Chapter Text
The whiteboard looks like a war zone.
Arisu stands in front of it with a red marker clutched in one hand, the other gesturing wildly at the chaotic cluster of arrows, sticky notes and half-erased sketches that make up his latest level design. The open-plan office of the studio is quietly alive around them, keyboards clicking, someone laughing near the kitchen, the faint smell of instant coffee, but none of it registers.
All of Arisu’s attention is locked on the man leaning against the opposite side of the whiteboard with his arms crossed.
Chishiya looks completely unimpressed.
“Players need to feel the despair before the victory.” Arisu insists, jabbing the marker toward a particularly dramatic sequence of obstacles. “If everything’s too clean, too easy, there’s no payoff. The frustration is part of the fun.”
Chishiya tilts his head slightly, pale hair falling across one eye. His voice stays quiet, almost bored, which somehow makes it worse.
“Your despair is just poor pacing dressed up as art. My version is cleaner, more elegant, and won’t make the playtesters cry for the wrong reasons.”
Arisu’s eye twitches. “Elegant? You mean soulless. Your design has all the emotional depth of a spreadsheet.”
“And yours has all the structural integrity of a toddler’s finger painting.” Chishiya’s mouth curves into a smirk. “Players don’t need to suffer for the sake of your artistic vision, Arisu. They need a challenge they can actually overcome without wanting to throw their controllers.”
A couple of coworkers nearby exchange glances. One of them mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “here we go again” before wisely finding somewhere else to be.
Arisu plants narrows his eyes and leans in. “You just can’t stand that my ideas actually make people care. Not everything has to be optimized within an inch of its life.”
“And you can’t stand that mine actually work.” Chishiya pushes off the whiteboard, voice still soft, almost lazy. “There’s a difference between tension and unnecessary cruelty. One of us understands that.”
“Oh, please—”
They keep going even as they gather their things. Arisu shoves his tablet into his bag with more force than necessary. Chishiya slides his own notes into a slim folder with irritating calm.
Neither is willing to let the other have the last word, so the argument simply migrates with them toward the elevators, down to the lobby, and out onto the sidewalk in the late-afternoon light.
“You know what your problem is?” Arisu says, still walking half a step ahead so he can turn and glare properly. “You treat every design like a puzzle to be solved instead of an experience to be felt.”
Chishiya falls into step beside him, hands in his pockets, expression mild. “And your problem is that you mistake chaos for creativity. There’s a reason the higher-ups keep asking me to revise your work.”
Arisu opens his mouth for a scathing reply—
—and that’s when he hears it, the high-pitched whine of an electric motor, too fast, too close.
Arisu’s head snaps toward the sound.
A delivery scooter is barreling down the narrow sidewalk, swerving to avoid a pothole, and it’s heading straight for Chishiya, who’s just stepped off the curb without looking.
There’s no time to think.
Arisu lunges. He grabs Chishiya by the arm—sharp, bony, familiar in a way he’ll unpack later—and yanks him backward. Hard. Chishiya stumbles, off-balance, and they both crash to the ground. Arisu’s shoulder hits the pavement first, and he hears a sickening thud, Chishiya’s head connecting with the concrete edge of the curb.
The scooter speeds past. The rider yells something apologetic over their shoulder.
“Chishiya?” Arisu pushes himself up, ignoring the scrape on his palm. Chishiya is lying on his back, eyes closed, bleached hair splayed against the dirty ground. A thin trickle of blood traces from his temple. “Hey. Hey, wake up. Don’t do this to me. I was winning that argument.”
Chishiya doesn’t move.
Arisu’s heart does something stupid and painful. He fumbles for his phone, dials for an ambulance, and tries to keep his voice steady while he explains what happened. The operator tells him not to move Chishiya. He doesn’t. He just sits there on the cold sidewalk, holding Chishiya’s wrist to check for a pulse (there is one, strong, thank god), and stares at his face.
It’s the first time he’s seen Chishiya look vulnerable.
It’s unsettling. Arisu decides he hates it.
The ambulance ride is a blur of bright lights and clipped questions. He sits on the narrow bench opposite the stretcher, hands clenched so tightly his knuckles ache. Every time the vehicle takes a corner a little too sharply he has to fight the urge to reach out and steady Chishiya himself, as if the paramedics aren’t already doing their jobs.
Residual adrenaline still fizzes under his skin. Residual rivalry, too—some ridiculous part of him keeps thinking you better not die before I get the last word—but mostly he’s just…raw. Watching the normally sharp, unflappable Chishiya lie there pale and still feels fundamentally wrong.
The hospital smells like antiseptic and regret.
Arisu has been pacing the waiting room for three hours, which means his legs are starting to ache and he’s memorized the pattern of the ceiling tiles. The nurse at the counter keeps giving him sympathetic looks, which only makes him more restless.
Finally, a doctor appears. Middle-aged, tired eyes, clipboard in hand.
“Arisue-san?”
“Arisu.” He corrects automatically. Then winces. “Is he okay?”
“He’s conscious now. The CT scan shows no intracranial bleeding, which is good—he’s lucky. But he’s experiencing retrograde amnesia.”
Arisu blinks. “Amnesia?”
“Yes. He doesn’t remember the accident, and he has significant gaps in his memory regarding recent years. He’s confused. We’ve tried to contact his family, but the only number on file is an overseas one that didn’t go through.”
“His parents live in Australia.” Arisu says, because he knows this from an offhand comment Chishiya made once, six months ago, when they were arguing about save-file compression. He doesn’t know why he remembers that.
The doctor nods. “In that case, he needs someone to supervise him for the next few days. Amnesia patients can become disoriented, and it’s best if he’s not alone. Since you’re here, and he seems to trust you...”
“He doesn’t trust me. We’re colleagues—rivals, actually.”
“Either way, you’re the only person present.” The doctor says matter-of-factly. “Could you stay with him tonight? Just until we arrange alternative care.”
Arisu opens his mouth to say absolutely not, we hate each other, but what comes out is, “Yeah, okay. Fine.”
He tells himself it’s because he feels guilty. He’s the one who pushed Chishiya. If he’d just let the scooter hit him, at least Chishiya wouldn’t have brain damage. Probably. Not that he wanted Chishiya to get hit, but—this is complicated. He’s responsible.
The doctor leads him down a hallway to a private room. The door is slightly ajar, Arisu peeks inside.
Chishiya is sitting up in bed, looking smaller than usual in a hospital gown. His head is bandaged, and his face is the color of chalk, but his eyes are open and tracking the doorway with unnerving precision. He looks…lost. Not in a dramatic way, more like someone who wound up in the wrong train station and is trying to figure out the map.
Arisu steps inside. “Hey.”
Chishiya tilts his head, studying him.
“Who are you?”
Arisu's brain short-circuits.
He should tell the truth. I'm your coworker. Your rival. The guy you can’t stand. The guy you argue with about level design every day. He should call the doctor. He should be a decent human being.
Instead, a brilliant, petty, spiteful idea lights up in his head like a firework.
Chishiya has no memory. He doesn’t know anybody. He’s completely blank. And he’s looking at Arisu with those wide, trusting eyes.
Revenge, Arisu thinks. For every smug remark. Every condescending smile. Every sarcastic quip. Every time you ‘optimized’ my work into something boring.
He takes a breath. He puts on his most gentle, caring expression. He sits on the edge of the bed and takes Chishiya’s hand. Chishiya’s fingers are cold but he doesn’t pull away.
“I’m your boyfriend.” Arisu says, with the most sincere expression he can muster.
Chishiya stares at him for a long, unreadable moment. Then his eyebrows lift slightly, and he says, “Oh. Yeah, that makes sense.”
Arisu nearly chokes.
“Wait—really? It makes sense?”
“Well, you’re holding my hand. And you look concerned. And you’re cute.” Chishiya says this completely flat, like he’s reading a weather report. “I wouldn’t let someone I didn’t trust hold my hand. So. Boyfriend. Logical conclusion.”
Arisu’s brain short-circuits again. Chishiya just called him cute. Chishiya, who once spent an entire meeting explaining why Arisu’s “player empathy” philosophy was “emotionally inefficient”. Chishiya, who never compliments anyone about anything.
This is going to be easier than he thought.
“Right.” Arisu says, recovering quickly. “We’ve been together for...a year. We live together. You moved in last month.”
“Did I?” Chishiya’s brow furrows. “I don’t remember that.”
“The amnesia.” Arisu says smoothly. “It’s temporary. The doctor said you need rest. And care. Which is why you’re staying with me tonight.”
Chishiya nods slowly, processing. “That’s convenient.”
“I’m a very caring boyfriend.”
“I believe you.”
Arisu has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. This is going to be so good.
The doctor returns, runs a few more tests, and confirms what Arisu already knows: Chishiya’s memory loss is patchy, focused on personal relationships and recent events. He still knows how to speak, how to do math, how to tie his shoes. But he doesn’t remember his own parents, doesn’t remember his job, doesn’t remember anyone’s face except...apparently Arisu’s.
“Trauma can create a selective attachment.” The doctor explains. “Arisu-san, you were the one who saved him and the first familiar face he saw. His brain is currently trusting you implicitly.”
Perfect, Arisu thinks. He’ll trust anything I say.
He vows, right there, that he will make Chishiya his little servant. Payback for every snide remark, every ‘interesting approach, but wrong’ comment, every time Chishiya optimized the fun out of his best levels. Chishiya will fetch him coffee. Chishiya will massage his shoulders after long meetings. Chishiya will tell him his ideas are brilliant. Chishiya will adore him.
Revenge is a dish best served with a side of domestic servitude.
Arisu has to stifle a grin.
Also, I’m going to make him do the dishes for a month.
The doctor continues. “No driving, no strenuous activity. Monitor for headaches, confusion, mood swings. Come back if anything changes.”
Arisu nods with the solemnity of someone who has absolutely no idea what he’s doing.
When the doctor finally steps out to arrange the last of the paperwork so Chishiya can be discharged, Chishiya turns his head fully toward Arisu.
“Then I suppose,” He says, perfectly straightforward. “I’m going home with my boyfriend.”
He says it the way someone might comment on the weather, without hesitation or irony, only quiet acceptance, as if the sentence is the most natural thing in the world.
Arisu feels something flip over in his chest—triumph, panic, and a dangerous little spark of fondness all at once.
“Yeah.” He answers, and somehow keeps his voice from cracking. “You are.”
They leave the hospital under the soft glow of the streetlights. Chishiya sits beside him in the taxi without complaint, cooperative in a way that feels almost surreal. He doesn’t ask unnecessary questions. He simply stays close, quiet and observant. Every so often he glances at Arisu or at the passing street with mild curiosity, as if cataloguing a world he only half-recognizes.
Arisu’s apartment is on a higher floor of a modern building, the kind of place that comes with good money and slightly better taste than most people expect from him. When he unlocks the door and steps aside, Chishiya walks in and stops just past the threshold.
The space is cozy rather than sterile: warm lighting, soft rugs, splashes of color in the throw blankets and the art prints on the walls, and pillows—so many pillows. Scattered across the couch, piled on the armchair, even a few on the floor near the low table like they migrated there on their own.
Chishiya looks around slowly. Something in his expression eases.
“I like it.” He says simply. “It feels...comfortable.”
Arisu’s chest does an inconvenient little flip. “Yeah. Uh. Home sweet home.”
He shows him the rest of the place in a slightly awkward tour. Kitchen, bathroom, the single bedroom at the end of the short hallway. The bed is large, king-sized, honestly bigger than one person needs because Arisu has always moved too much in his sleep and once decided that if he was going to thrash around at night he might as well do it in luxury.
Chishiya stands at the foot of the bed and studies it for a moment.
“Do we sleep together?” He asks, completely calm.
Arisu’s brain short-circuits for the third time that day.
He could say no. He could invent ten excuses as for why not.
Instead, his mouth decides for him.
“Yes.” He says, a little too quickly. “We do.”
Chishiya accepts this with another small nod, as if the information simply slots into place.
Later, after a quiet dinner, Arisu digs through his closet and pulls out a soft black t-shirt and a pair of dark sweatpants. Chishiya’s own clothes from the accident are wrinkled and faintly stained, and neither particularly wants him sleeping in them.
“Here.” Arisu offers, holding the clothes out. “They’ll be a little big, but it’s better than nothing.”
Chishiya takes them without protest and disappears into the bathroom. When he comes back out a few minutes later, Arisu’s brain briefly stops working.
The t-shirt hangs a little loosely on his frame, the neckline slipping just slightly along one shoulder. The sweatpants are rolled once at the waist so they don’t drag. Everything about it is just a fraction too large, soft fabric swallowing him in a way that makes him look...smaller. Softer.
Adorable, honestly.
Arisu’s stomach does something complicated and traitorous.
There’s also a quiet, possessive little thought that slides in uninvited: He’s wearing my clothes. Something about that feels right in a way Arisu refuses to examine. Like a claim, like proof.
He immediately shoves the entire line of thinking into the mental equivalent of a locked drawer and throws away the key.
“They fit okay?” He asks, voice carefully casual.
Chishiya glances down at himself, then back up. “They’re comfortable, thank you.”
“Yeah. No problem.”
Arisu turns away before his face can do anything stupid, and pretends very hard that the sight of Chishiya in his clothes doesn’t do anything to him at all.
Afterwards, they end up in that same bed. Chishiya lies on his side facing Arisu, looking far more peaceful than he has any right to after everything.
For a while they don’t speak.
Then Chishiya shifts closer. His hand finds Arisu’s under the covers, fingers cool and careful as they slide between his own and interlace.
“This is what boyfriends do, right?” He asks softly.
Despite having already touched Chishiya’s hands once today, Arisu’s face goes hot so fast it’s almost dizzying. He can feel the flush climbing all the way to his ears.
“Yes.” He manages in a slightly strangled voice. “Yeah. It is.”
Chishiya gives his hand a gentle squeeze, like he’s testing the shape of the gesture and finding it satisfactory, and Arisu’s heart squeezes in his chest with it.
He stares at the ceiling in the dark, heart beating too hard, and makes himself a silent promise.
He’s going to milk this situation for everything it’s worth. Every petty victory. Every chance to watch the usually untouchable Chishiya do soft, ridiculous boyfriend things. He’s going to win so thoroughly that when the memories come back, Chishiya will never recover from the humiliation.
And yet...
Underneath the triumphant plotting, something smaller and far more dangerous is already taking root.
Oh no, Arisu thinks, staring at the soft-eyed boy, feeling the warm weight of those fingers still linked with his. He’s kind of cute when he’s not being an asshole.
He closes his eyes and pretends the realization doesn’t scare him at all.