to accept. It was logical that it should be this way; having known each other since childhood, it was natural that they had a strong trust that had survived the passage of time, a relationship that only grew stronger the more they kept each other company, something that could only be attained by the gift of growing up alongside someone for whom you harbored a brotherly affection.

A friend like that couldn't be easily discarded, replaced, or sidelined. Nakamura resigned himself to accepting it, content to be a friend to Hirose. Not the best or the most important, but a friend nonetheless.

What made him even conclude that Matsumura was his friend? Well, the answer was simpler than it seemed, but Nakamura needed to recap more, to retrace his steps with further scrutiny.

Perhaps… it all began that day he found Matsumura alone outside his school, the sunset plunging down where his towering build blocked it, obscuring his face with the lingering, languid spray of a myriad of colors that were repelled by him as he turned his back on them. That day, Nakamura left later than usual because he’d run an errand for a teacher—a fate he used to—and still did—fall upon time and again, since he was one of the last to leave the classroom, like someone who never learned to step aside to avoid tripping over the same banana peel. When Nakamura saw him, he instantly twisted his face into an expression of annoyance and snorted, quickly deducing that the only reason he’d be standing there at that late hour was because he was waiting for Hirose. So he opted to taunt him, announcing that Hirose had surely left without him. However, Matsumura’s reaction was not something he had anticipated.

Ever since they met, there was always this biting exchange, this sharp rivalry, this constant tug-of-war, so Nakamura didn't really stop to reflect on what he carelessly blurted out, he just did it on impulse.

Matsumura, at that moment, frowned, his hands clenched into fists, and bowed his head, as if he didn’t want to be seen. Nakamura didn’t consider himself particularly skilled at reading people, yet his demeanor to the comment was so revealing—it laid bare with piercing clarity the helplessness, frustration, and sadness that were crushing him with such immense force that it seemed as if he wanted to shrink until not even his particles subsisted. No matter how indifferent he might appear around people or strangers, Nakamura wasn’t the type to intentionally hurt anyone; he wasn’t a despicable person, nor did he want to be toward Matsumura regardless of the kind of relationship they had—and certainly not at that moment—because the last time they met, he had proven himself to be a kind-hearted boy behind all that perversion or eccentricity, one who was willing to give up his own goals just to help a child find his mother.

Despite wanting to atone for the rudeness and idiocy he'd spewed, he remained motionless, because nothing had truly prepared him to be in the presence of a Matsumura who was so… downcast. He seemed like a composed guy, so solidly assembled that nothing could dismantle him. But that day, Nakamura learned that it was just a facade, and later, he would learn that it was one so painstakingly constructed that few could glimpse what lay beneath it.

He still remembered what Matsumura had answered while panic and multiple solutions were properly absorbing his head; it was a "I know," so subdued, silent, definitive, that even with how soft his voice was, it made him shudder.

So, Nakamura simply did the first thing that came to mind: he offered to walk him home. He thought Matsumura would refuse, that he'd assume his offer stemmed from pity and that the sense of humiliation would only intensify, even though Nakamura's intentions were genuinely good. But, to his surprise, Matsumura accepted. They walked in silence, Nakamura berating himself by diving into immersive musings as he struggled to figure out what to say or add to comfort him. Still, he resolved that his company might be all he needed, even if it wasn't the kind he desired at that moment.

Once again, to his surprise, he and Nakamura didn't stop at any house, but at a small shop in the neighborhood. Matsumura offered him a hot drink, and he, embarrassed and hesitant, accepted it. They sat and drank their beverages in silence, only for Matsumura to thank him when they finished.

Nakamura had replied that it was nothing, apologized for what he had said before, and they remained there a while longer, sitting next to each other in a silence that did not ask to be filled with any insubstantial conversation.

And after that occasion, only more occasions like that followed.

Nakamura didn't even realize when he'd adopted the habit of waiting for Matsumura to arrive in Hoshimi before heading home, sometimes even cementing the custom with a visit to the neighborhood shop where they'd shared drinks the first time it all began. They would chat about any triviality along the way, like the day's lessons or how tough they had been, they would even argue over some nonsense as they kept walking, picking up the pace just to annoy each other, or they would maintain a comfortable silence, without the pressure to disrupt the calm with unnecessary conversation, understanding each other's need for solitude, simply offering soothing companionship to see them through it.

He feels foolish for not having realized anything sooner—yeah, Nakamura suspected something a few times, but he didn't dwell on it much. Like when, purely by “happenstance” and with an underlying sarcasm, he bumped into Matsumura at a store that sold toys, food, and various pet supplies—he’d had to go there because his cephalopod friend was running out of food supplements. That day was one of the days he and Matsumura were supposed to meet, but Nakamura had forgotten. So, when he ran into him outside the store—and Matsumura looked as if he were about to make a run for it—Nakamura’s placid expression was replaced by one whose features conveyed disbelief. He obviously asked what he was doing there and scoffed sullenly, asking defensively—with a tacit hint of mockery—whether he had now made him a target of his stalking, just as he had likely done with Hirose. Matsumura masterfully ignored his sharp question and claimed he’d only come to get food for his dog and that their encounter was merely coincidental, to which Nakamura narrowed his eyes in a palpable display of boredom and pointed out that just a few days ago, Matsumura had confessed to him that he was allergic to dog and cat fur.

Matsumura kept his lips sealed and deftly steered the conversation in another direction. That was when he found out that Nakamura had an octopus as a pet, and when he actually learned of Nakamura’s love for octopuses. It wasn’t that he hadn’t suspected it before, given the octopus keychain Nakamura carried around; in fact, he was surprised that, up until then, they hadn’t discussed something so fundamental about him. He also remembered freezing up when he realized he was giving away too much about his knowledge of those animals; the taunts he’d received were a harshly etched memory that taught him he had to stop before he was accused as overly intense or awkward about it. Yet, he was puzzled. Why did he even care if this guy called him weird? He was weirder, and if Matsumura said something like that to him, he would counterattack even more aggressively, so he shook himself off, and continued speaking with even more vehemence, enthusiasm and speed, as if unconsciously he was challenging him to have the guts to brand him as weird.

He was impressed that Matsumura was looking at him with such intense attention, without interrupting him at any point, smiling the more he delved into his peculiarities or favorite facts, and even asking questions to encourage him to talk even more.

That day, he was truly happy. No one had ever allowed him—or prompted him—to actively use his tongue to talk for so long about what he was passionate about. He didn't know how good it would feel, so he quickly immersed himself in the warmth of the sensation, even after he got home and was no longer with Matsumura.

Or when they went to each other's houses—Nakamura still didn't grasp how he had let himself get drawn in—or, actually, he did. Matsumura is certainly persuasive. He'd told him he had pictures of Hirose as a baby, so he had him in his house as if he were actually an entity that had been residing there since it was built. Which, by the way, was a lie, so he was successfully swindled. Nakamura was so easily fooled. Or rather, he was only easily fooled when it came to anything related to Hirose.

For a moment, he'd thought the guy would have a shrine to Hirose with his photos and old belongings, which horrified him, so he had a persistent feeling of unease in his stomach until he entered his room, only to be met with a huge surprise. No, there was nothing of Hirose in sight—not even the photos. The only thing visible was the robot model resting on a shelf next to other similar model kits. His room was impressively tidy, neat, and minimalist; it even gave the impression of belonging to someone elegant, which suited Matsumura's personality. It was also spacious, very spacious, more so than Nakamura's. In fact, Matsumura lived in a fairly affluent suburb, in a house that, if you viewed it from a distance, would lead you to conclude that the owners were well-off. Not a fortune, but enough to enjoy a comfortable lifestyle.

That day, they spent their time building Lego sets and other figures. That day, he also discovered that Matsumura wanted to be an architect because of his passion for building things. That's why he had kept Hirose's robot. Not so much for the sentimental value of him having built it as a child, but for what it represented to him as well.

Or when Matsumura went to his house after getting tangled up in Matsumura's schemes. He'd provoked him when Nakamura confessed he was afraid to see his room, believing it would contain a creepy Hirose shrine, so Matsumura teased him by declaring that he probably felt that way because he himself had a shrine to Hirose in his room. Nakamura, of course, was deeply offended and fervently denied it, but Matsumura refused to believe him. The tall boy had told him that the only thing that would change his mind would be to see it with his own eyes, so Nakamura, exasperated and emboldened by the challenge, invited him over that very same day.

He didn't realize the deception he'd fallen for until Matsumura was in his room, smiling triumphantly. How could he not have realized, until now, that Matsumura was the first person to enter his room who wasn't a family member? Besides being the first boy to meet Icchan, to touch him, to feed him, the first in his entire short life he'd brought home, the second—well, at least he didn't get the title in that regard—to learn of his love for BLs and Loveable Lunches. For the most part, they set out to talk—or rather, Nakamura was the one who talked nonstop—about his manga collection, the reasons why he liked it, and his favorite arcs.

Now that he thought about it, he had just decoded the stupidly obvious reason why his family, back when they invited Matsumura to join them for dinner and they were all gathered in the dining room, had stared at them as if they were aliens. Nakamura hadn’t understood those stares, and they had annoyed him, but now, they made perfect sense. He was the first… “friend” he’d ever brought home in—good grief—fifteen years of existence. How could they not react like that?

His parents, especially his mother, chatted with him during dinner. They talked about various things, starting the conversation with an awkward comment about how handsome Matsumura was, and asking him questions about the high school he attended and his coursework in different subjects. He was also deeply unsettled by his sister's strange behavior: she was acting unusually shy and casting furtive glances at the boy sitting across from her.

So why did Nakamura arrive at all these conclusions, at all this visceral meditation? Because Matsumura mentioned Loveable Lunches manga that Nakamura had lent him and that he had finished reading, something Nakamura was somewhat aware of, since, in fact, on the very day Matsumura visited his home, they exchanged contact information, and Nakamura, with the most colossal fear and anxiety in his soul, agreed to lend them to him so he could read them and form his own opinion. To that end, they traded phone numbers; Matsumura had sent him a rather eloquent message commenting on every aspect he liked and disliked, providing a thorough assessment of the work. Then, having completed the volumes, he informed him he had left them on the table for him to pick up when he left.

Nakamura awoke, realizing that this was the first time he'd ever lent someone something that wasn’t a school supply, but a personal item—and not just any item, but one that was extremely valuable and meaningful to him, as if he were handing over his soul to someone—okay, that was a bit of an overstatement, but even so, it was that important to him. Then, the realization continued to spread like a single dot connecting to another until it had structured a complete puzzle that unveiled the answer at its center.

How come he hadn't realized it before? Even now, being in Matsumura's house, watching his favorite Thai BL drama because of Matsumura's kindness in taking an interest in something he thought about and consumed every day?

Was this… what it was supposed to feel like to have a friend? Was this... how friendships were meant to blossom? Without even realizing it, becoming close in such a natural way that when you opened your eyes, you were doing the things you’d always dreamed of doing, sharing, and enjoying with someone? Building a subtle, gradual, growing trust that wouldn't even stop to acknowledge that you were doing those things you wouldn't do with just anyone?

He didn't even plan it. He always believed that if he wanted a friend, he'd have to put all his effort into getting one, like some kind of unattainable goal, an illusion that slipped through his fingers because he wasn't enough. He never thought it could be like this, that it could happen so naturally that he wouldn't even have to strive as if he had to fight to earn a place in someone's life; it would just happen.

“Nakamura-kun, are you paying attention?” Matsumura asked, frowning. Nakamura blinked. How long had he just stood there, frozen on the couch, arriving at such an absurdly obvious conclusion? “I’d be quite offended if you weren’t paying attention to the best BL drama ever created since I myself paid attention to the best BL manga ever created.”

Nakamura shook himself to clear his scattered thoughts, looking at Matsumura in a new light. Did Matsumura know? That… they were friends? Did he even consider him a friend too? Did Nakamura want him as a friend? It was too much to think about to justify himself.

“Are we friends?”

Nakamura popped the question out of the blue, without giving it much thought. He knew that if he had, he wouldn't have dared to ask him.

Matsumura stared at him for a moment as if he had spawned a second head, until he burst into a harmless, light-hearted laugh and paused what was playing on the TV.

"Why did that question come out of nowhere?" Matsumura gazed at him with amusement, as if Nakamura had become more entertaining than what was meant to entertain them in the first place.

“A-ah, i-it’s just…” There it was, he knew it wouldn’t be long before he started getting nervous. He knew himself well enough. He frowned out of anger at the knowledge that Matsumura, of all the guys, was the one causing his nervousness; he had to fix it. “M-my only friend is Hirose, okay?! I-I’ve… I’ve never had another one. I-I… I just wanted to get what… this was. Sorry if I was awkward, maybe I should go,” his feet reacted before his mouth did, and he stood up from the couch, ready to leave, convinced that calling them that would upset Matsumura and make him ask him to leave. However, before he could vanish like the wind, Matsumura sat him back down.

“Hey, Nakamura, ease up,” Matsumura said, letting go of him. “Sorry, it’s just that your question caught me off guard. Of course we’re friends, why wouldn’t we be? I thought it was obvious,” he replied, still wearing that benign smile.

Yeah, Nakamura believed the same, only it wasn't so obvious just a few seconds ago when the realization hadn't hit him yet.

“I-isn’t it weird?” Nakamura looked away, using his hair to block Matsumura’s view from his face.

“Weird? What do you mean?” Puzzled, Matsumura tilted his head, putting the remote control aside to give him his full attention.

“I-I mean…” Nakamura inhaled, before gathering the courage to express himself properly, “we both met through Hirose, we competed and we have a crush on him, doesn’t that make it weird?”

“Mm…” Matsumura hummed, pondering for a moment before answering, “I don’t think so. I mean, we’re the only ones who know that about each other, so we can talk about him like we really feel, at least that’s how I feel,” Matsumura chuckled softly, “I almost feel like sometimes we talk about him as if we had a celebrity crush.”

Well, Matsumura was right. No one other than a conscious living being knew just how madly and deliriously in love Nakamura was with Hirose except for Matsumura, and that was because the two of them shared it and understood each other, even if it was in their own competitive and incisive way. It made him feel less alone, more heard about something no one else could possibly know. Nakamura chuckled just as softly, “Yeah, but we always end up arguing about who loves him more.” He paused, then spoke again, “Besides, you’re not the only one. Icchan knows it too, and he knew it before you did.”

He grinned devilishly as Matsumura twisted his face into an indignant grimace.

"Ah, I see, so that's how things are?"

“Just as you heard.”

Matsumura snorted and prolonged the silence for a while longer before speaking again. His face descended in thought, staring at the carpeted floor as if it were interesting.

“So I’m your second friend after Hirose?” he questioned, his tone unexpectedly thoughtful.

“I suppose so. Why do you ask?” Nakamura replied, intrigued by his companion’s change of attitude.

“You’re also my second friend after Hirose.” Matsumura bit his lip, an even more unexpected nervousness creeping into his composure. Hesitating, he decided to press on, “though, lately, I don't know if Hirose is still my friend. I, uh… would you make fun of me if I confessed something like that?”

Nakamura frowned and shook his head emphatically. “I wouldn’t.”

Matsumura held his silence until he was ready to confess, “I meant it when I said I was jealous because you could enjoy school life with Hirose since you studied together, but…” he lowered his head, his silky hair falling across his face, preventing Nakamura from seeing him during his candid admission, “I think even if we studied together, he’d still ignore me. Did I—” Matsumura swallowed audibly, “ever tell you why I started liking Hirose?”

Nakamura shook his head, completely absorbed in the conversation. However, he realized that Matsumura wasn't looking at him to get his answer, so he cleared his throat and said, "No."

“I…” he finally lifted his head. A faint, wistful smile graced his striking features. “I was always surrounded by people who were only with me out of self-interest, whether it was for my looks, my grades, or my athletic ability. I was always shy, so others were the ones who approached me, yet my relationships were so empty and superficial.” The boy sighed, lost in memories. “It seemed like they cared about me, but at the end of the day, I’d end up alone. I realized they only wanted to be around me not for me, but for what they could get out of me.” His nostalgic smile widened, his eyes sparkling with the light of fond memories. “Until Hirose came along and showed me that there were people who would genuinely be interested in me and admire me without trying to take advantage of me. I never believed… I convinced myself that people like him didn’t exist, so when he came along and proved me wrong, I couldn’t help but develop feelings for him.”

The sweetness injected in his upturned smile was suffused with an intense longing, even as he gazed ahead without really settling on any particular spot, “I mean, yeah, his looks certainly helped too, because Hirose was just my type—he was adorable, he was energetic, he was kind, he was expressive, he was sincere—” Matsumura paused there, his smile waning slightly. “Another reason I never made friends is because others didn’t want to get close to me, believing that… I was perfect. And don’t get me wrong, I don’t mean to sound self-centered, but I always tried so hard to be the best I could be.” Matsumura, for the first time, looked at him, smiling listlessly, “it was sad to think that an effort I didn’t even make for myself would push people away by putting me on a pedestal, by making them believe that by being with me, they’d seem—less.” Matsumura snorted ironically, his smile grew increasingly bitter. “It’s ironic, because I was the one who didn’t see myself as good enough for anyone, not even my parents. But Hirose never judged me like that. He had no problem getting close to me without wanting anything from me. He admired me not out of jealousy, not out of insecurity, not from the advantage he might gain from being with me, but from a place of genuine admiration. How could I not fall for a guy like that?”

Nakamura smiled. Hirose was such an incredible boy. These kinds of experiences reminded him why he was so proud to have fallen in love with someone like him. Even though it wasn't his own story, it warmed his heart that Hirose could mean and impact another boy's life with the same force he had in his own, breaking down walls that prevented them from believing in the goodness of others and teaching them that one, two, three, or a whole bunch of bad memories didn't have to determine whether or not they’d find those who saw them for who they truly were, not for what they lacked, for what they weren't or couldn't be. Hirose… he was a sun, dispensing and granting the light of hope to those who needed it most without even realizing it.

“What I loved most about Hirose, even more than how cute he always seemed, was his sincerity. It was only natural that I would feel that way, since I’d spent my whole life surrounded by appearances,” Matsumura continued, bursting the bubble of meditation in which he had been hovering. He snapped out of it, giving him his full attention. “But… I don’t know if it’s still like that, you know, Nakamura?” Once again, the bitter smile reasserted its hold on Matsumura's face, which astonished him greatly. “When I left Hoshimi for a better school because of my parents, I told myself that this time, I would be the one to make an effort to ensure that Hirose and I stayed friends. Hirose had always been the one to take the initiative, even if I also wanted to take some initiative with him, so I decided that the change of schools would have to be the push I needed to be the one to keep our relationship alive.”

Now, Matsumura's smile melted away, being superseded by a face weighed down by… an imperceptible sorrow, if Nakamura was judging accurately, “I thought… I guess I was naive, believing I meant something similar to what Hirose meant to me, because until now, I've been the only one who's made an effort to maintain the bond. I know… that I was never that important, even when we studied together. It was obvious, because he had other friends too, he hung out with other guys who meant more to him. Even so… it's—it's…” Matsumura turned his face away, his fists tightening, “it’s disappointing to mean so little to someone who means… too much. Without realizing it, I ended up demanding more of myself to be… loved, repeating the pattern, just like I do with my parents.” Matsumura's gaze collapsed, meditative, mournful. “I don't know anymore… I don't know if I can believe in Hirose. I don’t think my love is weak, or that it can be erased, because to me, it’s indestructible, but… my trust isn’t,” lost in thought, he ran his finger over one of his knees, across the stiff fabric of his pants, "I don't know whether to believe he's unintentionally ignoring me, that he forgets our hangouts by chance or because he's absentminded, that he overlooks my messages without meaning to… sometimes, I even question whether we were ever friends… when I compare him to you,"

He paused, gazed at him for a moment, and then, feeling regretful, backed away, "Hirose seemed genuine, I don't doubt he was, but still… I feel that even with who was supposed to be my first friend, I couldn't take off that mask of 'perfection' I kept up with everyone because, in my desire to live up to that ideal image he had of me, I could never be… myself, nor could I ever let him truly know me. And Hirose, now… don't you sometimes feel that… I don't know, he also wears a mask with others? Maybe you don't because… well, you managed to get closer to him than I did, and I grant you that victory even though it hurts," with a heavy heart, he was about to reply, but decided it would be best to keep giving Matsumura space to finish venting.

“It seems like… he doesn’t want to be with me, he’s not—sincere with me, he’s not able to show me or tell me what he really feels, and that… frustrates me. I didn’t want the only friendship I had to be like this… pretend, like everything else in my life. Like everyone else, just pretending to be with me. Sometimes I don’t even know… if I’d want that answer, if I’d want sincerity but for it to hurt, because… what if my first friend, the first guy with whom I was a little more myself, didn’t want to be with me because I was bland, pushy, not funny, not good enough? I don’t know if… I could bear to know,” Matsumura lowered his head, his voice sounding more pained. Nakamura sensed, within himself, the emergence of a deep compassion and understanding, “so… thank you, Nakamura.”

Nakamura stared at him in astonishment, his eyes bulging out of their sockets as he regarded Matsumura, who was on the verge of tears—his deep gray eyes undulating like the sway of a boat adrift in the modest swell of the ocean on which it drifted. His eyes shimmered with the restraint of water, which beautified them by adding dazzling highlights that flickered to the rhythm of the ceaseless, fluctuating movement of the tears encapsulated in his effusive gaze.

“Thank you for being my first friend, the first guy who truly knows me and has allowed me to know him. I always thought… that because of who I am, I didn't inspire enough trust to get others to open up to me, but you… showed me that wasn't true. You made me feel like someone trusted me enough to stop measuring every word; with you, I never doubted whether you were showing me a different side of yourself just to make me like you. You are… the most sincere relationship I've ever had, and it's something I deeply appreciate, even if it makes us fight every day. I like that you can allow yourself to be grumpy with me, to show your irritation, your dislike, or your antipathy towards me even if it makes you rude, because you're the first one who has the guts to be like that with me, without filters, without being two-faced, without pretending. I’ve… never felt so comfortable being myself with anyone, because you never expected anything from me, you never set any expectations for me to meet, you just… gave me the space to be me, even if it meant you called me a weirdo, or a stalker, or a pervert, by never being dishonest about what you thought of me and even putting up with my quirks. Thank you… for being the friend I always wanted.”

Matsumura let a tear roll down his cheek as he concluded, quickly wiping it away with his shoulder. Nakamura’s heart felt heavy, beating as if it were a barely restrained beast attempting to smash through the bars of his ribcage. And not only did it beat with formidable force, but it felt… warm, warmth flowing through his body like a comforting blanket to wrap himself in on a winter's day. No one had ever… said anything so sweet to him, nor had anyone ever given him a speech that revealed the impact his unnoticed presence, or company, could have on someone. He never believed he could mean so much to anyone, he… who was really nothing, he… who was a shadow in everyone's life.

“Y-you’re also my first friend,” Nakamura confessed, unable to stop himself, “at least the first one I can be myself with without fear. A-and I’m not going to make that Icchan joke again,” he laughed humorlessly, a somewhat pathetic laugh that sounded like a stifled sob, “you’re the first person who really… who r-really knows me for who I am, and yet you didn’t walk away, and… s-sorry if I don’t show it sometimes,” Nakamura lowered his head, drawing his hair forward so it would serve as a veil, or a shell in which he could seek refuge and hide the excessive blush that absorbed his cheeks and the tears that threatened to fall, refusing to be mastered, “your friendship also means a lot to me.”

Matsumura laughed amidst sobs, and dried the rest of his tears.

“Sorry for… for the cheesiness, it’s just… it’s the first time I’ve ever put all this into words, I hope I haven’t overwhelmed you.”

“No!” Nakamura exclaimed, waving his hands in denial, “I-I’m sorry about that. I… appreciate it, I really do.”

“Hmm, I think we should…” Matsumura grabbed the remote lying on the coffee table, ready to resume the episode they had left unfinished, “keep watching, I still want your review.”

"Yeah."

“Where did you stop watching it?” Matsumura asked, scrolling through the bar that displayed the scenes.

“U-um… fifteen minutes back?” Nakamura scratched the back of his neck, feeling guilty.

But Matsumura just smiled understandingly and went back the number of minutes Nakamura indicated.

This time, Nakamura did pay strict attention to the BL drama, not allowing his mind to wander until… a particular scene made him wonder one thing about Matsumura, so he couldn't resist the urge to ask him.

“Matsumura, have you told your parents… you’re gay?” Because of his question, Matsumura looked at him curiously, pausing the television broadcast again. His reaction alarmed him. Had he been presumptuous to ask that? Was it too private or sensitive a matter? Was he abusing the trust Matsumura said he had in him? Would he feel comfortable talking about something like that, or had Nakamura completely spoiled it by being so nosy? What if his mistake was assuming his orientation? He had to fix it. “o-or, a-are you bisexual?! S-sorry for assuming—”

“No, it’s okay, Nakamura. And yes, I’m gay,” Matsumura admitted, staring straight ahead thoughtfully. “No, I haven’t told them. I don’t want to… disappoint them. It’s not that my parents aren’t loving parents, they really are, but… I always felt like I had to try harder if I wanted them to love me more, if I wanted to be their pride. And I do want to be, I want to be a son they’re proud of, but… I feel like they expect a traditional life for me, a life just like theirs. I’d disappoint them if I confessed that I don’t want that kind of life for myself, or at least… not with whom they’d want.”

Nakamura hummed in understanding, unsure what to add to comfort him. He believed that words of encouragement would do no good for someone who knew the disheartening outcome of a situation, so filling him with empty hopes would be truly hypocritical. Instead, he simply dedicated himself to being there, to listening selflessly and offering silent support.

“What about you? Have you come out yet—? You’re gay too, aren’t you?” Matsumura asked in return, looking at him expectantly.

“Yes, I am,” Nakamura answered initially, “and no, I haven’t come out—to anyone, actually, um—except to you, you’re the first in that too.” Nakamura paused, sighed, “I don’t even think my parents, or my family, care to know what I am. I also feel… like I don’t even exist in my own house, and I know that was partly my fault, because I was the one who isolated myself, but… it hurts that they don’t even try, that they don’t even make an effort to be interested in their own child.”

Nakamura lowered his head, sinking into a fleeting meditation. It was… strange that even in places that should have felt safe to him—like a shelter, a place where he could freely be himself among people who were supposed to know and love him for who he was—he didn’t feel that way, because of their neglect, their absence, and their failure to show him affection that went beyond simply providing for his basic needs, like food or housing. That’s why his room became a sort of cave—a place where he could take refuge and just be himself without anyone interfering or discovering him, because, in reality, no one wanted to. So he hid away like a hermit, establishing a sanctuary beside the only being who had ever seen him without his colossal walls of insecurity, fear of rejection, and fear of being judged: Icchan.

And he hadn't realized that, until now, the only person who had been able to break through, to tear down those walls, had been Matsumura. The only one who had seen him—who had truly seen him, who hadn't made him feel invisible, who had shown him that he could be more than just an insignificant presence, chasing the reflection of those with whom he struggled to carve out an important place in their lives. He had never felt so valued, so appreciated, because he had never been anything to anyone, nothing more than an extra, a background figure, in their lives. And it was overwhelming, the warmth was immeasurable, unlike anything he had ever experienced. This burgeoning affection, this steadily growing tenderness simmering deep within him, this unfamiliar feeling of being discovered, embraced, not abandoned, welcomed and esteemed as something priceless—was overwhelming, but also, it was what he had longed for since he could remember.

“They’re the ones missing out on getting to know the amazing son they have. You deserve to be loved for who you are, Nakamura, don’t doubt that,” Matsumura declared, with a conviction that threw his heart into turmoil, “not even by your own parents. If they don’t know you themselves, they have no right.”

He couldn’t stop the heat from rushing through him with the fury of a wildfire raging through a jungle; his untamed heart refused to steady its raucous rhythm. This attention… was disarming him like nothing ever had before. He wasn’t used to being showered with such thoughtful words; he wasn’t accustomed to this affection… did he really deserve it?

“Well, we should keep watching, shall we? We’ve delayed it a lot,” he said, chuckling.

Matsumura replayed it again, and Nakamura once more offered his diligent attention to it. Curiously, fifteen minutes or so into the episode, the main characters began to have a candid conversation with each other, and they sealed it with a passionate kiss. At that moment, Nakamura had one of his hands resting on the piece of furniture, demonstrating his keen observation of the dialogue aimed at resolving the issue, so, when Matsumura dropped his arm and positioned his hand next to his, he couldn’t ascertain whether it was deliberate. Nakamura’s muscles transformed into an insurmountably rigid structure, like a liquid coagulating to gain the advantage of a solid's compactness, as he sensed the tips of his fingers, almost through the spongy skin of his fingertips, adhered to his just as the feathery caress of petals blown by the breeze would cling to them. It was such a tiny brush, yet it was enough to set off red alerts in his faulty operating system; the warmth released from the smallness of their union sparked such a fervent reaction in him that it was humiliating, his body recoiling and the heat sprouting with the force of roots as they anchored themselves to the ground.

Nakamura pulled his hand away as if a burning ember had been pressed against it, as if the touch between their fingers had ignited a flight reflex because it exerted an adverse effect on him. That… that could be interpreted as a rude gesture, but… he couldn't hold back, not when their fingers had traced each other with that… warmth, with that intention. His heart—he wouldn't have been able to handle it.

And, wow, he was distracted—at what point did the main characters shift locations and start kissing aggressively on their way to a hotel room—or should he say a motel?

He stood up abruptly, his brow furrowed in embarrassment and his face flushed as if he’d gotten sunburned at the beach, and pointed accusingly at Matsumura.

“I knew it! You’re nothing but a pervert!” He yelled, his finger pointing right at his nose.

Matsumura turned red too, and stood up defensively.

“I-I didn’t remember that scene! I swear! I-it wasn’t my—!”

Lord, are those… moans? Nakamura turned around, stiff, pale, and slowly, to confirm what his ears were hearing. Yeah—they were having sex. It wasn't explicit, but it was implied by the angles shown and the unnecessarily emphasized breathing sounds.

“Ah! Take it off, take it off!” Nakamura covered his ears and closed his eyes, avoiding witnessing something so embarrassing while he waited for Matsumura to get it off.

And what did that big know-it-all do? He turned off the TV, leaving them in the dark. Because, yeah, it was nighttime and the TV was the only source of light, so when he turned it off, the lighting shot down.

“You didn’t have to turn it off to—!” He could hear, though obviously not see, Matsumura moving past him—he thought he heard him stumble too, until he reached for the living room light switch to illuminate them. Nakamura sighed, mortified, and all because of an obscene scene…

Well, at least that incident guaranteed that they wouldn't be watching the drama anymore, so Nakamura could watch it with more time and at a more leisurely pace in his own room. And speaking of time, what time was it? That started to worry him a bit; they'd been talking for so long that he'd lost track of time, and he didn't think it was as early as he'd wished it to be.

He glanced at the clock in the living room; it read past eleven at night. Wow, he'd really been careless with the time.

Matsumura, following his gaze, also glanced at the clock, alarmed by what it displayed.

“My—it’s really late, this isn’t a good time to be out on the street. You want me to get you a car or—”

“No, that’d be expensive, and I don’t have enough money. I wouldn’t let you pay for it either. I could’ve ridden my bike home, but I decided to walk here today,” Nakamura rambled, his conclusion causing him to curse inwardly.

Nakamura had an idea, but he immediately dismissed it. He would never be able to propose something like that; he didn't want to encroach on anyone's space or be seen as a scoundrel or someone who was going too far, so he opted to consider other alternatives until…

“What if you stay the night? I have no problem with you doing so, I think—” Matsumura scratched the back of his neck nervously, “it’d be fun.”

Wow, what a coincidence. The idea he'd had was actually brought up by the boy.

Nakamura averted his gaze and began to twirl a strand of his hair. "I don't know if my parents will let me. I'd have to ask their permission, but... seeing the time, I don't think they'll object. I—um, I'll let them know."

Nakamura took his phone out of his pocket to shoot a quick text to his parents. Anxiously, he waited for a reply, while Matsumura mirrored his anxiety. When he received it—a message of approval from his mother asking him to take care of himself and make sure to come home the next day—he smiled shyly at Matsumura.

That would be his first sleepover with a friend.

Matsumura smiled back at him, and they hurried—at an embarrassingly accelerated pace—to his room. He lent him some clothes—ones that, he had resigned himself to and mentally prepared for, would obviously be absurdly too big for him, but it was that or sleep uncomfortably in going-out clothes—he handed him a spare toothbrush for guests, arranged a futon with a pillow next to his bed, and offered him the shower in case he wanted to take a bath before bed, to which Nakamura thanked him for his hospitality and assured him that it wasn't necessary, that he was fine.

When they were both ready to drift off into the fluffiness of sleep, accepting that they were tired enough not to do any extra activity other than sleep, and Matsumura was about to turn off the lights, a mischievous smile took over his face.

“We could be the cliché of sharing a single bed, don’t you think?”

Nakamura stared at him strangely, his blush invading the realm of his ears until it landed on the nape of his neck. But no matter how much that simple teasing had thrown him off balance, he wouldn’t let himself be fazed any more than Matsumura intended, so he snorted in exasperation.

“Go ahead and try it, and the only thing you’ll get is my leg kicking you out of bed.” He threatened, his gaze sharp, “it’d be a treat for me, I’d have your whole expensive bed all to myself, so if you asked for it…”

Nakamura, taking the bait for his own benefit, sat down gracefully on the bed with a crafty smile, whereupon—to his dismay and deep indignation—Matsumura rolled his eyes and threw a pillow at him; the unanticipated blow of it made him open his eyes in disbelief to catch him in his compressed pupils.

“It’ll be a battle, then,” Matsumura declared, grabbing another pillow with a sly smirk. Nakamura smirked just as slyly, grabbing the pillow he’d been hit with and an extra one.

Okay, maybe they weren't that sleepy. Their pillow fight lasted a solid ten minutes, with the loud, muffled thumps of the pillows and their labored laughter bursting forth due to the childishness of their silly game.

Nakamura… was so happy to have a friend like him. Even if at first he would have slit his wrists with a fork rather than become friends with Matsumura. He… wouldn't trade their friendship for anything in the world.