Archive of Our Own

Toya pulled away from the kiss so abruptly that Akito’s hand slipped from his cheek.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

They were standing behind the live house, in the narrow stretch of pavement between the back door and the vending machines. The machines hummed. Somewhere inside, someone dragged a chair across the floor, its legs screeching faintly through the wall. Akito’s fingers remained lifted between them, curved around the space Toya’s face had occupied a second ago.

Toya stared at that hand.

He had wanted Akito to touch him. That was the problem.

“Toya?”

Akito lowered his hand. His voice was careful now, all the warmth of a moment ago held back so suddenly that Toya felt its absence like a draft.

“I’m sorry,” Toya said.

Akito’s eyebrows drew together. “For what?”

Toya didn’t know how to answer.

For kissing him back. For wanting him to do it again. For the way his thoughts had gone quiet when Akito’s thumb brushed his cheek, only to return all at once, loud and terrible, the instant Toya realized how easily he could have stayed there.

Akito waited. When Toya said nothing, he glanced toward the back door.

“Did somebody come out?”

“No.”

“Did I—” Akito stopped. He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. “Did I do something?”

“No,” Toya said quickly. Too quickly. “You didn’t.”

“Okay.”

Akito looked at him as though he was waiting for the rest of the sentence.

There wasn’t one Toya could give him.

A few minutes earlier, they had been laughing. Akito had teased him for choosing the wrong drink from the vending machine again, and Toya had pointed out that it was a new flavor, so it could not reasonably be called wrong before he had tried it. Akito had taken one sip, made an exaggerated face, and passed it back. Toya had liked it. Akito had called him hopeless.

Then Akito had kissed him.

The first kiss had been brief, almost shy. It had surprised Toya, although Akito had been looking at his mouth for long enough that Toya probably should have expected it. Toya had said his name. Akito had asked, very softly, if that was okay.

Toya had said yes.

He could still hear how certain he had sounded.

Akito rubbed the back of his neck. “You can tell me if it wasn’t.”

“It was.”

“Then why do you look like that?”

Toya lifted a hand to his face before he could stop himself. “Like what?”

Akito let out a short breath. “Like I just ruined your life.”

Toya’s hand fell.

The awful thing was that Akito sounded like he was trying to make a joke. He even gave Toya half a smile, crooked and familiar. But Toya knew the difference between that smile and the real one. He knew how Akito looked after a good rehearsal, when his excitement broke through before he could hide it. He knew the particular squint that meant Akito was trying not to laugh at something stupid Toya had said.

This smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“You haven’t,” Toya said.

“Great. Good to know.”

Akito turned toward the vending machines. The fluorescent light caught the side of his face, making his expression harder to read.

Toya could usually follow a conversation if he paid close attention to its shape: what had been asked, what answer the other person expected, where a silence meant it was his turn to speak. With Akito, he often didn’t have to work so hard. Akito would tell him when he was annoyed. If he wanted Toya to stop overthinking something, he said so. Even his teasing had a rhythm Toya could recognize.

Now Akito was saying one thing and sounding as though he meant another.

“I’m sorry,” Toya tried again.

“Stop apologizing.”

“I’ve upset you.”

“No, you haven’t.”

Akito pressed the button on the vending machine with enough force that Toya heard the plastic click. A canned coffee dropped into the tray. Akito crouched to retrieve it and stayed down for a second longer than necessary.

Toya watched the top of his head.

You have, he thought. I can see that you have.

But if he said it, Akito would ask why Toya had pulled away, and Toya would have to explain something he had never successfully explained even to himself.

Akito stood. He held the coffee out.

“I don’t want it,” Toya said.

“I know. It’s mine.”

“Oh.”

Akito looked away. “I bought it because I wanted coffee.”

“I see.”

“Yeah.”

Toya wrapped both hands around the bottle of strange-flavored juice he was still holding. It had gone warm against his palms. He had forgotten it was there.

Inside the live house, someone called Akito’s name. Neither of them answered.

Akito glanced at the door again, then back at Toya. “Look. We don’t have to do that again.”

Toya’s grip tightened on the bottle.

“That isn’t what I want,” he said.

Akito went still.

For one hopeful, frightening moment, Toya thought he might have found the right words after all. He had said the truth plainly. Akito could ask him what he meant, and perhaps Toya could manage another truth after that.

Instead, Akito gave a small, disbelieving laugh.

“Okay,” he said. “You’re gonna have to help me out here.”

Toya opened his mouth.

He wanted to say, I want to kiss you again.

It was a simple sentence. He could have said it in one breath.

He looked at Akito’s mouth and remembered the warmth of it. Then he remembered himself, standing in the kitchen at home with a cup in his hands while his father spoke about discipline, about correcting bad habits before they became part of a person. His father had never spoken about Akito. He had never needed to. Toya had learned to hear his voice whenever he wanted something too much.

“I need a moment,” Toya said.

Akito’s face closed off so quickly that Toya almost stepped toward him.

“Sure. Take one.” Akito cracked open the coffee. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He leaned against the vending machine and looked down the alley, giving Toya the privacy he had asked for. It was a kindness. Toya hated that Akito thought he needed to turn away to give it.

Toya tried to collect his thoughts.

He could feel the seam inside his collar pressing against his neck. He could hear the vending machine compressor start up beneath the hum of the lights. His lips still tingled. Every sensation seemed separate and equally impossible to ignore.

There were facts he could arrange.

Akito had kissed him. Toya had wanted him to. Akito had asked whether it was okay, and Toya had said yes. Then Toya had pulled away. Akito believed he had done something wrong.

The facts were clear. Toya’s feelings did not become clearer when he put them in order.

He had known he loved Akito for months, though he had called it other things for as long as he could. Admiration was safe. Gratitude made sense. Akito was his partner, and Toya trusted him more than anyone. When Akito was tired, Toya wanted him to rest. When Akito was happy, Toya wanted to be there to see it. None of that had seemed difficult to explain.

Then Akito had fallen asleep against his shoulder on the train one evening. Toya had spent the entire ride afraid to move and afraid that Akito would wake up.

After that, it had become harder to call the feeling anything else.

“Toya.”

Akito was looking at him again. His coffee remained untouched.

“You don’t have to tell me,” he said. “I shouldn’t have pushed.”

“You didn’t push.”

“I kissed you twice.”

“I kissed you back.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

A flush climbed Akito’s neck. He turned his face away as though that would hide it.

Even now, Toya wanted to smile. He wanted to reach out and touch Akito’s sleeve, to let him know he had noticed too. The wanting made his stomach turn.

Akito mistook his silence for something else. “Forget I said that.”

“I don’t want to forget it.”

“Then stop saying stuff like that when you look miserable.”

“I can’t help how I look.”

“I know.” Akito dragged a hand over his face. “Sorry. That came out wrong.”

Toya stared at the pavement between their shoes. There was a thin crack running through it. A weed had found its way up through the concrete, its leaves bent away from the wall toward the little light the alley offered.

“I wanted you to kiss me,” Toya said.

He heard Akito inhale.

“I still do,” Toya added, because leaving the first sentence alone would allow Akito to believe it had only been true before. “That is why I pulled away.”

Akito turned fully toward him. “That makes no sense.”

“I know.”

“No, I mean—” Akito stopped, visibly trying again. “You don’t have to make sense. I just don’t understand.”

Toya nodded. That, at least, was fair.

Akito set his coffee on top of the vending machine. “Is it because it was me?”

Toya looked up. “What?”

“If you wanted to kiss someone, but then you remembered it was me.” Akito’s mouth twisted. “I’m not asking you to make me feel better about it. I just need to know whether that’s what happened.”

“No.” Toya’s voice came out louder than he intended. “Akito, no. I would never—”

“Okay.”

“It’s because it was you,” Toya said, “but not like that.”

Akito gave him a helpless look. “You hear how confusing that is, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then maybe start with the part that isn’t.”

Toya searched for one. He was good at remembering things precisely: the order of songs on a set list, the notes that made a phrase feel unfinished, the exact words Akito had used when he first asked Toya to sing with him. He could remember those things even when he was exhausted.

He could not find a sentence that made this understandable.

Akito folded his arms. “Never mind. We have to go back in soon. An and Kohane are waiting.”

“They’ll wait a little longer.”

“Yeah? Well, I don’t want them coming out here and finding us like this.”

Toya knew Akito meant arguing. He knew it because Akito glanced at his face with an expression that was almost painfully concerned.

For an instant, though, Toya heard the other possibility.

Finding us. Seeing Akito standing close enough to kiss him. Knowing what Toya wanted.

He went cold.

Akito saw that too. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.”

“You don’t look like you know.”

“I do.”

Akito unfolded his arms, then folded them again. “I’m really messing this up.”

“You aren’t.”

“Then quit looking at me like I am.”

Toya wanted to ask how Akito could be angry with himself and Toya at the same time. He had seen him do it before, after a difficult practice or a performance that hadn’t gone as planned. Akito would insist he was fine, snap at the first person who believed him, and then apologize before the night was over. Toya understood it a little better now that he was the one Akito kept looking at.

“I’m not upset with you,” Toya said.

Akito’s shoulders dropped slightly.

“I’m upset with myself.”

They rose again.

“Because I kissed you,” Akito said.

“Because I wanted you to.”

Akito stared at him. “That’s not something you did wrong.”

Toya looked down at the bottle in his hands. The label had begun to peel where his thumb worried its edge.

He had imagined Akito saying those words before. Not in this alley, not after a kiss, but in every quiet moment when he had almost told him. He had imagined Akito saying them with the easy certainty he brought to everything Toya doubted about himself. He had thought that hearing it might make him believe it.

It did not. Not yet.

“That’s easy for you to say,” Toya murmured.

Akito stepped back.

Toya looked up immediately. “I didn’t mean—”

“No, I get it.” Akito picked up his coffee. “I don’t know what it’s like for you.”

“You know more than anyone.”

“Apparently not enough.”

Akito said it lightly. Or he tried to. He tossed the unopened can from one hand to the other, caught it, and looked toward the door as though he had suddenly remembered all the reasons they needed to go inside.

Toya could let him. They could walk back in together, stand on opposite sides of the practice room, and speak only about music. Akito might even give him space afterward. He had promised he would.

The thought of Akito carefully keeping his distance made Toya feel worse than the kiss had.

“Akito,” he said.

“What?”

“I don’t know how to say this without hurting you.”

Akito’s expression changed. For a second all the defensive sharpness left him, and he looked frightened.

“Try,” he said.

Toya took a breath. It caught painfully high in his chest.

“I’ve thought about kissing you before.”

Akito blinked. “Okay.”

“For a long time.”

“Okay.”

“I thought that if it happened, I might finally know how I felt about it.”

“And?”

“I do know.”

Akito waited.

Toya looked at the weed in the pavement again. One of its leaves had a torn edge. He focused on that edge until he could speak.

“I was happy,” he said. “When you kissed me, I was happy. I wanted to stay like that. Then I thought about how happy I was, and I couldn’t—”

His throat tightened. He stopped.

Akito didn’t fill the silence. He had his hands at his sides now, his fingers curled around the coffee can, and he was listening so intently that Toya could barely bear to look at him.

“I was taught to be careful about what I want,” Toya said at last.

Akito’s jaw set. “Your dad?”

“He didn’t say anything about this.”

“But you can hear him anyway.”

Toya nodded.

Akito knew. Of course he knew. He had been there for so much of what Toya had fought to choose for himself, and Toya had still expected to have to explain the shape of it from the beginning.

“Hey,” Akito said, quieter now. “Look at me?”

Toya did.

“I’m not going to kiss you again right now,” Akito said. “You asked for a moment, and I heard you.”

“I know.”

“But I need you to hear me too. You didn’t do anything wrong out here.”

Toya wanted to believe him so badly that his eyes stung.

Akito noticed. He made a small sound of frustration—not at Toya, Toya thought, but at his inability to fix this—and immediately looked embarrassed by it.

“Sorry. I’m not trying to tell you how to feel.” He rubbed at the back of his neck again. “I just hate that you finally told me you wanted this and somehow you’re the one who feels bad about it.”

Toya gave a shaky breath that might have been a laugh.

“What?” Akito asked.

“You said you weren’t going to make me feel better.”

“I said I wasn’t asking you to make me feel better.” Akito frowned. “Were you even listening?”

“Yes.”

“Doesn’t seem like it.”

The familiar edge in his voice was back. So was the familiar warmth beneath it. Toya held on to both.

Inside, the back door opened. They turned together.

An leaned out, one hand braced against the frame. “There you are. Are you two coming back, or should Kohane and I start without you?”

Akito straightened so fast he nearly knocked his coffee off the vending machine.

“We’re coming,” he said. “Give us a minute.”

An looked from him to Toya. Her gaze lingered, curious but not prying. “Okay.”

The door shut again.

Akito muttered, “Great.”

“She doesn’t know,” Toya said.

“I didn’t say she did.”

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m standing under a bright red sign.”

“There’s no sign here.”

“I know that, Toya.”

Toya’s mouth twitched despite himself.

Akito saw it. His own expression softened for a moment, then grew guarded again. “You okay to go in?”

“I think so.”

“We can stay another minute.”

“An is waiting.”

“She can wait.”

Toya looked at him. Akito had said the same thing Toya had said earlier, but this time it sounded like an offer rather than an argument.

“I’d like another minute,” Toya admitted.

“Okay.”

Akito put the coffee back on top of the machine. He stayed beside Toya without reaching for him. The space between them was small enough that Toya could have closed it with one step, large enough that he didn’t have to.

For now, that was something he could bear.

“I’m glad you kissed me,” Toya said.

Akito kept his eyes fixed on the opposite wall. “Yeah, well. Don’t sound so surprised about it.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“You pulled away like you were.”

“I know.”

Akito sighed. “I’m going to be annoying about this later.”

“You already are.”

“Wow.” Akito turned to him. “I give you one minute to recover and you start insulting me?”

Toya felt the beginning of a real smile.

Then Akito smiled back, brief and helpless, and Toya’s fear returned alongside everything else. It had not disappeared. He could feel it in his chest, stubborn and familiar.

But Akito was still here.

Toya looked at the narrow space between their hands.

“I may need you to be patient with me,” he said.

Akito’s smile faded, though he did not look away. “I can do that.”

“I might say things badly.”

“You definitely will.”

“Akito.”

“So will I,” Akito said. “We’ll figure out what we mean.”

Toya nodded. He hoped they could.

After another moment, Akito picked up his coffee and pushed away from the vending machine. He headed toward the door, then paused to make sure Toya was coming.

Toya followed him.

They went back inside together.

That was the problem, Toya thought, or perhaps the proof that there was no problem at all.

Akito held the back door open for him without looking at him. Toya stepped through. The door swung shut behind them with a heavy, familiar sound, cutting off the evening air and the hum of the vending machines. The hallway smelled faintly of dust, old carpet, and the sweet canned coffee Akito still held in one hand.

For half a second, Toya thought Akito might say something.

Instead, he walked ahead.

Not quickly. Not so quickly that Toya could accuse him of avoiding him. But he did not match Toya’s pace as he usually did, either. He did not turn to make some annoyed comment about how long they had been gone. He just kept walking, shoulders set, gaze fixed on the end of the hall.

Toya followed.

The practice room door was open. Kohane sat on the floor near the speaker with her knees pulled close to her chest, scrolling through something on her phone. An stood by the mirror, tying her hair up again after taking it down during their break.

“There they are,” An said when they came in. “I was starting to think you’d gotten abducted.”

“By who?” Akito asked.

An shrugged. “The vending machine. It looked pretty suspicious.”

“It’s a vending machine.”

“Exactly what it wants you to think.”

Kohane laughed softly.

Normally, Akito would have told An she was stupid. Not in a cruel way. He would have said it with the easy annoyance that meant he was comfortable, perhaps added something about how she needed to stop wasting her imagination on garbage.

Instead, he walked past her to the far side of the room and set his coffee beside the speaker.

“Can we practice?” he said.

The room went quiet.

An’s smile fell by a fraction. “Yeah. Sure.”

Toya’s chest tightened.

Akito picked up the microphone nearest to him and started adjusting the wire. He did not look at Toya. He did not look at anyone.

Kohane glanced at Toya.

Toya looked away first.

“Okay,” An said after a moment, too brightly. “From the second verse?”

Akito nodded.

Toya found his place beside him.

They stood shoulder to shoulder in the places they always took without discussing it. The speaker crackled once as An started the track. The familiar opening filled the room, bass low enough to vibrate through the floor. Normally Toya liked that part—the few seconds before singing began, when all four of them listened for the same beat and became a group again.

Today, he could only hear Akito breathing.

The first verse began.

Toya sang.

His voice came out steady. That was almost worse. Music had always done this for him. Even when everything else was disordered, even when he didn’t know how to tell someone what he was thinking or why a feeling had suddenly become too sharp to hold, singing made the next step clear. There was a note. He had to meet it. There was a phrase. He had to carry it to its end.

He knew what to do in a song.

Beside him, Akito sounded flawless.

He always did.

But Toya knew him well enough to hear the difference anyway.

Akito was pushing.

Not enough that An or Kohane would necessarily notice. His voice was still controlled. The timing was correct. His tone was strong, bright, exactly where it needed to be.

But the force behind it was wrong.

Akito sang as though the song had insulted him.

Toya missed his next breath.

His entrance was late.

Just barely. Half a beat at most.

Still, Akito noticed.

Of course he did.

Akito’s eyes flicked toward him for an instant. The look was quick and sharp. Not angry, exactly. More like surprise turning immediately into something Toya couldn’t name.

Then Akito looked away.

Toya forced himself to continue.

By the end of the song, the room felt too warm.

“Again,” Akito said.

An lowered her microphone. “We just did it.”

“And it was bad.”

“It wasn’t bad,” Kohane said quickly.

“It was off.”

“We can run it again,” An said, watching him carefully.

Akito was already restarting the track.

Toya stared at him.

“Akito,” he said.

“What?”

The word was blunt. Not loud, but blunt enough that Kohane’s hands tightened around her microphone.

Toya felt the attention in the room settle on them.

He did not know what he was supposed to do with it.

“I missed one entrance,” Toya said.

“Yeah.”

“I know.”

“Then what’s the issue?”

Toya opened his mouth. Closed it.

Akito turned back to the speaker. “If you’re ready this time, we can start.”

The music began again.

Toya sang anyway.

The second run was better. It had to be. Toya counted every beat in his head. He kept his eyes on the reflection in the mirror because looking at Akito directly felt impossible, but that was worse in its own way. In the reflection, Akito was too visible. Toya could see the way his mouth tightened between lines. The way he shifted farther to the right whenever the choreography brought them close.

It was barely anything.

A few inches.

Toya noticed.

At the end of the song, Akito didn’t say anything.

An did.

“That was good,” she said cautiously.

“Yeah,” Kohane agreed. “Really good.”

Akito unplugged his microphone. “I’m getting water.”

He left before anyone could respond.

The door shut behind him.

For a moment, only the fading instrumental track filled the room.

An walked over to the speaker and turned it off.

Kohane stared at the door. “Is he okay?”

“He’s tired,” Toya said.

It was the first answer that came to him.

An looked at him.

Toya wished he had said nothing.

“Is that all?” An asked.

Toya didn’t know how to respond to that without lying.

An’s expression softened, but not enough to make it easier. “You two argued?”

“We didn’t argue.”

“Uh-huh.”

“We didn’t.”

“Toya,” An said gently, “Akito is acting like he wants to fight the air.”

Kohane looked down, as though she was trying not to seem like she agreed.

Toya held his microphone with both hands. The cord looped around his fingers.

“He has a reason,” he said.

“That doesn’t mean he gets to take it out on us.”

Toya looked up.

An immediately raised both hands. “I’m not saying he’s a bad person. I’m saying he’s being a jerk.”

Toya’s first instinct was to defend Akito. The words gathered quickly: He’s upset. It’s my fault. He didn’t mean it like that.

But none of them sounded right once he reached for them.

Akito had been a jerk.

Toya knew that.

He also knew the exact moment it had started. He knew it had begun outside, with Toya saying he needed a moment, then failing to explain why. He knew Akito had tried to understand. He knew that every answer Toya gave had probably sounded like rejection wrapped in contradictions.

The thought made his stomach sink.

“I’ll talk to him,” Toya said.

An’s gaze softened further. “You don’t have to fix him.”

“I know.”

“You’re allowed to be upset too.”

“I know.”

But Toya did not know what being upset would look like.

He put the microphone down beside the speaker and left the room.

The hallway was empty.

He could hear running water from the restroom at the end of the corridor, but Akito wasn’t there. Toya checked the small stairwell next. Nothing. He went through the back door and found the alley empty too, except for a delivery crate beside the dumpster and the vending machines humming under their white lights.

Akito’s coffee was gone.

Toya stood very still.

He had not expected Akito to leave.

That was unreasonable. Akito could have gone anywhere. There was a convenience store around the corner. The roof access door was upstairs. He might have gone back inside through another hall.

Still, Toya’s thoughts began moving too quickly.

He’s avoiding me.

The idea arrived with the certainty of a fact.

Toya turned and went back inside.

He found Akito on the stairs between the first and second floors.

He was sitting two steps up from the landing, elbows on his knees, coffee balanced in both hands. The stairwell light was dimmer than the hallway lights. It made the shadows under his eyes look darker.

Toya stopped at the bottom.

Akito didn’t look up.

“I thought you went home,” Toya said.

Akito took a sip of coffee. “Why would I go home?”

“I couldn’t find you.”

“Sorry. I’ll submit a schedule next time.”

Toya went silent.

Akito sighed through his nose. “Sorry. That was—”

“It was mean.”

Akito looked at him then.

For a moment, Toya thought he might apologize. Akito’s expression shifted as though he had started to, then stopped himself.

“Yeah,” he said. “It was.”

The blunt agreement startled Toya more than the comment had.

Toya took one step up. Then another.

“Are you angry with me?” he asked.

Akito laughed once. There was no humor in it. “What do you think?”

“I think you are.”

“Then why ask?”

“Because I want you to tell me.”

Akito stared at the coffee can.

“I’m not angry that you pulled away,” he said finally.

Toya waited.

Akito’s fingers tightened around the can. “I mean, I am. A little. But not because you said no. You didn’t even say no.”

“I know.”

“That’s the problem.” Akito looked at him, eyes sharp now. “You keep saying things like that. Like I’m supposed to understand what you mean because you said you know.”

Toya’s throat tightened.

“I’m trying,” he said.

“I know you are.”

Akito’s voice softened on the last sentence, which somehow made it worse.

Toya stood on the step below him. He wanted to sit beside Akito, but he didn’t know whether he was allowed. He didn’t know whether sitting too close would make things worse. He didn’t know whether Akito would move away.

So he stayed where he was.

“I don’t want you to think you did something wrong,” Toya said.

“I don’t.”

“You act like you do.”

Akito’s eyes narrowed. “I act like I’m annoyed because I am annoyed.”

“With me.”

“Yeah.”

The word landed hard.

Toya looked down at the stairs.

Akito let out a breath and pressed the heel of his hand into one eye. “See? This is why I didn’t want to talk about it yet.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m being an asshole.”

“You are not—”

“I said I’m being one. Don’t defend me.”

Toya stopped.

Akito’s jaw clenched. “I’m not mad at you for having feelings you can’t sort out in five minutes. I’m mad because you looked terrified after I kissed you, and then you told me you wanted it, and then you looked terrified again.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Toya.”

“I know you told me not to apologize.”

“Then why are you doing it?”

“Because I don’t know what else to say.”

Akito looked away.

The stairwell was quiet except for the muffled music from downstairs. Someone had started another song without them. The bass came through the walls as a soft, distant pulse.

Toya stared at the side of Akito’s face.

“I’m not afraid of you,” he said.

Akito’s expression changed, though he still didn’t look at him. “I know.”

“No. I don’t think you do.”

Akito said nothing.

Toya forced himself to continue.

“I’m afraid that I’ll hurt you.”

“Too late.”

The words were quiet.

Toya froze.

Akito’s eyes widened slightly, like he had not meant to say them aloud.

“I didn’t mean—” Akito began.

“You did.”

“I mean, yeah, obviously.” He laughed again, short and bitter. “It hurt when you pulled away. I’m not going to pretend it didn’t. But I’m not trying to make you feel guilty.”

“You are making me feel guilty.”

Akito’s face hardened immediately.

“Fine,” he said. “Then forget I said anything.”

“Akito.”

“No, seriously. You wanted me to tell you, right? I told you. Now you’re upset.”

“I’m not upset that you told me.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“I’m upset because I hurt you.”

“Then don’t—” Akito stopped. He looked away sharply, as if the rest of the sentence had been too dangerous. “Whatever.”

Toya felt something in his chest twist.

“Don’t what?” he asked.

Akito shrugged one shoulder.

“Akito.”

“What?”

“Tell me.”

“You’re not going to like it.”

“I may not. But I want to know.”

Akito was quiet for so long that Toya thought he had decided not to answer.

Then he said, “Don’t act like you want me and then treat me like I’m something you need to run away from.”

Toya stopped breathing.

Akito’s eyes remained on the landing below them.

“That’s what it felt like,” he continued, each word sounding reluctant. “You don’t have to agree with it. I know you didn’t mean it that way. But I’m not made of stone, Toya.”

“I know you aren’t.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because I do know. I just don’t know how to show you that I know.”

Akito finally looked at him.

Toya wished he could take the sentence back. It sounded like an excuse. It sounded like he was asking Akito to accept pain because Toya found communication difficult.

But it was true.

“I wanted you,” Toya said.

Akito’s expression flickered.

“I still want you,” Toya continued, before fear could stop him. “And I know that doesn’t make it less painful that I pulled away. I understand that. I just need you to understand that I pulled away because I was afraid of myself, not because I thought you were bad or disgusting or—”

His voice broke on the last word.

Akito went very still.

Toya looked down at his hands. “I thought that I was.”

The music downstairs changed. A louder beat, something An must have chosen. It pressed through the floor under their feet.

Toya had not planned to say that. He hadn’t even known he could say it.

Now that it was out, he couldn’t take it back.

Akito’s anger seemed to vanish for a moment. Not disappear, exactly. Toya could still see it in the set of his mouth, could still feel the hurt he had caused sitting between them. But Akito looked at him differently.

“That’s what this is?” Akito asked.

Toya nodded once.

Akito looked down at his coffee. “You think wanting to kiss me makes you disgusting.”

“I don’t know what I think.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I know.”

Akito exhaled, slow and shaking. “Okay.”

Toya waited for him to say more.

He didn’t.

The silence stretched.

Then Akito stood.

Toya’s heart dropped. “Where are you going?”

“Back downstairs.”

“Are you leaving?”

“No.” Akito’s voice was sharp again, defensive. “I said I’m going back downstairs.”

“Oh.”

Akito took one step toward the door, then stopped. He looked at Toya over his shoulder.

“You should come too,” he said.

The words were not warm. They weren’t quite an invitation. More like an instruction Akito could safely give without having to admit he wanted Toya nearby.

Toya recognized the shape of it anyway.

“Okay,” he said.

Akito nodded.

They went downstairs together, but this time Akito walked behind him.

Toya could feel him there.

It should have been comforting.

Instead, it made Toya painfully aware of every step he took, every movement of his hands, every chance he had to turn around and say something that might make it better.

At the bottom of the stairs, he stopped.

Akito nearly walked into him.

“What?” Akito asked.

Toya turned to face him.

Akito immediately looked wary.

“I don’t want you to punish yourself because I was scared,” Toya said.

Akito’s mouth tightened. “I’m not.”

“You are being cold because you think you made me uncomfortable.”

“Maybe I did.”

“You didn’t.”

“You don’t get to decide that for me.”

Toya blinked.

Akito’s eyes widened again. “I mean—no, that’s not what I—”

“I understand.”

“No, you don’t.” Akito looked away, frustrated. “That came out wrong too.”

Toya could see it: the moment Akito’s hurt turned into sharpness, then shame. The way he tried to put distance between himself and the fact that he cared. It was familiar. Toya had seen it when Akito thought he had failed the group, when he thought someone was disappointed in him, when his older sister said something that struck too close to home.

Akito wanted to be told he hadn’t done anything wrong.

But he also did not want Toya to say it just because Akito needed to hear it.

Toya understood that much.

“You are allowed to be hurt,” Toya said.

Akito didn’t respond.

“You are allowed to be angry with me.”

Akito’s gaze snapped back to him. “I don’t want to be angry with you.”

“I know.”

“Stop saying that.”

Toya almost apologized. He stopped himself.

“I mean it,” he said. “I know you don’t want to hurt me. But when you act like nothing is wrong, and then you say things that hurt anyway, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

Akito stared at him.

Toya’s hands had started shaking. He folded them together.

“I want to help you,” he continued. “But I don’t know how when you won’t tell me what you need.”

Akito’s expression softened in a way that made Toya afraid he had said too much.

“I need you to stop looking at me like I’m going to break,” Akito said.

Toya looked at him carefully.

Akito gave a humorless smile. “See?”

“I’m sorry,” Toya said automatically.

Akito groaned. “That’s not—”

“I’m sorry,” Toya repeated, more firmly. “Not because I think you’re weak. Because I didn’t realize I was doing that.”

The smile disappeared.

Toya took a breath.

“I think I’ve been looking at you like you’re someone I could lose,” he said. “That isn’t the same thing.”

Akito’s eyes went wide.

For once, he had no immediate answer.

Toya didn’t either.

They stood in the hallway outside the stairwell, both silent and uncomfortable and still too close to the thing they were trying to say.

Then the practice room door opened.

An leaned out, arms crossed.

“Are you two done being weird?” she asked.

Akito bristled instantly. “We’re not being weird.”

“You’re lurking in a hallway for the second time in one break.”

“We’re talking.”

“Then talk inside. We have a set to finish.”

Kohane appeared behind her, looking apologetic. “Um. We can take another break if you need.”

“No,” Akito said.

“Yes,” Toya said at the same time.

They both looked at each other.

Akito’s mouth pressed into a line.

Toya felt heat rise to his face. “I mean, we can practice. I just—”

“Whatever,” Akito said. “Let’s practice.”

He brushed past Toya into the room.

Toya stood there for one second too long.

An looked at him, then at the door Akito had disappeared through.

“Good luck,” she said softly.

Toya did not know whether she meant it kindly or sympathetically.

Maybe both.

He went inside anyway.

Toya followed him in.

The practice room felt different after the stairwell—not because anything had changed, exactly, but because now Toya knew too much about the silence between them.

Akito stood by the speaker, one hand resting on the edge of it. His coffee sat unopened beside the cables. He had not even finished half of it. Toya noticed because he noticed things like that: the small evidence of someone’s habits changing, the way Akito always drank canned coffee too quickly when he was tired but had barely touched it when he was upset.

An was pretending not to watch them.

Kohane was not pretending well.

“Okay,” An said. “We still have the last song.”

Akito nodded.

Toya nodded too.

No one moved.

An sighed. “I’m starting the track now. Please act like normal people.”

“Define normal,” Akito muttered.

“Don’t start.”

“I didn’t start anything.”

Toya looked at him.

Akito felt it immediately. “What?”

“You said you weren’t angry.”

“I said I wasn’t angry that you pulled away.”

“That sounds like you are angry about something else.”

Akito’s stare sharpened.

An closed her eyes briefly. “I’m going to count to five,” she announced.

“No need,” Kohane said, much quieter. “We can just practice.”

Kohane’s voice was gentle, but Toya could hear how carefully she had chosen her words. She was trying to make the room easier for everyone. She did that often. Toya admired it, though he thought it must be exhausting.

Akito picked up his microphone.

Toya did the same.

The music started.

This time, Toya made himself look at Akito.

He had to. Avoiding him had only made everything worse. He needed to know where Akito was in the song; he needed to hear the shifts in his breathing, see when he prepared to move, catch the small signals they had built together through hours of practice.

But looking at him made it hard to sing.

Akito’s face was composed.

That was what frightened Toya most.

When Akito was openly irritated, Toya knew what to expect. He might complain, he might snap, he might pace or cross his arms or glare at a wall as though it had personally offended him. Toya could respond to those things. He could apologize if he needed to. He could push back when Akito was being unfair. He could wait until the anger burned itself into something gentler.

When Akito looked calm like this, Toya did not know where the anger had gone.

Maybe it had gone away.

Maybe it had gone somewhere Toya could not reach.

The first chorus came.

Akito sang his part perfectly.

Toya joined him.

Their voices fit together. They always did. Even now. Even with everything wrong, they found each other in the song as though nothing had happened.

The realization hurt more than Toya expected.

He had thought that if something was wrong between them, their music would show it. He had thought there would be an obvious break—a missed cue, a clash in timing, something to prove that the feeling in his chest had a shape outside of himself.

Instead, they sounded good.

Maybe better than good.

An glanced at them in the mirror with an expression Toya could not read.

At the end of the song, no one spoke immediately.

The last note faded from the speaker.

Toya lowered his microphone.

Akito did not.

“Again,” he said.

An folded her arms. “Why?”

“We can do it better.”

“We sounded fine.”

“We sounded fine,” Akito repeated, with the kind of flatness that meant he did not think fine was enough.

Kohane shifted where she stood. “I thought it sounded really good.”

Akito looked at her.

His expression changed the instant he saw her flinch.

It was small. Barely there. But Toya saw the regret cross his face.

“Sorry,” Akito said, quieter. “I’m not mad at you.”

“I know,” Kohane said quickly.

Toya stared at the floor.

I know.

The words had been coming from everyone tonight. From Toya, from Kohane, from Akito. Each time they seemed to mean something different. Each time they seemed to fail anyway.

Akito set his microphone down too hard. The sound echoed through the room.

“I need air,” he said.

Then he left.

This time, An did not wait for the door to close before turning to Toya.

“You need to go after him.”

Toya’s head snapped up.

“I know,” An said, holding up a hand before he could speak. “I know it’s not your responsibility to manage him. But I also know he’s not going to tell us what’s wrong, and he’s clearly not leaving because he wants to be alone.”

Toya looked toward the door.

“He could be going home.”

“He’s not.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he left his coffee.”

Toya blinked.

An pointed at the can beside the speaker. “Akito doesn’t abandon coffee.”

Despite everything, Toya felt a small laugh threaten to escape.

An’s face softened when she saw it. “Go talk to him. And if he starts acting like a jerk, don’t let him get away with it just because he’s upset.”

Toya nodded slowly.

“That’s difficult,” he admitted.

“I know.” An sighed. “Believe me, I know.”

Kohane stepped closer to Toya, her hands clasped in front of her. “You don’t have to solve everything tonight,” she said.

Toya looked at her.

She smiled, small and nervous but sincere. “Sometimes, it helps just to tell someone you still want to be there.”

The words settled in Toya’s chest.

He still wanted to be there.

That was true. It was perhaps the truest thing he had managed to say all night.

“Thank you,” he said.

Kohane nodded.

Toya left the room.

He knew where Akito would be.

Not because Akito was predictable, exactly. Akito hated being called predictable. But because Toya had learned the places Akito went when the world became too loud: the vending machines, the roof, the small park two blocks from the live house, the stairs.

This time, Toya went upstairs.

The roof access door was technically locked. It had a sign that said STAFF ONLY and another sign beneath it that said DO NOT ENTER, which An had once claimed made it more interesting. The lock had been broken for as long as Toya had known the building.

Toya pushed it open.

Cool air hit his face.

The roof was mostly empty. Concrete, ventilation units, a few rusted pipes, the low city skyline in the distance. The live house sign glowed red below them, reflected faintly in the puddles left by last week’s rain.

Akito stood near the fence with his hands in his pockets.

His back was to Toya.

Toya shut the door behind him quietly.

Akito did not turn around.

“You really need to stop following me,” he said.

Toya stopped several steps away. “Do you want me to leave?”

Akito’s shoulders tensed.

“No,” he said.

The answer came too fast.

Then, as though he realized that, Akito added, “I mean, do what you want.”

Toya waited.

Akito let out a breath. “That wasn’t what I meant either.”

“I know.”

Akito gave a short, exhausted laugh. “You’re doing it again.”

“I know,” Toya said, then paused. “I mean—I understand.”

“That’s worse.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Toya.”

“I don’t know how to stop apologizing.”

Akito finally turned around.

The wind pushed his hair into his face. He looked tired. Not the usual tiredness after practice, not the irritated exhaustion that made him complain about An changing the set list or about people who stood in the middle of sidewalks.

He looked hurt.

Toya hated that he had done that.

Akito leaned back against the fence. “You don’t have to stop. I just don’t want you apologizing because you think it’ll make me calm down.”

“I’m not.”

“You kind of are.”

Toya considered this.

He was apologizing because he had hurt Akito. But he was also apologizing because Akito was angry, and Toya wanted the anger to stop. Both things were true.

“I don’t want you to be angry with me,” Toya admitted.

Akito’s expression went strangely blank.

“Yeah,” he said.

Toya frowned. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“That means something.”

“Not always.”

“With you, it does.”

Akito’s jaw tightened.

Toya waited. The wind moved around them, carrying distant traffic sounds up from the street. Somewhere below, a motorcycle accelerated too loudly and then disappeared.

Akito looked toward the city instead of at him.

“You don’t want me angry,” he said. “But you don’t want to tell me enough for me not to be angry, either.”

Toya flinched.

Akito immediately looked frustrated with himself.

“See? That’s what I’m talking about. I say one thing wrong and you look like I kicked you.”

“You didn’t say it wrong.”

“I did.”

“You said something true.”

“That doesn’t mean I should’ve said it like that.”

Toya stared at him.

Akito looked away.

It was the closest he had come to an apology without actually giving one.

Toya stepped closer, but only one step.

“I am trying to tell you,” he said. “I just don’t know what you need to hear.”

Akito laughed quietly. “That’s kind of the problem.”

“I know.”

“Toya.”

“Sorry.”

Akito put both hands over his face.

For several seconds, neither of them spoke.

Then Akito dropped his hands and looked at Toya with something like anger again, but softer around the edges. Anger mixed with fear.

“I need to know if you regret it,” he said.

Toya stopped.

“The kiss,” Akito added, though he did not need to. “I need to know if you regret kissing me.”

“No.”

Akito’s eyes searched his face.

“No,” Toya repeated. “I don’t regret it.”

“Not even a little?”

“No.”

Akito swallowed.

“Then why did you look at me like that?”

Toya’s throat closed.

Because he had seen how easily he could be happy. Because Akito’s hand on his face had made the entire world narrow into something warm and impossible. Because a part of him had wanted to lean into it, wanted to kiss Akito until there was no room left for doubt, and another part of him had recoiled in horror at the thought that he could want something so completely.

Because he had spent so long believing that freedom was a thing he had to earn by suffering for it first.

“I thought I was doing something wrong,” Toya said.

Akito’s face twisted.

“You weren’t.”

“I know you think that.”

“I don’t just think it.”

“I know.”

“Then believe me.”

Toya looked down.

The roof gravel shifted under his shoes. He focused on the sound of it, the tiny crunch when he moved his foot.

Akito was quiet.

When he spoke again, his voice was lower.

“Is it because we’re both guys?”

Toya went completely still.

The question was simple. It had always been simple. That was why he had been afraid of it.

Akito watched him carefully.

Toya wanted to lie.

Not because he wanted to deceive Akito, but because saying yes would make the thought real in a new way. It would give it edges. It would mean Akito could look at him and know exactly what was broken inside him.

His silence answered anyway.

Akito closed his eyes.

“Oh.”

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you,” Toya said immediately.

Akito’s eyes opened.

“There isn’t,” Toya continued. His voice shook despite his efforts. “There isn’t anything wrong with us. I know that. I know it when I think about someone else. I know it when I think about you, sometimes. But then I—”

He stopped.

Akito did not interrupt.

“Sometimes I think about what it means,” Toya said. “About people seeing us. About my father knowing. About how easy it would be for everyone to decide that I had disappointed them again.”

Akito’s mouth pressed into a thin line.

“And I know that’s not fair to you,” Toya said. “I know it makes it sound like I’m ashamed of you.”

“You are ashamed of it.”

Toya looked up.

Akito’s face was hard now. Not cruel. But closed.

“You just said you are.”

“I’m ashamed of myself.”

“Yeah, but it’s still about me.”

Toya’s chest hurt.

“I know.”

Akito looked away again. “There it is.”

“What?”

“You say you know, but you don’t say anything else.” Akito’s voice sharpened. “You tell me you’re scared people will see us, and what am I supposed to say? ‘Don’t worry, I’ll hide too’? ‘We’ll pretend we’re not together so you don’t have to feel gross about it’?”

“I don’t think you’re gross.”

“I didn’t say you did.”

“But you implied—”

“Forget it.”

“No.”

Akito stared at him.

Toya’s hands curled at his sides. He could feel his nails pressing into his palms.

“No,” Toya repeated. “Don’t say something cruel and then tell me to forget it.”

Akito went still.

Toya’s heart pounded so hard that he could hear it in his ears.

He had not meant to sound angry.

But perhaps he was.

“I’m trying to tell you something difficult,” Toya said. “And you’re acting like I’m saying I never wanted you.”

“I know you want me.”

“Then why are you treating me like I don’t?”

“Because I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with it!” Akito snapped.

The words rang out across the empty roof.

Both of them froze.

Akito looked away first.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” he said, quieter. “You say you want me, but you’re scared. Okay. I get scared too. But I can’t be the thing you want and the thing you’re afraid of at the same time.”

Toya’s eyes stung.

Akito’s shoulders dropped.

He looked suddenly ashamed, as though he had only just realized how loud he had been.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Toya blinked.

Akito stared at the fence.

“I shouldn’t have yelled,” he continued. “I’m not trying to make you feel worse.”

“You are hurt.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re allowed to be.”

“I know.”

The words sounded different in Akito’s voice.

Not defensive. Not sharp.

Just tired.

Toya took another step closer.

This time, Akito did not move away.

“I don’t know what I want either,” Toya said.

Akito looked at him.

“I want you,” Toya continued. “I want to hold your hand without thinking about who might see. I want to kiss you again. I want to hear you call me your partner and not have to pretend I only understand one meaning of it.”

Akito’s breath caught.

Toya could not stop now. If he stopped, he would lose the words.

“But I’m afraid,” he said. “And I hate that I’m afraid, because I don’t want you to think I’m asking you to become smaller so I can feel safer. I don’t want to hide you. I don’t want to hide from you.”

Akito’s expression wavered.

“What do you want, then?” he asked.

Toya looked at him.

“I want time.”

The answer came out quieter than he expected.

Akito’s face closed again.

Toya hurried to continue.

“Not time away from you,” he said. “I mean time to understand why this frightens me. Time to stop hearing other people’s voices whenever I try to listen to my own.”

Akito said nothing.

Toya’s stomach sank.

“I know that’s not enough,” he said.

Akito rubbed a hand over his face. “It’s not that it’s not enough.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s that I don’t know how long that is.”

Toya had no answer.

Akito laughed softly, without humor. “Yeah.”

“I don’t know either.”

“That’s terrifying.”

“I know.”

Akito looked at him.

Toya looked away. “I mean… yes. It is.”

For a moment, Akito’s mouth twitched.

It was barely a smile.

Toya held on to it anyway.

Then Akito’s expression shifted back into something guarded.

“I can give you time,” he said.

Toya’s chest loosened.

“But I can’t act like I don’t care about this,” Akito continued. “And I can’t promise I won’t get hurt if you pull away every time it gets real.”

“I don’t want you to pretend.”

“Good. Because I’m bad at pretending.”

“I know.”

Akito sighed.

Toya added quickly, “I understand.”

“That’s still annoying, but it’s better.”

Toya almost smiled.

Almost.

Akito looked at him for a long time.

Then he said, “Can I ask you something?”

“Yes.”

“If I kissed you again right now, would you pull away?”

Toya’s entire body went tense.

Akito noticed immediately.

“Forget it,” he said. “That was stupid.”

“No.”

Akito blinked.

“No,” Toya repeated. “Don’t forget it.”

“Toya, you look like you’re about to pass out.”

“I am thinking.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“I know.”

Akito made an exasperated sound, but Toya could hear the faintest trace of fondness underneath it. That made it harder, not easier.

Toya looked at Akito’s mouth.

He remembered the kiss.

He remembered how safe it had felt before his fear ruined it.

Maybe the fear had not ruined it.

Maybe it was still there, waiting to be understood.

“I don’t know,” Toya said honestly. “I might.”

Akito’s face fell.

“But I don’t want to,” Toya finished.

Akito looked at him again.

Toya’s hands were shaking. He did not try to hide it.

“I want to try,” he said.

The words hung between them.

Akito did not move.

“That’s not the same as saying yes,” he said carefully.

“No.”

“So I’m not going to.”

Toya nodded, even though disappointment made something ache behind his ribs.

Akito saw it.

“You can say yes,” he added.

Toya looked at him.

“I’m not going to guess,” Akito said. “Not tonight.”

There was something almost stubborn in the way he said it, as though he had drawn a line for himself and refused to cross it no matter how much he wanted to.

Toya understood why.

He had hurt Akito because Akito had guessed wrong. Or perhaps because Toya had not known how to answer clearly enough.

Toya took a breath.

“Yes,” he said.

Akito did not move.

Toya swallowed.

“Yes,” he repeated, more steadily. “You can kiss me.”

Akito’s eyes searched his face.

“Are you sure?”

“No,” Toya said.

Akito’s expression tightened.

“But I want to,” Toya said quickly. “I’m not sure of everything else. I’m sure of that.”

For a moment, Akito looked like he might argue.

Then he stepped closer.

Slowly.

Slowly enough that Toya could have moved away.

He stopped an arm’s length from him.

His hand lifted, then paused in the air beside Toya’s face.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” Akito said.

“I will.”

Akito hesitated.

Toya realized what Akito was waiting for.

He reached up and took Akito’s wrist.

Akito’s eyes widened.

Toya guided his hand to his cheek.

The touch was warm.

It was exactly the same as before.

And it was different because Toya was choosing it now, not only wanting it in silence.

Akito leaned closer.

Toya could feel his breath.

Then the roof access door slammed open.

“Toya?” Kohane’s voice called.

Akito jerked back so fast that his hand slipped from Toya’s face.

Kohane stepped onto the roof, followed by An.

All four of them froze.

An looked from Toya to Akito, to the distance between them that was suddenly far too obvious.

“Oh,” she said.

Kohane turned red instantly. “I’m so sorry. We were just—um—the song is ready, and we thought maybe you—”

“It’s fine,” Toya said.

His voice came out too loud.

Akito looked at the ground.

An’s face changed.

Not teasing. Not amused.

Understanding.

“We can give you more time,” she said.

“No,” Akito said quickly. “We’re coming.”

Toya looked at him.

Akito was already moving toward the door.

The warmth of his hand was gone from Toya’s cheek.

“Akito,” Toya said.

Akito paused with his back to him.

“What?”

Toya didn’t know what he could say in front of An and Kohane.

He wanted to say, I meant yes.

He wanted to say, Please don’t think I changed my mind because they came in.

He wanted to say, Don’t leave me alone with the fear again.

Instead, he said, “I’m coming too.”

Akito’s shoulders lifted with a breath.

“Yeah,” he said.

Then he opened the door for all of them and went downstairs.

The walk back downstairs was too quiet.

Kohane went first, her hands clasped in front of her as though she did not know what to do with them. An followed beside her, unusually silent. Toya came after them.

Akito walked behind Toya again.

Toya could hear each step.

There was no reason it should matter. It was only a staircase. Four people returning to practice after a break. Nothing about it looked unusual from the outside.

But Toya was aware of every inch of space between himself and Akito.

He had said yes.

He had meant it.

Then the door had opened, and Akito had stepped away from him so fast that Toya’s body had responded before his thoughts could. His heart was still beating too quickly. His cheek still felt warm where Akito’s hand had been.

Toya wanted to turn around.

He wanted to ask whether Akito was okay.

He wanted to say that he had not changed his mind.

But An and Kohane were right there.

And that was part of the problem, wasn’t it?

The fact that he was thinking about who was there. The fact that he could feel himself becoming stiff and careful because someone had almost seen them kiss. The fact that even though An and Kohane were their friends—people Toya trusted, people who had never once made him feel unsafe—the thought of being seen made something inside him twist.

He hated that.

He hated that he had said he did not want to hide Akito, then immediately felt relieved that they had not seen.

At the bottom of the stairs, Akito brushed past him.

Not hard.

Not even enough that it could definitely be called brushing past. Their shoulders touched for less than a second. But Akito’s sleeve caught on Toya’s hand, and Toya instinctively curled his fingers around the fabric.

Akito stopped.

Toya did not let go.

The hallway was dim. An and Kohane had already gone ahead into the practice room, their voices low on the other side of the open door.

Akito looked down at Toya’s hand.

Then at Toya.

“What?” he asked.

His tone was flat.

Toya’s grip loosened, but he did not fully release him. “Are you upset?”

Akito’s eyes narrowed.

“No.”

“You are.”

“Wow. Good job.”

The sarcasm was quick, automatic.

Toya flinched anyway.

Akito saw it.

His face shifted immediately, irritation giving way to regret. He looked away first.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

Toya’s hand finally fell from his sleeve.

“I didn’t mean to make you upset,” Akito said.

“You didn’t.”

“Then why do you look like that?”

Toya almost said because you are upset, but he knew where that would lead. Akito would deny it. Toya would insist. Akito would become sharper. Toya would apologize for asking. Neither of them would say what they actually meant.

Instead, Toya looked at the floor.

“I thought you were angry because Kohane and An came upstairs,” he said.

Akito was quiet.

Toya waited.

“I’m not angry at them,” Akito said.

“That isn’t what I asked.”

Akito looked at him.

For a moment, Toya thought he might say something mean again. The expression crossed his face—the tense mouth, the defensive eyes, the words gathering behind his teeth.

Then Akito looked away.

“I don’t know,” he said.

It was so soft that Toya almost didn’t hear it.

Toya’s chest hurt.

Akito shoved his hands into his pockets. “I’m not angry that they interrupted. It’s not their fault.”

“But?”

“But it was…” He stopped. “You were scared again.”

“I wasn’t scared of you.”

“I know.”

“You said that like you don’t believe me.”

Akito’s mouth twisted.

“I believe you,” he said. “I just don’t know if that changes anything.”

Toya frowned.

Akito looked toward the practice room. “You said yes. You were letting me touch you. And then they came in, and you looked like you got caught doing something bad.”

Toya opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

Akito laughed quietly, but there was no amusement in it. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

“That is not what I meant.”

“I know it’s not what you meant.” Akito’s voice stayed low, but the sharpness returned. “You keep telling me what you mean, Toya. I’m telling you what it feels like.”

Toya stood very still.

Akito’s eyes flicked to his face.

“I’m not trying to guilt you,” he said quickly. “I’m just—”

“You’re hurt.”

“Yeah.”

“I know.”

Akito sighed. “You’re really going to make me hate that phrase, huh?”

Toya’s mouth twitched despite himself.

Akito saw it. For one second, he almost smiled.

Then the moment passed.

Toya looked at him carefully. “I didn’t feel relieved because they interrupted.”

Akito’s expression did not change.

“I felt relieved they did not see,” Toya continued. “Those are different things.”

“They don’t feel that different to me.”

“I understand.”

“Toya.”

“I mean it this time.”

Akito pressed his lips together.

Toya took a breath. The practice room seemed very far away despite being only a few steps down the hall.

“I wanted you to kiss me,” he said quietly. “When they came in, I still wanted you to. I wanted you to stay.”

Akito looked at him.

“But I was afraid they would know,” Toya said. “And I hated that I was afraid. I was angry at myself, not relieved to get away from you.”

Akito’s gaze dropped to the floor.

“Those things can both be true,” he said.

“Yes.”

“And it can still hurt me.”

“Yes.”

Toya felt his throat tighten again.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Akito shut his eyes. “I know you are.”

“I don’t want you to think you have to hide because I’m scared.”

“I don’t.”

“But you moved away.”

“Because they came in.” Akito looked up. “What was I supposed to do? Keep touching you while you looked like that?”

Toya had no answer.

Akito nodded once, as though that was answer enough.

Then he stepped past Toya and into the practice room.

Toya stayed in the hallway.

For three seconds.

Then four.

He could hear An ask Akito something. He could hear Akito answer, too quickly, “Nothing.”

Toya knew the word.

He knew how much could be hidden inside it.

He went in.

An was sitting on the floor beside the speaker. Kohane stood near the mirror, holding both microphones while she waited for Toya to take one. Akito had gone back to his place.

Everyone was pretending.

Toya took his microphone from Kohane.

“Thanks,” he said.

“You’re welcome,” she said.

Her smile was kind. It made Toya feel worse.

“Are you okay?” she asked very quietly.

Toya glanced at Akito.

Akito was looking at the speaker.

“I don’t know,” Toya said.

Kohane’s expression softened.

Before she could answer, Akito cleared his throat.

“Can we start?”

An looked between them.

Then she reached for the track player.

“Yeah,” she said. “Let’s start.”

The music came on.

Toya sang.

He tried to let the rhythm carry him. He tried to focus on the words, the breath marks, the timing of his movement. He tried to be useful. He tried to be someone Akito could rely on.

But every time the choreography brought him near Akito, Toya became too aware of him.

The brush of their sleeves.

The shared turn during the second verse.

The place in the chorus where Akito usually glanced at him—not because it was necessary, but because he always did.

This time, Akito didn’t.

Toya missed it so much that he nearly missed another entrance.

He caught himself at the last second.

The song continued.

An’s voice moved around theirs with effortless confidence. Kohane’s steadiness anchored the harmonies. Toya knew objectively that their group sounded good. He could hear the balance. He could hear the places they had improved since their last performance.

But he could also hear the hole where Akito’s attention usually was.

Akito was singing beside him.

Akito was matching his timing.

Akito was doing everything right.

He just wasn’t looking at him.

By the final chorus, Toya could barely breathe.

The track ended.

Akito immediately stepped away.

“I need water,” he said.

Toya watched him leave.

This time, An did not stop him.

Neither did Kohane.

For a few seconds, the three of them stood in silence.

Then An turned off the speaker.

“Toya,” she said.

He looked at her.

“You two are seriously going to implode if you keep trying to communicate through song lyrics and eye contact.”

Toya considered this.

“That may be true,” he said.

An stared at him. “That’s all you have to say?”

“I don’t know what else there is.”

Kohane looked down at the microphones in her hands. “Maybe you should take a break from practice.”

“We have a set.”

“We have time,” An said. “And right now, practicing isn’t doing anyone any good.”

Toya wanted to argue.

He could already hear Akito’s voice: We don’t get better by taking breaks every time something feels bad. Akito would say it with that frustrated, practical tone that meant he was trying to outrun a feeling by working harder.

Toya understood the impulse.

He had been doing the same thing.

“No,” he said. “We should finish.”

An’s eyes narrowed.

“Not because I want to avoid talking to him,” Toya added quickly. “I think… I think I need something normal.”

Kohane looked at him.

Toya tried to explain.

“When I don’t know what to do, I want everything else to stay the same,” he said. “I know that isn’t always good. But right now, I think if we stop, I’ll only think about it more.”

An’s expression softened.

“Okay,” she said. “But if you start looking like you’re about to faint, I’m calling it.”

“I won’t faint.”

“That’s not a promise.”

“It is unlikely.”

“Toya.”

He looked at her.

An sighed. “Fine. Keep practicing. But drink water.”

He nodded.

Kohane passed him a bottle from the bag by the wall.

“Thank you,” he said.

She smiled again.

Toya took a sip even though he wasn’t thirsty.

A minute later, Akito came back.

He had washed his face. Toya could tell because a strand of his hair was damp against his forehead. His expression was composed again.

Too composed.

Akito picked up his microphone.

“Ready?” he asked.

An looked at Toya.

Toya looked at Akito.

“Yes,” he said.

Akito nodded.

The next song started.

This one was faster.

There was less room to think.

At first, Toya was grateful for it.

The beat demanded his attention. The choreography forced him to move. He had to breathe at the correct times, meet the notes, turn on the count. There was no room for the roof, or the stairwell, or Akito’s hand against his cheek.

Then the bridge came.

It was the part of the song where Toya and Akito faced each other.

It had always been simple. They sang alternating lines, then joined together on the last phrase. There was no touching. No dramatic gesture. Just eye contact, timed to the beat.

Akito looked at him.

Toya looked back.

The words caught in Toya’s throat.

Akito’s expression was unreadable.

Not angry.

Not soft.

Just guarded.

Toya sang his line anyway.

Akito answered.

Their voices crossed, met, and rose together.

For a few seconds, it felt like being back on the roof.

Not the interruption. Not the fear.

The moment just before it.

Akito’s hand hovering by his face. Akito waiting. Toya saying yes.

Toya forgot the next step.

His foot landed wrong.

He stumbled.

It was barely a stumble. Anyone else might not have noticed. But Akito reacted instantly.

His hand shot out and caught Toya’s elbow.

The music kept going.

Toya froze.

Akito’s fingers tightened.

Then, as though he had remembered everything at once, Akito let go.

Too fast.

Toya’s arm felt cold.

They finished the song.

An stopped the track before the final echo had faded.

“Okay,” she said. “Break.”

Akito frowned. “We don’t need—”

“Break,” An repeated.

Kohane was already moving toward Toya. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” Toya said. “I’m fine.”

Akito turned away.

Toya watched him walk toward the door again.

Something inside him snapped—not loudly, not dramatically, but with the sudden certainty of a string pulled too tight for too long.

“Akito,” Toya said.

Akito stopped.

Everyone else went quiet.

“I need to talk to you,” Toya said.

Akito didn’t turn around. “We’ve been talking all night.”

“No,” Toya said. “We’ve been almost talking.”

Akito’s shoulders went stiff.

An looked at Kohane. Kohane looked at An.

Toya could tell they were deciding whether to leave.

“We’ll get drinks,” An said brightly.

“We just drank water,” Kohane said.

“More water. Hydration is important.”

“Oh. Yes. Okay.”

They left before either Toya or Akito could object.

The door clicked shut.

Akito stayed facing it.

Toya stood near the mirror, his microphone still in his hand.

The room was suddenly too quiet.

“I’m sorry I stumbled,” Toya said.

Akito did not move. “You don’t have to apologize for that.”

“I know.”

Akito gave a short, unhappy laugh.

Toya looked down at the microphone.

“I’m not talking about the song,” he said.

Akito turned around slowly.

Toya’s heart was beating too fast.

“I’m sorry that I keep making you guess,” he said. “I’m sorry that I keep expecting you to understand what I can’t say.”

Akito’s expression shifted, but he stayed silent.

“I don’t want you to stop touching me,” Toya continued. “I don’t want you to stop looking at me. When you pulled your hand away just now, I…” He stopped, trying to find the right word. “I missed it.”

Akito’s eyes widened slightly.

Toya forced himself to keep looking at him.

“I know I made you think I didn’t want it,” he said. “But I did. I do.”

Akito’s mouth tightened.

“You can’t just say that when I’m already trying not to touch you,” he said.

Toya blinked. “Why?”

“Because it makes me want to.”

The answer was immediate.

Then Akito looked away as though he regretted saying it.

Toya felt heat rise to his face.

“That is not a bad thing,” he said quietly.

Akito laughed once. “You sure about that?”

“Yes.”

Akito’s gaze flicked back to him.

Toya swallowed.

“I’m scared,” he said. “But I don’t want my fear to decide everything for us.”

Something in Akito’s expression broke open.

Only a little.

“What are you saying?” he asked.

Toya’s fingers tightened around the microphone.

“I am saying…” He took a breath. “I am saying that if you want to hold my hand, you can ask. If you want to kiss me, you can ask. I might need time to answer. But I don’t want you to assume the answer is no because I look afraid.”

Akito stared at him.

“And if I say no?” he asked.

Toya’s chest tightened.

“Then I need you to listen,” he said.

“I would.”

“I know.”

Akito’s mouth opened.

Toya added, “I understand.”

For a second, Akito looked like he might laugh.

Instead, his face softened.

“Okay,” he said.

Toya waited.

Akito took one step toward him.

Then another.

He stopped close enough that Toya could see the faint crease between his eyebrows.

“Can I hold your hand?” Akito asked.

It was such a small question.

Toya’s throat hurt.

“Yes,” he said.

Akito looked at him for another second, checking.

Then he reached out.

His fingers brushed Toya’s first, hesitant in a way Toya had almost never seen from him. Akito was usually decisive when he performed. He reached for notes without fear. He moved first when the group was stuck. He said what he thought, sometimes too quickly.

Now, he was waiting for Toya.

Toya turned his hand over.

Their fingers laced together.

The contact was simple.

It was also overwhelming.

Akito’s hand was warmer than Toya expected. His palm was callused in places from practice. His thumb rested against the side of Toya’s hand, unmoving at first.

Toya looked down at their hands.

He felt the old fear rise immediately.

Not because it was wrong.

Because it felt right.

Akito must have felt him tense.

His fingers began to loosen.

Toya tightened his grip.

Akito looked at him.

“I’m still here,” Toya said.

Akito’s expression changed.

Then he squeezed Toya’s hand once.

“Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”

The practice room door opened.

An stuck her head in.

She saw their joined hands.

Toya’s body tensed before he could stop it.

Akito felt it.

His fingers loosened.

Toya hated himself for it.

But before Akito could pull away completely, Toya moved.

He shifted closer.

Not much. Only enough that their shoulders touched.

Then he kept holding Akito’s hand.

An’s eyes widened.

Kohane appeared behind her.

For one long, terrible second, no one spoke.

Then An smiled.

Not teasing.

Not surprised.

Just warm.

“We found the drinks,” she said, lifting the bag in her hand.

Kohane smiled too, shy and bright. “We brought some for you.”

Toya’s face burned.

He waited for Akito to let go.

Akito didn’t.

His grip remained careful, but firm.

Toya looked down at their hands once more.

The fear was still there.

But so was Akito.

An stepped fully into the room as if nothing had happened.

That was probably deliberate.

She set the bag of drinks on the floor near the speaker and began taking bottles out one by one. “Kohane picked these, so if anyone doesn’t like theirs, complain to her.”

“I did not pick all of them,” Kohane said, flustered. “You picked the sparkling ones.”

“Because they were on sale.”

“That’s not a reason.”

“It’s a very good reason.”

Akito made a quiet sound that might have been a laugh.

Toya felt it more than he heard it.

Their hands were still linked.

He had expected the sight of An and Kohane to make the fear worse. It did, at first. His pulse had jumped so sharply that he thought Akito might feel it through their palms. But neither of them stared. Neither of them asked a question Toya did not know how to answer.

They simply put the drinks down.

They simply stayed.

The ordinary shape of it was almost unbearable.

An handed Toya a bottle of water. “Here.”

Toya reached for it with his free hand.

He nearly dropped it.

Akito’s thumb moved against the side of his hand.

Not a squeeze. Not anything that demanded attention.

Just a small movement.

Toya looked at him.

Akito was staring at the drink in An’s hand as if he had not done anything at all.

“You’re terrible at multitasking,” Akito said.

Toya blinked. “I can hold a bottle.”

“Then do it.”

“I am.”

“You almost dropped it.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

An’s mouth twitched.

Kohane pressed both hands around her own drink, smiling quietly.

Toya looked down at the bottle.

The label was bright blue. Lemon water. He liked lemon water. He did not remember telling Kohane that, though perhaps she had seen him buy it before.

“Thank you,” Toya said.

“You’re welcome,” Kohane replied.

Her eyes moved to their hands for the briefest moment, then back to Toya’s face.

“You don’t have to say anything,” she added softly.

Toya’s grip on Akito’s hand tightened before he meant it to.

Kohane’s expression did not change.

“You don’t have to explain,” she said. “I mean.”

Toya looked at her.

The words were simple. So simple that he almost did not know what to do with them.

He had spent so much time preparing explanations in his mind. The correct answer if someone asked what he and Akito were. The right words to make it clear that nothing had changed about their music, that they were still serious, that they were not making things complicated, that Toya was not—

He stopped.

He did not have to explain.

Not right now.

Maybe not ever, unless he wanted to.

“Okay,” he said.

Kohane smiled.

Akito’s hand shifted in Toya’s again.

This time, Toya knew it was a squeeze.

“Can we practice now?” Akito asked.

An looked between the two of them.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

Toya turned to Akito.

Akito’s expression immediately became wary. “What?”

“You don’t have to pretend you’re fine to practice.”

“I’m not pretending.”

“You are a little.”

Akito frowned.

Toya continued before he could stop himself. “But I want to practice too.”

Akito’s frown eased.

“Okay,” he said.

An started the music.

Toya did not let go of Akito’s hand immediately.

For a second, no one said anything. The opening beat played from the speakers, bright and familiar. An and Kohane were already in position. Akito stood beside Toya, still holding his hand.

Then Akito glanced down.

“We should probably—”

“Yes,” Toya said, though he did not move.

Akito waited.

Toya’s fingers stayed linked with his.

It was difficult to release him.

The thought surprised Toya.

He had expected holding Akito’s hand to feel impossible. He had expected the fear to grow until he had to pull away. But the longer he held on, the more his body seemed to understand that nothing terrible was happening. The room had not changed. No one had shouted. No one had looked disgusted or disappointed.

There was only Akito’s hand.

There was only the music.

“There’s a song playing,” An said loudly.

Toya blinked.

Akito’s ears were red.

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered.

He released Toya’s hand first, carefully. Not yanking away. Not making it seem like he regretted it. His fingers slid from Toya’s one by one, a quiet question answered by Toya letting him go.

The loss of warmth was immediate.

Toya almost reached for him again.

Instead, he lifted his microphone.

The song began.

This time, when they reached the bridge, Akito looked at him.

Toya looked back.

The fear was still there. It had not vanished simply because he had held Akito’s hand in front of An and Kohane. His chest was still tight. His thoughts still tried to run ahead: What if they tell someone? What if people notice? What if this becomes something everyone can see?

But there was another thought now.

They saw, and nothing happened.

Toya sang his line.

Akito answered.

Their voices met.

At the end of the phrase, Akito smiled.

Only a little.

It was enough.

By the time the track ended, Toya felt unsteady in a different way. Tired, perhaps. Or relieved. The kind of relief that made his limbs feel too light.

An clapped once. “There. That was the version.”

Kohane nodded enthusiastically. “It sounded really good.”

Akito looked at Toya.

“You okay?” he asked.

The question was quiet. For Toya alone.

Toya nodded. “I think so.”

Akito studied him.

Toya added, “I would tell you if I wasn’t.”

Something in Akito’s face softened.

“Okay,” he said.

They practiced for another hour.

Not perfectly.

Akito still got impatient when An suggested changing the order of two lines. An told him he was being annoying. Akito told her she had no taste. Kohane tried to mediate until both of them laughed, and then she looked relieved enough that Toya had to look away for a second.

Toya made two mistakes in the choreography.

The first time, Akito corrected him with a quiet, “Left foot first,” and Toya nodded.

The second time, Akito said, “You’re thinking too hard.”

Toya had looked at him.

Akito had immediately looked away and muttered, “Not that that’s new.”

Toya had almost smiled.

Almost.

The moment was still fragile. He could feel it. It was like holding a glass cup with both hands—not because it would definitely break, but because he was suddenly aware that it could.

When practice finally ended, An checked the time and groaned.

“It’s late.”

Kohane looked at her phone. “It is pretty late.”

“We should go,” An said. “We have school tomorrow.”

Akito started packing up cables.

Toya bent to help him.

Their hands reached for the same cable.

They both stopped.

Akito looked at Toya’s hand.

Then at Toya.

“Sorry,” he said.

“You don’t have to apologize.”

“I know.”

Toya watched him.

Akito’s mouth twitched.

“Don’t,” he said.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking it.”

“I was.”

Akito shook his head, but Toya saw the faint smile that stayed on his face as he gathered the cable.

Toya picked up the other end.

They worked quietly beside each other.

Across the room, An was putting away the extra microphones. Kohane was collecting empty bottles and wrappers. The ordinary sounds of cleanup filled the space: plastic caps twisting, cables winding, cases clicking shut.

Toya liked cleanup.

There was a correct way to do it. Equipment had places. Tasks could be completed. When everything was packed away, the room looked the same as it had before they entered.

Tonight, however, nothing felt the same.

Toya glanced toward Akito.

Akito was focused on coiling a wire around his hand.

There was a faint crease between his brows.

Toya knew that expression.

He was thinking.

“Are you still upset?” Toya asked quietly.

Akito’s hands paused.

“You’re not going to let that go, huh?”

“No.”

Akito looked at the cable.

“I’m not upset like before,” he said.

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’m…” He exhaled. “I’m still hurt. But I’m not mad at you for it.”

Toya swallowed.

“That makes sense,” he said.

Akito looked at him.

“You don’t have to look guilty,” he added.

“I hurt you.”

“Yeah. And I said something cruel to you.”

Toya shook his head. “You were honest.”

“I was mean.”

“You were hurt.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

Toya went quiet.

Akito set the cable down.

For a second, Toya thought he might walk away. Instead, Akito lowered his voice.

“I don’t want to get mean every time I’m scared you don’t want me,” he said.

Toya looked at him.

The confession seemed to cost Akito something. His shoulders were tense. His eyes stayed on the floor between them.

“I know I do that,” Akito continued. “I know I start acting like I don’t care, or like you’re the one being ridiculous, because it’s easier than saying I’m hurt.”

Toya’s chest tightened.

“I noticed,” he said.

“Yeah. I figured.”

“But I don’t think you don’t care.”

Akito looked up.

“I think you care very much,” Toya said. “Sometimes you care so much that it frightens you.”

Akito stared at him.

The room around them continued moving. An said something to Kohane. A case snapped shut. The live house staff member passed the open doorway without looking in.

But Toya could only see Akito.

“You’re one to talk,” Akito said quietly.

“Yes,” Toya replied.

Akito let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh.

Then his expression turned serious again.

“I don’t want you to think you have to deal with that,” he said. “With me acting like that.”

“I don’t want you to deal with me being scared, either.”

“That’s different.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re not trying to hurt me.”

Toya considered that.

“Neither are you,” he said.

Akito’s mouth tightened.

“I’m not always successful,” he said.

“No,” Toya agreed.

Akito blinked.

Toya felt his face grow warm. “I mean—”

“No, it’s okay.” Akito looked almost surprised. “You’re right.”

“I don’t want to make you feel bad.”

“You don’t.” Akito paused. “Well. You do, sometimes.”

Toya nodded.

“But I’d rather you tell me when I’m being awful than stand there and act like it’s fine.”

“I can try.”

“Try harder.”

Toya looked at him.

Akito’s mouth twitched again.

“That was a joke,” he said.

“I know.”

“Toya.”

“I understand.”

“Still annoying.”

Toya smiled.

This time, he did not stop himself.

Akito stared at him.

The smile faded from Toya’s face almost immediately. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“That means something.”

Akito sighed. “You smiled.”

“I do that sometimes.”

“Not enough.”

Toya did not know what to say to that.

Akito looked away before he could answer anyway.

An walked over with her bag slung over one shoulder. “We’re done. Are you two coming?”

“Yes,” Akito said.

Toya nodded.

They left the practice room together.

Outside, the night air was colder than before.

The streetlights reflected on the wet pavement. Cars passed in slow lines of red and white. The city sounded softer now that the live house door had shut behind them.

Kohane and An stood near the corner, deciding which way to go.

“I’ll walk Kohane to the station,” An said.

“You don’t have to,” Kohane protested.

“I know. I want to.”

Kohane smiled.

An glanced at Toya and Akito.

“See you tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Toya said.

Akito nodded.

Kohane hesitated.

Then she stepped toward Toya and held out something small.

Toya looked down.

It was a packet of lemon candy.

“I remembered you like citrus things,” Kohane said, blushing. “You seemed a little overwhelmed, so I thought it might help.”

Toya accepted it carefully.

“Thank you,” he said.

Kohane smiled, then looked at Akito.

“Goodnight, Akito.”

“Yeah. Night.”

An waved. “Don’t stay out too late.”

Akito frowned. “You’re one to talk.”

“I’m not the one having a dramatic rooftop crisis.”

Akito’s face went red. “An.”

“What? I didn’t say anything specific.”

Toya’s body tensed.

Akito noticed.

Before Toya could say anything, An’s expression softened.

“Sorry,” she said. “I was joking.”

“I know,” Toya replied.

An studied him for a second, then nodded.

“Goodnight, Toya.”

“Goodnight.”

She and Kohane headed toward the station.

Toya watched them go until they turned the corner.

Then it was just him and Akito.

The silence returned.

It was different now.

Not easy.

But not empty, either.

Akito shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. “So.”

“So,” Toya echoed.

“We’re going the same way for a while.”

“Yes.”

“We should probably walk.”

“Yes.”

Akito looked at him. “You know you can say more than one word.”

“I don’t always know what to say.”

“I know.”

Toya waited.

Akito frowned at himself. “I understand.”

Toya smiled before he could stop himself.

Akito stared at him. “Don’t make fun of me.”

“I’m not.”

“You are a little.”

“Maybe.”

Akito huffed.

They started walking.

For the first block, they kept a careful distance between themselves. Not far apart. Just enough that their sleeves did not touch.

Toya noticed it immediately.

He wondered whether Akito was waiting for him to decide what was okay.

The thought made warmth bloom in his chest, tangled tightly with fear.

At the next intersection, the pedestrian light turned red.

They stopped.

Cars passed in front of them, headlights sweeping across the crosswalk.

Toya looked at Akito’s hand in his pocket.

He thought about the practice room.

He thought about Akito asking.

He thought about saying yes.

His fingers curled around the packet of lemon candy.

Then he moved.

Not much.

He stepped closer until his sleeve brushed Akito’s.

Akito went still.

Toya looked straight ahead.

The light changed.

They began crossing.

Halfway across the street, Toya felt Akito’s hand bump gently against his.

Once.

A question.

Toya turned his palm outward.

Akito laced their fingers together.

Neither of them said anything.

They kept walking.

They made it to the next block before Toya realized he had stopped breathing normally.

Akito’s hand was warm in his.

That was all.

Their fingers were linked. Their sleeves brushed every few steps. Cars moved past on the street beside them, and the city carried on around them with complete indifference.

Nothing was happening.

Everything was happening.

Toya kept his eyes on the sidewalk.

There were dark patches where rainwater had collected in the cracks. A crushed bottle cap near the curb. A discarded receipt lifting and settling with the wind. If he focused on those things, perhaps he could keep his mind from circling the fact that Akito was holding his hand in public.

Not really public, Toya reminded himself.

It was late. The sidewalk was almost empty. An older man walked a dog on the opposite side of the street. A couple stood outside a restaurant, laughing quietly beneath the awning. No one was looking at them.

Still, Toya’s hand felt too visible.

He tried not to tighten his grip.

Akito noticed anyway.

“You okay?” he asked.

Toya nodded.

Akito was quiet for a few more steps.

“You don’t have to keep holding my hand.”

Toya looked at him.

Akito’s gaze stayed forward. “I mean it. I’m not going to get mad if you let go.”

“I know.”

Akito’s mouth pressed into a line.

Toya quickly corrected himself. “I understand.”

“That’s not much better.”

“I’m sorry.”

Akito made a frustrated noise under his breath.

Toya’s chest tightened.

Akito’s fingers started to pull away.

Not all at once. He did it carefully, like he was giving Toya time to decide. His hand loosened around Toya’s, their palms separating by degrees.

Toya panicked.

He caught Akito’s hand again.

Akito stopped.

Toya stared at their hands.

“I don’t want to let go,” he said.

Akito’s face changed.

The guard he had been carrying since the roof flickered. For an instant, Toya saw the softness beneath it—the part of Akito that wanted to believe him so badly it frightened him.

Then Akito looked away.

“You don’t have to say that because you think I want to hear it,” he said.

Toya froze.

“I don’t,” Akito added quickly. “I mean, I do want to hear it. Obviously. But I don’t want you saying it if you’re only doing it because you feel bad.”

“I’m not.”

“Are you sure?”

The question was too quiet.

Toya looked at Akito.

Akito looked tired again. The kind of tired that had nothing to do with practice. His brows were drawn together, and he kept watching the street instead of meeting Toya’s eyes.

Toya understood suddenly.

Akito had been hurt enough tonight that every good thing Toya said now sounded suspect to him. As if Toya might be trying to repair the damage with words he did not fully mean.

That was unfair.

It was also understandable.

“I am sure,” Toya said.

Akito did not answer.

Toya swallowed.

“I know I make it difficult to believe me.”

Akito glanced at him.

“That doesn’t mean you should stop believing me,” Toya continued. “Please.”

Akito’s expression tightened.

“You can’t just ask me to do that,” he said.

Toya’s stomach dropped.

“I’m trying,” Akito added, sharper now. “I am. But you pulled away from me, told me you thought wanting me was wrong, and then ten minutes later you’re holding my hand on the sidewalk. I don’t know what I’m supposed to trust.”

Toya went still.

The crosswalk light began flashing ahead of them. They had to cross soon or wait for the next one. Akito kept walking, so Toya did too.

They crossed in silence.

Their hands were still linked.

Toya wanted to let go now, not because he wanted distance from Akito, but because the tension in Akito’s fingers had become painful. He could feel him holding back. He could feel the question in every step.

But if Toya let go, Akito would think—

He would think whatever he thinks, Toya told himself. You cannot control every thought he has.

The idea made him feel sick.

They reached the other side.

Akito stopped beneath the awning of a closed bookstore.

Toya stopped with him.

The streetlight above them buzzed faintly. Its reflection stretched across the wet pavement like a broken gold line.

Akito let go of Toya’s hand.

This time, he did not do it slowly.

He pulled away and shoved both hands into his pockets.

Toya stared at the empty space between them.

“Akito,” he said.

“What?”

“You’re angry again.”

“Yeah.”

The answer was immediate.

Toya blinked.

Akito’s jaw tightened. “You wanted honesty.”

“I did.”

“Then don’t look so surprised when I give it to you.”

“I’m not surprised you’re angry,” Toya said carefully. “I’m surprised you said it.”

Akito gave a humorless laugh. “Congratulations. I’m growing.”

Toya did not know whether that was a joke.

Akito looked toward the road. “I don’t want to keep doing this.”

“Doing what?”

“This.” He gestured between them, frustrated. “Trying to guess whether you actually want me near you.”

“I do.”

“Then why does it feel like you’re forcing yourself every time?”

Toya’s breath caught.

“I’m not forcing myself.”

“You look terrified.”

“I am terrified.”

Akito turned to him.

Toya’s hands curled at his sides.

“I’m terrified because I want it,” he said. “I’m terrified because I don’t want to let go. I’m terrified because it feels good, and I don’t know how to make the fear stop. But I’m not forcing myself.”

Akito stared at him.

Toya could feel his face growing hot, but he made himself continue.

“I held your hand because I wanted to,” he said. “Not because I felt guilty. Not because An and Kohane saw us. Not because I thought you would be upset if I didn’t.”

Akito’s eyes narrowed slightly.

Toya recognized that look.

“You don’t believe me,” he said.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You don’t have to.”

Akito looked away.

For a few seconds, Toya was angry.

Not at Akito for being hurt. Not even at him for doubting. Toya had given him reasons to doubt. But there was something unbearable about finally saying what he meant plainly and watching Akito turn away as though Toya’s words could not be trusted.

Toya’s voice came out quieter than he expected.

“What do you want me to do?”

Akito looked back at him.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Do you want me to stop holding your hand?”

“No.”

“Do you want me to stop asking you to kiss me?”

“No.”

“Do you want me to leave?”

Akito’s expression sharpened. “Why would you ask that?”

“Because you keep acting like you want me gone.”

“I don’t.”

“You do when you’re hurt.”

Akito flinched.

Toya’s heart pounded harder.

He had not intended to say it. The sentence had simply left him.

Akito’s face closed off.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

“I do.”

“No, you don’t.”

“You pull away from people before they can pull away from you.”

Akito’s eyes went cold.

“Toya.”

“You get mean when you think someone is going to leave. You act like you don’t care so you don’t have to ask them to stay.”

“Stop.”

Toya stopped.

Not because of the word itself. Because of the way Akito said it.

His voice was low. Controlled. More controlled than it had been all night.

Toya could see the moment Akito regretted it, but the regret did not undo the effect.

The city noise seemed suddenly louder.

A car splashed through a shallow puddle at the curb. Somewhere across the street, a restaurant door opened and a burst of laughter spilled out, then disappeared again.

Toya looked down.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Akito’s expression twisted.

“Don’t,” he said.

“I crossed a line.”

“You did.”

Toya nodded.

He waited for Akito to tell him to go.

Akito did not.

Instead, he looked miserable.

“I don’t want you to be scared of me,” he said.

Toya looked up.

Akito’s hands were still in his pockets. His shoulders had gone tense, drawn up near his ears.

“I know I’m acting like an asshole,” he said. “I know I’m snapping at you because I’m upset. But I don’t want you standing there apologizing like I’m your dad.”

The words hit Toya so hard he forgot how to breathe.

Akito’s eyes widened.

For the first time that night, Akito looked truly horrified by something he had said.

“Toya,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean—”

“No.” Toya’s voice was almost a whisper. “You’re right.”

Akito shook his head. “No, I’m not. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“But you’re right.”

“I’m not.”

“I am apologizing because I’m afraid you’ll be angry.”

Akito’s face went pale.

Toya stared at the sidewalk.

“And I hate that,” he said. “I hate that I keep doing it. I don’t want to be afraid of you.”

Akito took a step toward him.

Toya stepped back.

It was only one step.

It was enough.

Akito stopped completely.

The expression on his face made Toya wish he could undo it. Akito’s hurt did not turn sharp this time. It went quiet. His mouth opened slightly, then closed.

Toya’s stomach twisted.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted out.

Akito flinched.

Toya pressed a hand over his mouth.

For a moment, neither of them knew what to do.

Then Akito looked away.

“Maybe we should just go home,” he said.

Toya’s chest tightened so suddenly it hurt.

“Do you want me to leave?”

“I said we should go home.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

Akito’s jaw clenched.

Toya waited.

“I don’t know what I want right now,” Akito said.

The honesty of it hurt more than anger would have.

Toya nodded.

“Okay.”

Akito stared at him.

Toya turned toward the street.

He had taken two steps before Akito said his name.

“Toya.”

He stopped.

Akito did not come closer.

“I didn’t mean I want you to leave,” he said.

Toya kept his back to him.

“I know,” he said.

Akito made a strained sound. “You don’t.”

Toya closed his eyes.

The wind moved coldly through his hair. He could feel the lemon-candy packet in his jacket pocket, crinkled against his hip.

“I don’t know what you mean anymore,” he admitted.

The silence that followed felt enormous.

When Akito finally spoke, his voice was lower.

“I mean I don’t want you to leave. I also don’t know how to be around you right now without feeling like I’m going to make you upset.”

Toya turned back.

Akito was looking at him now.

His eyes were bright. Not crying. Akito did not cry easily, at least not where anyone could see. But there was something raw there.

“And I hate that,” Akito said. “Because I was happy. Before all of this, I was happy. I kissed you and you kissed me back, and I thought—”

He stopped.

Toya waited.

Akito laughed once, weakly.

“I thought maybe you liked me as much as I like you,” he said.

Toya’s throat hurt.

“I do.”

Akito shook his head. “I know you do. That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?”

“The point is that I don’t know if liking me hurts you more than it makes you happy.”

Toya stared at him.

The sentence reached into him and found the exact place he had been trying not to look at.

Because he did not know.

The happiness had been immediate. So had the fear.

He wanted Akito’s hand. He wanted his mouth. He wanted the familiar comfort of standing beside him, the way their voices met in music, the way Akito could make him laugh when he thought he had forgotten how.

And he was afraid.

Afraid of being seen. Afraid of disappointing his father. Afraid that there was something in him that would always recoil from happiness because he had been taught that wanting things was selfish, weak, shameful.

He did not know which feeling was larger.

He did not know whether it was fair to ask Akito to wait while he found out.

Toya looked down.

Akito saw the answer in his silence.

“Yeah,” he said quietly.

“Akito—”

“It’s fine.”

“It is not.”

“I said it’s fine.”

“You don’t mean that.”

Akito’s mouth twisted. “You’re right. I don’t.”

Toya stared at him.

Akito looked exhausted.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I know I’m making this about me.”

“You’re allowed to feel things about it.”

“Not like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m somehow competing with your fear.” Akito looked toward the street. “I know it’s not my fault. I know it’s not your fault. But it still feels like you’re choosing between being with me and being okay.”

Toya’s eyes stung.

“That isn’t true.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No.” Toya’s voice cracked. “I think being with you is part of being okay.”

Akito went still.

Toya had not meant to say it that way.

But once the sentence existed between them, it felt true.

Not completely. Not enough to erase the fear. But true.

Akito looked at him as though he had forgotten how to breathe.

Toya’s hands shook at his sides.

“You make me happy,” he said. “You make me feel like I can choose things. Like I can be more than what people expected me to be.”

Akito’s expression broke open again.

Toya swallowed.

“And that scares me,” he said. “Because if I let myself have that, then I have something I could lose.”

Akito looked down.

For a moment, he said nothing.

Then he took one step forward.

Toya did not move away.

Akito stopped an arm’s length from him.

“I don’t want you to have to earn being happy,” Akito said.

Toya’s chest hurt.

“You don’t have to prove you deserve it,” Akito continued. “You don’t have to be perfect at this. You don’t have to know exactly what you’re doing.”

Toya blinked hard.

Akito’s voice shook slightly.

“But you have to tell me when you’re scared instead of disappearing on me.”

“I will try.”

Akito’s mouth tightened.

Toya corrected himself. “I will tell you.”

“Even if it’s ugly?”

“Yes.”

“Even if you think I’ll be mad?”

Toya hesitated.

Akito saw it.

“See?” he said, but there was no anger in it now. Only sadness.

“I’m afraid you will be,” Toya admitted.

Akito nodded slowly.

“I probably will be sometimes,” he said. “But I don’t want you to be afraid of me.”

Toya looked at him.

“I don’t want you to feel like you need permission to have feelings,” Akito said. “Especially not from me.”

The wind picked up, making the bookstore awning creak overhead.

Toya’s hands were still shaking.

Akito looked down at them.

“Can I?” he asked.

Toya knew what he meant.

“Yes,” he said.

Akito reached for his hand.

This time, he did not lace their fingers together.

He only held Toya’s hand between both of his, warm palms enclosing it. His thumbs pressed gently over Toya’s knuckles.

Toya’s breath shook.

Akito did not pull away.

“You’re shaking,” he said.

“I know.”

“You don’t have to stop.”

Toya looked at him.

Akito’s eyes were serious.

“I mean it,” he said. “You can be scared. Just don’t lie to me and say you aren’t.”

Toya nodded.

“I’m scared,” he said.

Akito’s thumbs paused.

Toya took a breath.

“But I want to stay.”

Akito closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, his expression was softer than Toya had seen it all night.

“Okay,” he said.

They stood beneath the awning, holding hands, while the city moved around them.

Then a group of students turned the corner.

They were loud, laughing, their uniforms different from Toya’s and Akito’s. They probably did not know them. They probably would not even look.

Toya’s body reacted before his mind did.

His hand jerked.

Akito felt it.

He let go instantly.

The sudden absence of contact made Toya’s stomach drop.

The students passed them without a glance.

Toya watched them go.

Akito stepped back.

“Sorry,” he said.

“Why?”

“You got scared.”

“I didn’t ask you to let go.”

Akito’s face hardened—not angry, but guarded.

“You didn’t have to.”

Toya stared at him.

“I thought you wanted space.”

“I wanted them not to see.”

“Same difference.”

“No, it isn’t.”

Akito looked away.

Toya could feel the tension returning, fast and familiar.

“No,” he said, more firmly.

Akito looked at him.

“No,” Toya repeated. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Decide what I mean before I can tell you.”

Akito’s eyes narrowed.

“You just pulled away.”

“Yes. Because I was afraid.”

“And I let go.”

“Without asking.”

Akito laughed sharply. “So now I’m supposed to ask permission before I stop touching you?”

“That isn’t what I said.”

“It kind of is.”

“It isn’t.”

“Then explain it.”

Toya’s throat closed.

Akito saw the panic on his face and immediately regretted his tone.

“Forget it,” he said.

“No.” Toya’s voice was unsteady, but he kept going. “I mean… I don’t want you to hold on to me if I need space. But I don’t want you to leave me every time I react badly, either.”

Akito went silent.

Toya stared at the wet pavement.

“I don’t know how to make my body stop being afraid,” he said. “But I know that when you let go, it feels like I failed. Like I proved I can’t do this.”

Akito’s face changed.

“You didn’t fail,” he said.

“I know you think that.”

“Toya.”

“I understand.”

Akito’s mouth twitched despite himself.

The tension loosened for one second.

Then Akito looked serious again.

“So what do you want me to do?” he asked.

Toya thought.

The students were gone now. The sidewalk was empty again.

“I want you to ask,” he said. “Not every time. That would be strange.”

“Probably.”

“But if I pull away suddenly… ask me if I want space. Don’t assume.”

Akito considered it.

“And if you say you need space?”

“Then you give it to me.”

“And if you say you don’t?”

Toya looked at him.

“Then stay.”

Akito’s expression softened.

“Okay,” he said.

He did not reach for Toya immediately.

That was another question.

Toya understood it.

He looked at Akito’s hand at his side.

Then he held out his own.

Akito stared at it.

“You’re sure?” he asked.

“No,” Toya said.

Akito sighed.

Toya added, “But yes.”

For the first time since they had left the live house, Akito smiled without looking like he was forcing it.

“Okay,” he said.

He took Toya’s hand.

This time, when their fingers laced together, Toya did not look at the street.

He looked at Akito.

Akito was still smiling.

It was small. Barely there.

But it was real.

Toya knew because he had spent too much time learning the difference.

The smile made the air feel thinner.

Toya’s hand was still in Akito’s. Their fingers were interlaced again, warm and close. This time Toya had chosen it after they had argued, after he had pulled away, after Akito had let go, after both of them had said things that hurt.

Maybe that was why it felt different.

Not safer.

Not easy.

But more honest.

Akito glanced down at their hands, then back at Toya. “You’re staring.”

“I am looking at you.”

“Same thing.”

“It is not.”

“Whatever.”

Toya felt the corner of his mouth lift.

Akito looked away quickly.

“What?” Toya asked.

“Nothing.”

“That means something.”

“Can you stop doing that?”

“No.”

Akito huffed. “You’re getting bold.”

“I’m holding your hand on a sidewalk.”

“Yeah, well.” Akito’s ears turned red. “Don’t say it like that.”

Toya looked down at their hands.

He had expected the sight to make panic return immediately.

It did not.

Not completely.

There was still pressure in his chest. Still the lingering awareness that anyone could turn a corner, that someone could recognize them, that he might have to decide in an instant whether to let go.

But there was also Akito’s hand.

Akito’s palm against his.

Akito’s fingers, firm around his own.

Toya tried to hold both feelings at once.

They began walking again.

For a little while, neither of them talked.

It was not the oppressive silence from earlier. Akito’s thumb brushed once over the side of Toya’s hand. Toya’s sleeve bumped his arm. A bicycle passed them, its bell chiming sharply in the cold air.

Ordinary sounds.

Ordinary street.

Toya found himself trying to memorize it.

The route home. The streetlights. The red vending machine outside the convenience store. The little bakery that had already closed, its display case dark behind the shutters.

He wanted to remember that he had walked here with Akito.

He wanted to remember that he had been afraid and had continued walking anyway.

“You’re thinking too hard,” Akito said.

Toya glanced at him. “You said that during practice.”

“Because it was true during practice too.”

“I was listening.”

“Not enough.”

Toya considered this. “What should I be thinking about instead?”

Akito looked immediately uncomfortable.

“I don’t know.”

“You said I was thinking too hard.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t mean you needed to think about something else.”

“Then what did you mean?”

Akito made an irritated sound. “You know what I meant.”

“I don’t.”

Akito stopped walking.

Toya stopped too.

They stood beside a narrow side street, the entrance blocked by a chain-link fence and a faded construction sign. The streetlight above them cast pale light across Akito’s face.

Akito looked at Toya with an expression halfway between exasperation and disbelief.

“I meant,” he said slowly, “that you don’t have to analyze every second like it’s a test.”

Toya stared at him.

Akito’s expression softened.

“I’m not saying you do it on purpose,” he added. “I just mean… you’re allowed to be here.”

Toya looked at their hands.

“Here,” Akito said again. “With me. You don’t have to figure out whether you’re doing it right every five minutes.”

Toya’s chest tightened.

“That is difficult,” he said.

“I know.”

Akito immediately grimaced.

Toya looked at him.

Akito shook his head. “Sorry. I understand.”

Toya smiled.

Akito’s expression changed at the sight of it.

He looked away.

Toya did not let him.

“Akito,” he said.

“What?”

“Why do you look away when I smile?”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You did just now.”

Akito’s ears turned red again.

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“It probably means something.”

“Toya.”

Toya waited.

Akito squeezed his hand once, sharp enough to be a warning but not painful.

“Stop looking at me like you’re waiting for a report.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

“I am asking because I want to know you.”

The words came out before Toya could soften them.

Akito went quiet.

Toya realized too late how serious it sounded.

“I mean,” he said, “I want to understand you.”

Akito looked at him.

The irritation was gone from his face. In its place was something far more difficult for Toya to bear.

“You do know me,” Akito said.

“I know some things.”

“You know more than most people.”

“That does not mean I know everything.”

“No one knows everything.”

“I know.”

Akito laughed softly. “You really have to stop saying that.”

“I don’t know how.”

“That was almost funny.”

“I was not trying to be funny.”

“I know.”

Toya stared at him.

Akito looked satisfied with himself for exactly one second.

Then his expression softened.

“You don’t have to understand every part of me to stay,” he said. “You know that, right?”

Toya stopped walking.

Akito stopped too, looking confused.

“What?” he asked.

Toya’s fingers tightened around his.

The thought settled heavily in his chest.

You don’t have to understand every part of me to stay.

He had spent so much of his life trying to become understandable. To do exactly what was expected. To play correctly, speak correctly, react correctly. If he could identify the rule, perhaps no one would be angry. Perhaps no one would be disappointed.

Akito had always been difficult to understand in a different way. Loud when he cared. Mean when he was frightened. Stubborn enough to fight anyone who tried to tell him what he could not do.

But he stayed.

Even when Toya was quiet. Even when Toya said the wrong thing. Even when Toya did not know what he felt until after he had hurt someone.

The realization made his throat ache.

“Toya?” Akito asked.

Toya looked at him.

“I want to know you anyway,” he said.

Akito went still.

Then he looked down at their hands.

“Don’t say stuff like that out of nowhere,” he muttered.

“Why?”

“Because.”

“That is not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting.”

Toya watched the red spread across Akito’s ears.

Despite everything, he felt warmth unfold in his chest.

They walked again.

The next few blocks passed quietly. Not silent. Different.

Akito pointed out a cat sitting beneath a parked car. Toya stopped to look. The cat was orange, with one torn ear and an expression that suggested it disliked them both.

“It looks like you,” Akito said.

Toya looked at him. “Why?”

“It’s judging me.”

“I do not judge you.”

“You absolutely do.”

“I do not.”

“You gave me a look when I bought spicy noodles that one time.”

“You said you couldn’t eat spicy food.”

“I can eat it.”

“You started coughing immediately.”

“I was fine.”

“You drank three glasses of water.”

Akito narrowed his eyes. “You remember that?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Toya thought about it.

Because Akito had looked embarrassed. Because Toya had worried that he had made the moment worse by asking whether he was okay too many times. Because Akito had laughed afterward, red-faced and offended, when Toya suggested ordering something less spicy.

Because it had been Akito.

“I remember things about you,” Toya said.

Akito went quiet.

The cat blinked at them once, then disappeared farther beneath the car.

Akito tugged gently on Toya’s hand. “Come on.”

Toya followed.

They turned onto the street where their routes would split.

Toya knew it as soon as he saw the convenience store on the corner. Akito would continue straight for a few more blocks. Toya would turn left.

The thought made his steps slow.

Akito noticed.

“You have to go that way,” he said.

“I know.”

“You’re going to miss your train if you don’t.”

“I know.”

Akito looked at him.

Toya felt his face grow warm.

“I am aware of the schedule,” he added.

“I didn’t say you weren’t.”

“You implied it.”

“I did not.”

“You did.”

Akito smiled.

It was a little easier this time.

Then the smile faded.

They had reached the corner.

The pedestrian signal was red.

Neither of them moved.

Toya looked at the street he needed to cross.

Then at Akito.

Akito’s hand was still in his.

“I should go,” Toya said.

“Yeah.”

Neither of them let go.

Toya waited for Akito to say something else.

Akito looked toward the signal. “You should text me when you get home.”

“I will.”

“And don’t just send one sticker.”

“I don’t do that.”

“You did last week.”

“I sent a rabbit sticker because you sent a rabbit sticker.”

“Mine had a message.”

“It said ‘good luck.’”

“Exactly. A message.”

Toya considered this. “I will send words.”

“Good.”

The signal remained red.

A car passed slowly in front of them.

Toya could feel the next goodbye approaching, and with it the fear that something would change when they were apart. The evening had been too much. The kiss, the alley, the roof, the argument, the handholding. It felt impossible that they could just go home after all of it and wake up tomorrow as though the world had not shifted.

“What are we?” Toya asked.

Akito stared at him.

The question was out.

Toya immediately regretted the timing.

Akito’s eyebrows drew together. “What?”

“I mean…” Toya’s throat tightened. “Are we still partners?”

Akito’s expression changed.

Something sharp flashed there, so fast Toya almost missed it.

“Seriously?” he said.

Toya flinched.

Akito saw it.

His anger vanished into horror.

“No. No, I didn’t mean—” He dragged a hand through his hair. “I thought you meant something else.”

“I did.”

Akito froze.

The traffic light changed.

Neither of them crossed.

Toya could hear the signal chirping mechanically above them. People moved around them now, stepping off the curb, crossing in pairs and alone. Toya and Akito remained where they were.

Akito’s hand was still in Toya’s.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

Toya looked at the passing crowd.

He felt his body tense.

Akito noticed.

Without asking, he shifted slightly closer—not pressing against Toya, not forcing him anywhere, just placing himself between Toya and the flow of people. It was subtle enough that no one else would notice.

Toya noticed.

His heart hurt.

“I mean,” Toya said slowly, “I know we are music partners. I know we are friends. But after today, I don’t know what words I’m supposed to use.”

Akito’s face softened.

“Oh.”

“I do not need an answer immediately,” Toya added. “I only wanted to know if you had thought about it.”

Akito looked down at their hands.

“I have,” he admitted.

Toya waited.

Akito looked as though he was fighting with himself.

Then he said, “I want to be your boyfriend.”

The city seemed to stop.

It did not, of course. Cars still moved. The crosswalk signal counted down. Someone laughed behind them. A train rumbled somewhere in the distance.

But Toya could not hear any of it clearly.

Akito was looking at him.

Toya’s mind emptied.

Akito’s expression tightened.

“Okay,” he said too quickly. “Forget I said it. That was—”

“No,” Toya said.

Akito stopped.

Toya’s heart hammered against his ribs.

“No,” he repeated. “Do not forget it.”

Akito stared at him.

“I don’t know if I can be a good boyfriend,” Toya said.

Akito’s face softened in a way that hurt.

“You don’t have to be perfect,” he said.

“I know.”

“Toya.”

“I understand.”

Akito’s mouth twitched despite himself.

Toya looked down.

“I don’t know if I can say that word without getting scared,” he admitted. “But I want to be yours.”

Akito went very still.

Toya forced himself to look up again.

“I want you to be mine,” he said.

Akito’s eyes widened.

For a second, Toya thought Akito might kiss him right there on the corner.

Toya could see the thought cross his face. The small shift forward. The way his gaze dropped to Toya’s mouth.

Then Akito stopped himself.

His hand tightened around Toya’s.

“You’re sure?” he asked.

Toya’s breath caught.

He thought about the question.

He thought about fear, about his father’s voice, about An’s warm smile and Kohane’s lemon candy. He thought about Akito’s anger, his hurt, his mean words, and the way he had apologized. He thought about the roof. About Akito waiting for him to say yes.

Toya was not sure about the future.

He was not sure he could stop being afraid overnight.

But he was s

ure he wanted Akito.

“Yes,” he said.

Akito looked at him.

“Okay,” he whispered.

The pedestrian signal changed again.

Toya knew he had to leave.

His train would not wait for him, no matter how much he wanted time to pause.

Akito let go of his hand.

Toya’s chest dropped.

Then Akito caught the front of his sleeve instead.

Not pulling. Just holding the edge of the fabric between two fingers.

“Toya,” he said.

“Yes?”

Akito’s face was red.

“I’m not kissing you here,” he said.

Toya blinked. “Okay.”

“I just wanted you to know I want to.”

Heat rushed into Toya’s face.

“Okay,” he said again.

Akito looked embarrassed by his own sentence. “That sounded stupid.”

“It did not.”

“It did.”

“It did not.”

Akito stared at him.

Toya’s mouth lifted.

“You are smiling again,” Akito said.

“Yes.”

“Stop that.”

“No.”

Akito’s expression changed.

For a moment, everything soft in him showed.

Then he let go of Toya’s sleeve.

“Go catch your train, boyfriend,” he said.

Toya froze.

Akito’s face turned even redder.

He looked away. “What? You said it.”

Toya’s heart felt too large for his chest.

“Goodnight, Akito,” he said.

“Night, Toya.”

Toya stepped into the crosswalk.

Halfway across, he looked back.

Akito was still standing beneath the streetlight, hands in his pockets, watching him go.

Toya lifted his hand.

Akito lifted his in return.

Then Toya turned the corner toward the station before he could lose his nerve.

Toya made it to the station platform with three minutes to spare.

He knew because he checked the sign twice.

Then once more.

The digital board glowed above the platform, listing the next train in bright green characters. Three minutes. Two minutes. Two minutes again, because apparently the board had not changed quickly enough for his body to believe it.

He stood near the yellow line with both hands in his jacket pockets.

His phone felt heavy.

He could text Akito.

He had promised he would.

The thought made his stomach twist.

Goodnight, Akito.

Too formal.

I am at the station.

Too much information. Possibly strange.

I will be home soon.

That sounded like something someone sent to their parents.

Toya took his phone out anyway.

The screen lit up.

There was already a message.

Akito You make it to the station?

Toya stared at it.

The message had been sent forty seconds ago.

He typed, deleted, and typed again.

Toya Yes. I have approximately two minutes until the train arrives.

The typing bubble appeared almost immediately.

Then disappeared.

Then appeared again.

Toya watched it with the same focus he might have given a difficult musical passage.

Finally:

Akito approximately??

Toya looked at the platform sign.

Toya It has changed to one minute.

A pause.

Akito You’re unbelievable.

Toya frowned at the screen.

Toya Is that negative?

This time, Akito replied so fast Toya almost startled.

Akito no

Then, a few seconds later:

Akito I mean yes. But not bad negative.

Toya read it twice.

Warmth gathered in his chest.

Toya I understand.

Akito Don’t start.

Toya almost smiled.

The train approached with a rush of wind. People began moving toward the edge of the platform. Toya stepped back automatically, his shoulders tightening when someone brushed too close behind him.

His phone buzzed again.

Akito Text me when you’re actually on it.

Toya looked at the words.

Not when you get home.

Not if you remember.

A clear instruction.

It was strange how calming that was.

Toya Okay.

The train doors opened.

Toya got on.

The car was more crowded than he preferred, though not unbearable. He found a place near the end of the bench beside the door, keeping his bag on his lap. A woman in a business suit sat across from him. Two younger students stood nearby, talking loudly about a test. An elderly man slept with his arms folded.

Toya opened his phone.

Toya I am on the train.

The typing bubble appeared.

Akito good

Then:

Akito did you get a seat?

Toya glanced around.

Toya Yes.

Akito good.

Toya stared at the word.

He could picture Akito typing it. Thumb hovering over the screen. Frowning at himself afterward. Thinking perhaps it was too obvious that he cared, then sending it anyway.

Toya’s throat felt tight.

He typed:

Toya Thank you for waiting with me tonight.

He read it.

Deleted it.

Typed it again.

Then sent it before he could reconsider.

The reply did not come immediately.

The train started moving.

Station lights streaked past the window. The platform disappeared into darkness, then another stretch of city appeared: apartment windows, convenience stores, the glowing signs of restaurants that were still open despite the hour.

Toya watched his reflection in the glass.

He looked normal.

His hair was a little messy from the wind. His jacket was wrinkled where Akito had caught his sleeve. His face was warm, but not visibly different.

No one on the train knew that he had been kissed.

No one knew that he had held Akito’s hand on the street.

No one knew that he had said, I want you to be mine.

The thought should have made him feel relieved.

Instead, it made him feel lonely.

His phone buzzed.

Akito You don’t have to thank me for that.

Toya looked at the message.

Then another arrived.

Akito I wanted to be there.

His fingers trembled above the screen.

Toya I wanted you there too.

The message showed as read almost immediately.

No reply came.

Toya’s chest tightened.

He watched the three small dots appear.

Disappear.

Appear again.

Then:

Akito Don’t say stuff like that while I’m walking home alone.

Toya blinked.

Toya Why?

There was a longer pause.

Akito Because it’s embarrassing.

Toya looked down at his screen.

Toya I do not understand.

Akito Obviously.

A second later:

Akito It makes me happy. Idiot.

Toya stared at the message until the letters blurred slightly.

He looked out the window again.

The city slid by.

He typed carefully.

Toya I am happy too.

He sent it.

Then he put his phone face-down on his bag because he could not look at it anymore.

For several minutes, he tried to focus on the sound of the train moving along the tracks. The rhythm was steady. Predictable. A soft series of clicks beneath the hum of the carriage.

It helped.

A little.

His phone buzzed.

Toya picked it up.

Akito You better be.

Toya’s mouth lifted.

Then another message appeared.

Akito And don’t overthink that either.

Toya typed before he could stop himself.

Toya I am overthinking it now.

Akito I knew it.

Toya Sorry.

Akito Don’t apologize.

Toya I understand.

There was a delay.

Akito I hate you.

Toya stared at the screen.

His stomach dropped.

Then the next message came.

Akito Not actually. Don’t be weird.

Toya exhaled.

Toya I know.

Akito TOYA.

A small laugh escaped him.

The woman across from him glanced up. Toya immediately looked down, face heating.

His phone buzzed again.

Akito Did you just laugh?

Toya froze.

Toya How would you know that?

Akito I don’t. I guessed.

Toya You were correct.

There was a long pause.

Then:

Akito Good.

Toya read the word.

He placed his thumb over the screen but did not type.

The train slowed as it approached the next station. Doors opened. A few passengers left. The car became quieter.

Toya could hear his own breathing again.

The earlier fear returned slowly, as if it had been waiting for a gap in the conversation.

He was alone now.

Not truly alone. There were people around him, strangers, the conductor’s voice coming through the speaker, the distant sound of someone’s headphones leaking music two seats away.

But Akito was not beside him.

There was no hand in his. No voice close enough to hear without a phone.

The memory of the kiss rose up again.

Toya closed his eyes.

Akito’s hand on his cheek.

The warmth of his mouth.

The way Akito had asked, every time, before moving closer.

The way he had looked hurt when Toya pulled away.

The way he had said, I want to be your boyfriend.

Toya’s chest ached.

His phone buzzed.

Akito You went quiet.

Toya stared at the message.

He could lie.

He could say he was tired. That the train was loud. That he had been watching the stations.

All of those things were true.

But Akito had asked him to tell the truth when he was scared.

Toya’s fingers hovered over the keyboard.

Toya I am thinking about earlier.

The typing bubble appeared.

Akito The bad earlier or the good earlier?

Toya felt his throat tighten.

Toya Both.

A pause.

Akito Okay.

Then:

Akito Do you want to talk about it?

Toya looked around the train car.

Someone had taken the seat beside him. A man in a dark coat, headphones in, staring at nothing. Toya turned his phone slightly toward himself out of habit.

The small protective movement made him feel ashamed.

He did not want people reading his messages.

That did not mean he was ashamed of Akito.

He repeated the thought in his mind.

It did not settle.

Toya Not while I am on the train.

The response took longer.

Akito Okay.

Then:

Akito You don’t have to if you don’t want to.

Toya frowned.

Toya I do want to.

Akito You said not now.

Toya Those things are not opposites.

The typing bubble appeared almost instantly.

Akito They kind of are??

Toya considered this.

Toya I want to talk about it. I do not want to talk about it while strangers are sitting beside me.

There was a pause.

Then:

Akito Oh.

Akito Yeah. Okay. That makes sense.

Toya exhaled.

Akito Text me when you get off. I’ll still be awake.

Toya stared at that sentence.

He remembered Akito standing under the streetlight while Toya crossed the road. The city between them. The way Akito had said go catch your train, boyfriend while looking so embarrassed that Toya had almost forgotten how to move.

A sudden, sharp ache moved through Toya’s chest.

He wanted to be back there.

He wanted Akito beside him.

He wanted the difficult conversation and the fear and the handholding and even the arguing, if it meant Akito was close enough to see.

He typed carefully.

Toya Please do not go to sleep before I get home.

The message sent.

Immediately, Toya regretted it.

It sounded needy.

It sounded childish.

It sounded like he did not trust Akito to stay.

The typing bubble appeared.

Then:

Akito I said I’ll be awake.

And after a moment:

Akito I’m not going anywhere.

Toya pressed his lips together.

The train entered a tunnel.

For a few seconds, the glass reflected only the inside of the carriage: Toya’s face, pale in the overhead lights; the strangers around him; the bright screen in his hands.

He looked at his reflection.

Then at the messages.

He typed one word.

Toya Okay.

Akito did not reply.

He did not need to.

Toya held the phone close to his chest until the train reached his stop.

Toya got off the train and stood on the platform until the doors closed behind him.

The train pulled away with a low mechanical whine.

For a few seconds, he watched the red tail lights disappear down the tracks.

The station was quieter here than the one he had left from. A few people moved toward the exit in loose groups, their voices echoing against the tiled walls. The announcement speaker crackled overhead. Somewhere farther down the platform, a cleaning cart rattled across the concrete.

Toya did not move.

His phone was in his hand.

He had told Akito he would text when he got off.

That should have been easy.

He opened the message thread.

Toya I got off the train.

The typing bubble appeared before he had lowered the phone.

Akito Good.

Then:

Akito You’re at your station, right?

Toya frowned slightly.

Toya Yes.

Akito Okay.

Toya stared at the answer.

There was something in the way Akito had asked that made warmth gather under his ribs. It was not that Akito thought Toya could accidentally get off at the wrong station. Toya could read maps. He knew the route home. He had taken this train countless times.

Akito was checking because he cared.

Toya began walking toward the exit.

The station stairs led down to a quiet residential street. The night air was colder here. There were fewer lights, fewer cars, fewer people. The city felt farther away. Houses sat behind neat fences and dark hedges, their windows mostly black.

Toya pulled his jacket collar closer around his neck.

His phone buzzed.

Akito Are you walking home alone?

Toya looked at the message.

Toya Yes.

The reply came after a pause.

Akito Text me when you get in.

Toya stopped near the bottom of the station stairs.

He could say I will.

He could say okay.

But the words from earlier were still caught in his chest.

I’m not going anywhere.

Toya looked down the road toward home.

He had been walking this way for years. The route was familiar enough that he could probably navigate it with his eyes closed. The small park on the left. The empty lot behind the pharmacy. The row of houses with trimmed trees lining the pavement.

Tonight, each part of it seemed unfamiliar.

Not because it had changed.

Because Toya had.

He typed slowly.

Toya Will you keep talking to me while I walk?

The message sent.

Toya stopped breathing.

Immediately, he wanted to delete it. Too late.

His phone remained silent.

One second.

Two.

Three.

The typing bubble appeared.

Then vanished.

Toya’s stomach twisted.

Maybe he had asked too much. Maybe Akito was tired. Maybe he had sounded pathetic. Maybe Akito would say yes because he felt obligated, which would be worse somehow.

The phone buzzed.

Akito Obviously.

Toya stared at the word.

Then another message appeared.

Akito I was wondering why you didn’t ask sooner.

His throat tightened.

Toya I did not want to bother you.

Akito You’re not bothering me.

A pause.

Akito You’re literally my boyfriend. You’re allowed to ask me to talk to you.

Toya stood completely still on the sidewalk.

The word sat on the screen.

Boyfriend.

It looked different in text.

More solid.

More real.

He had heard Akito say it at the crosswalk, but Akito had been flustered and red-faced and pretending it was only a teasing remark. Toya had been too overwhelmed to hold the word properly in his mind.

Now it was there.

Written plainly.

my boyfriend.

Toya read the message again.

Then again.

His face was warm despite the cold.

Akito You there?

Toya typed.

Deleted it.

Typed again.

Toya Yes.

Then:

Toya I was looking at what you said.

There was a pause.

Akito Oh.

Toya imagined Akito reading that.

He imagined the way his face would change. The way he would probably look away from his phone as though Toya could see him through the screen. The way he might rub the back of his neck, suddenly self-conscious.

The thought made Toya smile.

Akito Is that bad?

Toya’s smile disappeared.

He typed immediately.

Toya No.

Then, because he did not want Akito to misunderstand:

Toya It makes me happy.

The typing bubble appeared.

Disappeared.

Appeared again.

Finally:

Akito Yeah?

Toya looked down the empty street.

The question seemed too small for how much it meant.

Toya Yes.

Akito Good.

A few seconds passed.

Akito It makes me happy too.

Toya began walking again.

He kept his phone in one hand, held low near his jacket pocket. His other hand was empty. He could still remember the warmth of Akito’s fingers laced with his.

At the first intersection, he stopped and looked both ways.

Toya I am walking now.

Akito I figured.

Toya You asked me to keep talking to you.

Akito I did not ask you to narrate every step.

Toya looked at the message.

Toya What should I say?

There was a longer pause this time.

Akito I don’t know.

Then:

Akito Tell me what you’re thinking.

Toya’s steps slowed.

That was harder.

He could tell Akito practical things. The train arrived. I am at the station. I am walking home. Those statements had clear edges. They did not require Toya to decide which parts of himself were acceptable to hand over.

What are you thinking? was different.

He looked at the street ahead.

A streetlamp flickered near the park entrance. The swings were still in the darkness. A convenience store bag had caught on the low fence and fluttered whenever the wind moved.

Toya thought about telling Akito he was cold.

He thought about telling him the street was empty.

He thought about saying that he kept looking at his own hand.

Instead, he wrote:

Toya I keep thinking about you calling me your boyfriend.

The reply took long enough that Toya stopped walking again.

Then:

Akito Sorry.

Toya frowned.

Toya Why?

Akito I don’t know. It feels like I said it too soon.

Toya’s chest tightened.

Toya Do you regret it?

The typing bubble appeared.

Stopped.

Appeared again.

Akito No.

Then, quickly:

Akito Do you?

Toya stared at the question.

He could feel fear trying to take over again. It was there in the immediate urge to say something safe. Something that gave him room to retreat.

I don’t know.

Maybe.

I need time.

All of those could be true.

But Akito had not asked whether Toya was certain of everything. He had asked whether Toya regretted it.

Toya did not.

Toya No.

The response came immediately.

Akito Okay.

Then:

Akito Good.

Toya continued walking.

The familiar road bent around the park. His house was only a few minutes away now.

His phone buzzed again.

Akito Can I tell you something?

Toya’s heart sped up.

Toya Yes.

The typing bubble appeared.

Stayed.

Disappeared.

Toya waited.

Akito I was scared too.

Toya stopped beside the park fence.

The message was simple.

There was no joke after it. No insult. No attempt to make it smaller.

Toya read it once.

Then again.

Toya When?

A moment passed.

Akito When I kissed you.

Toya’s fingers tightened around his phone.

Akito I thought you might hate it.

Toya’s throat hurt.

Toya I could never hate it.

The reply came after a pause.

Akito I know that now.

Then:

Akito But when you pulled away, I thought maybe I’d messed everything up.

Toya leaned against the fence.

Cold metal pressed through his jacket.

He looked through the bars at the empty park.

“I did mess it up,” he whispered.

The words vanished into the night.

His phone was still in his hand.

He typed them anyway.

Toya I am sorry I made you think that.

Akito’s response took longer.

Akito I know.

Toya stared at it.

The phrase did not hurt this time.

Then another message appeared.

Akito I’m sorry I made you feel like you had to apologize for being scared.

Toya’s breath caught.

Akito I keep replaying what I said.

Toya’s chest tightened.

He remembered Akito beneath the bookstore awning, angry and hurt. I don’t want you standing there apologizing like I’m your dad.

The sentence had cut too deep because it had been close to true.

Toya It hurt.

The message sent.

Toya shut his eyes.

He had never been good at saying things that might make someone feel bad. It felt cruel, even when it was honest. He could already picture Akito’s face falling. He could already imagine him blaming himself, getting defensive, saying something sharp to cover the fact that he was ashamed.

The typing bubble appeared.

It stayed for a long time.

Finally:

Akito I know.

Toya’s hands began to shake.

Then:

Akito I’m really sorry.

A new message arrived before Toya could answer.

Akito I shouldn’t have said it.

Another.

Akito I was mad and I wanted you to understand how it felt, but that wasn’t fair.

Another.

Akito I don’t want to ever sound like him to you.

Toya pressed his lips together.

The streetlight above him flickered again.

He could see his reflection faintly in the dark screen before he began typing.

Toya You are not him.

The reply did not come.

Toya continued.

Toya You were angry. You apologized. You asked what I needed.

He paused.

Then added:

Toya You listened when I said no.

The words sat on the screen.

They felt important.

Akito’s response came slowly.

Akito I will always listen when you say no.

Toya’s eyes stung.

Akito And if you don’t know, I’ll wait.

He read it.

His breath shook.

Toya Thank you.

Akito You don’t have to thank me for basic decency.

Toya I know.

A pause.

Akito I understand.

Toya laughed quietly.

This time, no one was there to look at him.

The laughter faded quickly, but the warmth stayed.

He began walking again.

The final stretch home was quieter. He passed the pharmacy, its front lights dimmed. He passed the small bakery, closed for the night, the smell of bread lingering faintly in the air. He passed the house with the dog that always barked at delivery trucks, though tonight its yard was silent.

His phone buzzed.

Akito Where are you now?

Toya looked up.

His house was at the end of the block.

A warm light glowed from one downstairs window.

His father was awake.

The warmth inside Toya cooled.

He stopped walking.

Akito Toya?

Toya stared at the house.

The front gate was closed. The gravel path beyond it was neat and pale under the porch light. Nothing had changed. It was only his home. It was only a door he had opened thousands of times.

But he could feel the evening folding inward.

The handholding. The kiss. The word boyfriend.

All of it suddenly seemed fragile.

Like something he had to hide in his pocket before he stepped inside.

His phone buzzed again.

Akito You okay?

Toya typed.

Toya I am outside my house.

The response came quickly.

Akito Okay.

Then:

Akito Do you want me to stay on the phone while you go in?

Toya stared at the screen.

His first instinct was to say no. He did not want Akito to hear the quiet of his house. He did not want him to hear his father’s voice if he asked where Toya had been. He did not want to bring Akito into this part of his life, the part that still made him feel small.

But Akito had asked.

He had not assumed.

Toya’s fingers hovered above the keyboard.

Toya Yes.

The reply came immediately.

Akito Call me.

Toya looked at the gate.

Then pressed the call button.

The call connected on the second ring.

For a moment, there was only static.

Then Akito said, “Toya?”

Toya held the phone tighter against his ear.

“Yes.”

Akito exhaled.

Toya could hear it clearly through the speaker—a small, quiet breath that would have been easy to miss in person. Over the phone, it sounded louder. Closer.

“You called,” Akito said.

“You told me to.”

“Yeah, I know. I just…” Akito stopped. “Never mind.”

Toya waited.

The silence stretched.

Without Akito’s face in front of him, it was worse.

When they were together, Toya could at least try to understand what was happening. He could watch Akito’s eyebrows pull together when he was frustrated. He could see the way his mouth twitched when he was trying not to smile. He could tell when Akito was about to make a joke, usually. Not always, but usually.

On the phone, there was only his voice.

A breath.

A pause.

A word that might mean several things.

Toya stared at his front gate.

“Are you upset?” he asked.

Akito went quiet.

“No.”

Toya’s chest tightened.

Akito sighed. “No. I’m not upset. I’m just worried.”

“Oh.”

“Is that bad?”

“No.” Toya pressed his free hand against the metal gate. It was cold. “I thought you might be upset because you said ‘never mind.’”

“I just meant I’m glad you called.”

Toya went still.

Akito’s voice changed immediately, growing more defensive.

“Not in a weird way. I mean—it’s not like I was sitting here staring at my phone waiting for you to call or anything.”

“You were.”

“I was not.”

“You replied to my messages quickly.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means you were holding your phone.”

“Toya.”

“I am not criticizing you.”

“I know.”

There was a pause.

Then Akito added, quieter, “I was holding my phone.”

Toya’s face grew warm.

He did not know what response Akito wanted.

If he said he had been holding his own phone too, would that sound too intense? If he said nothing, would Akito think he had said something embarrassing? If he made a joke, would Akito understand that Toya was trying to make him feel better?

The silence lasted too long.

Akito cleared his throat. “Anyway. You’re outside?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going in?”

“Yes.”

Another pause.

Toya tightened his grip on the phone.

“Do you want me to say something?” Akito asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Okay.”

The answer was too quick.

Toya could hear the disappointment in it—or thought he could. It might have been annoyance. It might have been nothing at all.

He wished Akito were standing beside him.

Then he could see what okay meant.

“I’m sorry,” Toya said.

Akito groaned softly. “You don’t have to apologize.”

“I don’t know how to talk to you on the phone.”

The words came out before Toya could decide whether he wanted to admit them.

There was silence.

Toya’s stomach twisted.

He had said it wrong. Of course he had. It sounded like he did not want to talk to Akito. It sounded like Akito himself was the problem.

“I mean,” Toya said quickly, “I want to talk to you. I just cannot see you, so I do not know what you are thinking. I don’t know when it is my turn to speak.”

Akito did not say anything.

Toya stared at the gate latch.

“I can hear you breathing,” he continued, because explaining felt safer than waiting. “But that is not enough information. You pause sometimes when you are upset, but you also pause when you are embarrassed. And sometimes you pause because you are thinking about what to say, but sometimes you pause because you expect me to say something. I cannot tell which one it is.”

The silence on the other end became longer.

Toya’s face heated.

He had talked too much.

He knew that had happened because Akito had not interrupted him. Akito usually interrupted when Toya was saying something he thought was ridiculous. He would say, Okay, okay, I get it, or You’re overexplaining again, and Toya would know where he stood.

Now there was nothing.

“Toya,” Akito said at last.

“Yes?”

“You’ve thought about this a lot.”

Toya looked down.

“Yes.”

Akito made a small sound.

Toya could not tell what it meant.

“Was that bad?” he asked.

“No.” Akito’s voice softened. “No, it’s not bad.”

“You sounded different.”

“Sorry.”

“You do not have to apologize.”

“I know.” Akito stopped. “I understand.”

Toya let out a small breath.

Akito laughed quietly.

“You laughed,” Toya said.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Because you sound so serious about it.”

“I am serious.”

“I know.” Akito paused. “It’s kind of cute.”

Toya’s thoughts stopped.

The sidewalk, the gate, the cold metal beneath his hand—all of it seemed to become distant.

Akito had said it casually.

Too casually.

As if it were easy.

Toya did not know how to answer.

Akito must have realized something was wrong because his voice changed again.

“Was that weird?”

“No.”

“Then say something.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Anything.”

Toya thought hard.

“I like when you laugh,” he said.

There was a sharp inhale from the other end.

Then nothing.

Toya’s heart began to pound.

“Akito?”

“I’m here.”

“You are quiet.”

“I know.”

“Are you upset?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

Akito sighed, but it did not sound annoyed this time.

“I’m not upset. I’m embarrassed.”

“Oh.”

“You said something nice.”

“I said I like your laugh.”

“Yeah.”

“That is true.”

“I know.”

Toya waited.

Akito made another soft, frustrated sound.

“You can’t just say things like that with your whole chest and then act like you don’t know what they do to me.”

Toya stared at the gate.

“What do they do?”

“Toya.”

“I am asking.”

“I know you are.”

“Then tell me.”

There was a pause.

Toya could picture Akito rubbing his face, but he could not know if he was. That was the issue. He was constructing the image from memory and hoping it was accurate.

Akito’s voice dropped.

“It makes me want to be there with you.”

Toya stopped breathing.

The cold no longer bothered him.

“I want you to be here too,” he said.

The sentence came out immediately.

Too immediately.

Akito went quiet again.

Toya’s stomach dropped.

“I did not mean you have to come here,” he said quickly. “It is late. And I know you have already walked home. I only meant that I would prefer it if you were beside me.”

Akito laughed softly.

Not teasing. Not hurt.

“Okay,” he said. “That’s better.”

“Better than what?”

“Never mind.”

Toya’s fingers tightened around the phone.

“Please don’t say that,” he said.

Akito went silent.

Toya realized his voice had come out sharper than he intended.

“I’m sorry,” he said automatically.

“Toya—”

“I mean, I do not know what ‘never mind’ means on the phone. In person, I can see if you are joking, but I cannot now. When you say it, I don’t know if you are upset or if you are trying to stop talking about something because you think I won’t like it.”

Akito did not answer immediately.

Toya swallowed.

“I know that is probably inconvenient,” he added. “I know I should not make you explain every sentence.”

“No,” Akito said.

Toya stopped.

Akito’s voice was firm now.

“No. You’re not being inconvenient.”

Toya leaned his forehead against the gate.

“You are allowed to ask what I mean,” Akito continued. “Especially if I’m being vague.”

“I do not want to make you feel like you have to be careful around me.”

“I should be careful around you sometimes.”

Toya went still.

Akito immediately added, “Not like you’re fragile. I mean careful with what I say. Everyone should be. I’m not good at that when I’m upset.”

Toya closed his eyes.

The words did not fix everything. They did not make the earlier argument disappear.

But they mattered.

“I will ask,” Toya said.

“Ask what?”

“What you mean.”

“Good.”

“And you can tell me if you need me to stop asking.”

Akito paused.

“Okay,” he said. “But I don’t think I will.”

Toya’s chest warmed.

He did not know what to say.

So he said, “Thank you.”

Akito made a small sound. “You’re welcome.”

The conversation fell quiet again.

This silence was different.

Toya still could not tell what Akito was thinking. He still could not see whether he was smiling or frowning or staring at the ceiling. But Akito was not hanging up. He was still breathing softly on the other end of the line.

Toya could hear that much.

He opened the gate.

It creaked.

“You’re going in?” Akito asked.

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

Toya stepped onto the gravel path.

The sound of the stones beneath his shoes seemed too loud. The house loomed in front of him, windows dark except for the warm downstairs light. He could see the edge of the curtain moving slightly.

His father was probably in the sitting room.

Toya’s stomach tightened.

Akito heard the change in his breathing.

“You okay?” he asked.

Toya stopped halfway up the path.

“I am thinking.”

“That usually means no.”

Toya looked at the front door.

“Yes,” he said. “I mean, no. I am not okay. But I can go inside.”

Akito was quiet for a second.

“Do you want me to stay quiet?” he asked.

Toya blinked.

“What?”

“While you go in. Do you want me to keep talking, or do you want me to be quiet so you can listen?”

The question made something ache behind Toya’s ribs.

He had not thought of that.

Most people asked what was wrong. Most people tried to make him answer before he knew the answer himself. Akito was asking what kind of help Toya needed.

“I want you to stay on the phone,” Toya said.

“Okay.”

“And I want you to be quiet.”

“Okay.”

Toya took another step.

Then he stopped again.

“Akito?”

“Yeah?”

“I do not mean I want you to be silent because I do not want to hear you.”

“I know.”

Toya’s chest tightened.

Akito added, softer, “I understand.”

Toya nodded even though Akito could not see it.

He reached the front door.

His hand paused over the handle.

“Go on,” Akito said quietly.

Toya inhaled.

Then he opened the door.

The entryway light was on.

His shoes made almost no sound as he stepped inside, but the door clicked shut behind him with a finality that made his shoulders tense.

“Toya?”

His father’s voice came from the sitting room.

Toya froze.

Akito was silent in his ear.

“I’m home,” Toya said.

His father appeared in the doorway.

He was still dressed neatly, sleeves rolled down, posture straight. He looked at Toya’s face first, then at the phone in his hand.

“You are late,” he said.

Toya checked the clock on the wall.

It was later than he had expected. The time seemed wrong. He had spent too long on the train, too long outside the house, too long trying to find the correct words for Akito.

“Practice went longer than planned,” Toya said.

His father’s eyes moved back to the phone.

“Are you speaking with someone?”

Toya’s grip tightened.

Akito remained quiet.

“Yes,” Toya said.

“Who?”

The question was ordinary.

It should have been ordinary.

Toya’s mind went blank.

He could lie.

He could say An. Kohane. A classmate. He could say he had been checking something about tomorrow’s rehearsal.

But Akito was listening.

And Toya had told him he would stop disappearing when he was scared.

His mouth went dry.

“It’s Akito,” he said.

His father’s expression did not change.

“Shinonome?”

“Yes.”

“Why are you speaking with him at this hour?”

Toya did not know.

Not because there was no answer.

Because there were too many.

Because Akito was his partner. His friend. His boyfriend. Because Toya was scared to walk into this house alone. Because Akito had promised he was not going anywhere.

“We were discussing practice,” Toya said.

The lie came too easily.

He hated it instantly.

His father nodded once.

“Do not let personal conversations interfere with your rest. You have school tomorrow.”

“Yes.”

“And do not spend the entire night on your phone.”

“Yes.”

His father looked at him for another moment.

Toya tried to make his face neutral.

Eventually, his father stepped back into the sitting room.

“Goodnight, Toya.”

“Goodnight.”

The doorway closed.

Toya stood in the entryway without moving.

The quiet was enormous.

Then, very softly through the phone, Akito said, “You okay?”

Toya looked down at the dark floor.

“I lied,” he whispered.

Akito was quiet.

Toya’s throat tightened.

“I said we were talking about practice.”

“Yeah,” Akito said.

“I did not say you were my boyfriend.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.”

The confession slipped out.

Akito inhaled sharply.

Toya pressed his free hand to his chest.

“I wanted to tell him,” he said. “But I couldn’t. I thought about what he would say, and I could not make myself do it.”

Akito’s voice was careful when he answered.

“You don’t have to tell him tonight.”

“I know.”

“You don’t have to tell him tomorrow, either.”

Toya looked toward the stairs.

“But I lied about you,” he said.

“No.” Akito’s voice grew firmer. “You didn’t lie about me. We were talking about practice. You just didn’t tell him everything.”

Toya considered that.

It was technically true.

That did not make the tight feeling in his chest disappear.

“I don’t want you to think I’m ashamed of you,” he said.

There was a pause.

Then Akito said, “I don’t.”

Toya shut his eyes.

“You sounded sad.”

“I am sad.”

Toya’s heart dropped.

“But not because I think you’re ashamed of me,” Akito continued. “I’m sad because you looked scared. I mean—you sounded scared.”

Toya leaned against the wall.

The wallpaper pressed cool against his shoulder.

“I was.”

“I know.”

Toya swallowed.

“I do not know when I will be able to tell him.”

“You don’t have to know.”

“What if I never can?”

Akito was silent.

The pause stretched just long enough for Toya’s thoughts to begin filling it with worst possibilities.

Then Akito said, “Then we deal with that when we get there.”

Toya listened carefully.

Akito’s voice was not angry. Not distant. Not cold.

But there was something held tight inside it.

“You’re hurt,” Toya said.

Akito exhaled.

“I’m not mad at you.”

“That is not what I said.”

Akito went quiet.

Toya waited.

“I am a little hurt,” Akito admitted. “Not because you didn’t tell him. I’m not asking you to do that.”

“But?”

“But I hate that you were standing there feeling like you had to lie. I hate that you were scared.”

Toya’s chest ached.

“I am sorry.”

“Toya.”

“I know.”

Akito sighed softly.

Then his voice turned quieter.

“I don’t want you to apologize for surviving your house.”

Toya stopped breathing.

The words settled in him.

Not as comfort, exactly.

Comfort was too simple for them.

But as something solid.

Something he could hold.

From the sitting room, Toya heard his father move. A chair scraped against the floor.

Toya straightened immediately.

Akito heard it too.

“Go upstairs,” he whispered.

“Yes.”

Toya moved toward the staircase.

Each step creaked faintly beneath his feet. He held the phone close, keeping the call quiet. His room was at the end of the hall. The door was closed.

He reached it.

His hand trembled on the handle.

“Almost there,” Akito murmured.

Toya pushed the door open.

Then closed it behind him.

The click of Toya’s bedroom door closing was quieter than the front door had been.

Still, it made his shoulders fall.

He stood with his back against it for a moment, phone pressed to his ear, eyes closed.

On the other end of the call, Akito breathed out.

“You in?”

“Yes.”

“Door locked?”

Toya opened his eyes.

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

The word was soft.

Toya looked around his room.

Everything was where it was supposed to be. His school bag leaned against the desk. His piano books were stacked neatly beside the metronome. The curtains were drawn, but a thin line of streetlight showed beneath them. His bed was made, untouched since morning.

Nothing looked different.

But Toya felt like he had brought an entire other life into the room with him.

Akito’s voice was in his ear.

His boyfriend’s voice.

The word came back again.

Toya sat down slowly on the edge of his bed.

“I am in my room,” he said.

“I figured.”

“I wanted to tell you.”

“Okay.”

Toya waited.

Akito did not say anything else.

The silence pressed against him again.

He could not see Akito. He did not know whether he was sitting at his desk, lying on his bed, pacing around his room, or staring at the ceiling. The image kept changing in Toya’s mind, none of them more reliable than the others.

“Where are you?” Toya asked.

Akito was quiet for a beat.

“In my room.”

“Are you sitting down?”

“Why?”

“I want to know.”

Akito made a small sound, like he was trying not to laugh. “Yeah. I’m sitting.”

“On your bed?”

“No.”

“Your chair?”

“Yeah.”

Toya nodded to himself.

“You are at your desk.”

“Yeah.”

“Is your room light on?”

Akito paused.

“Why are you interrogating me?”

“I am not interrogating you.”

“You’re asking for a full floor plan.”

“I only asked three questions.”

“That’s enough questions.”

Toya looked down at his hands.

“I’m sorry.”

Akito sighed.

“No, don’t—” He stopped. “Sorry. I’m not mad.”

“I know.”

“Toya.”

“I understand.”

There was another pause.

Then Akito’s voice softened.

“Are you asking because you want to picture where I am?”

Toya’s face became warm.

“Yes,” he admitted.

Akito went silent.

Toya immediately worried he had said too much.

“I do not mean it in a strange way,” he said quickly. “I just cannot see you, and it is difficult to know what you are feeling when I cannot see you. If I know where you are, it helps me imagine—”

He stopped.

The sentence had become too complicated.

Akito did not interrupt.

Toya stared at the floor.

“It helps me feel like you are real,” he finished.

The silence on the other end was long.

Toya’s stomach tightened.

“Was that wrong?” he asked.

“No,” Akito said.

His voice sounded rougher now.

“No, Toya. It’s not wrong.”

“You sound upset.”

“I’m not upset.”

“You sound different.”

“I’m…” Akito exhaled. “I’m trying not to say something embarrassing.”

Toya blinked.

“You can say it.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“That is not an answer.”

“I know.”

Toya waited.

Akito made a frustrated sound. “You make it really hard to keep secrets.”

“I did not know you had one.”

“It’s not a secret. Forget it.”

Toya’s fingers curled into the edge of his blanket.

“Please don’t say that,” he said quietly.

Akito went silent.

Toya stared at the carpet.

“I am not trying to force you to tell me things,” he added. “But when you say ‘forget it,’ I think I did something wrong. I do not know if you are angry or if you think I will think badly of you.”

“I don’t think you’ll think badly of me.”

“Then why not tell me?”

Akito was quiet for several seconds.

Then he said, “Because I like it when you want to know where I am.”

Toya stopped.

The room seemed to go very still around him.

Akito continued before Toya could answer.

“I like that you want to picture me. I like that you asked if I was sitting on my bed. It makes me feel…” He stopped. “Forget it.”

Toya’s chest tightened.

“Akito.”

“What?”

“You did it again.”

“I know.”

“Please tell me.”

Akito groaned softly. “You’re impossible.”

“I am asking you to communicate.”

“Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re my therapist.”

“I am not.”

“I know, I know.” Akito paused. “Fine.”

Toya held still.

“It makes me feel wanted,” Akito said.

The words were so quiet Toya nearly missed them.

Toya’s throat hurt.

“I do want you,” he said.

Akito inhaled sharply.

Toya realized he had said it too fast again.

“I mean—” he began.

“Don’t,” Akito said.

Toya stopped.

“Don’t explain it away,” Akito continued. “Please.”

Toya was quiet.

Akito’s voice softened. “Just let it mean what it means.”

Toya looked down at the blanket beneath his fingers.

He could do that.

Perhaps.

“I want you,” he said again.

This time, he said it slowly.

Akito did not answer.

Toya could hear something rustle on the other end. Fabric. A chair moving. Perhaps Akito had leaned back. Perhaps he had covered his face.

Toya could not know.

The not knowing made warmth and panic rise together.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

Akito let out a breath that sounded unsteady.

“Yeah.”

“You are quiet.”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Toya.”

“I am asking.”

“I know.” Akito laughed weakly. “I just don’t know how to say ‘you’re being too sweet and I don’t know what to do with it’ without sounding pathetic.”

Toya thought about that.

“You do not sound pathetic.”

“I feel pathetic.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to hear you say it again.”

Toya’s heart beat hard against his ribs.

The room was too warm.

He looked toward his closed door.

His father was downstairs. The hallway was silent. Every sound felt dangerous.

But Akito was in his ear.

Akito was waiting.

Toya pressed the phone closer.

“I want you,” he whispered.

There was a sharp silence.

Then Akito said, very quietly, “Toya.”

His name sounded different in Akito’s voice.

Not like it had downstairs. Not like it had in the stairwell, strained and hurt. Not like it had at the crosswalk, embarrassed and bright.

This was softer.

Toya did not know what it meant.

His mind started trying to find rules again.

Was he supposed to say something else? Was he supposed to wait? Was Akito uncomfortable? Had Toya made the call strange?

“Did I say it wrong?” Toya asked.

“No.”

“Then why—”

“You said it quietly.”

“Oh.”

Akito laughed under his breath. “That’s not a bad thing.”

“I did not know.”

“You don’t have to know everything.”

Toya’s throat tightened.

Akito had said that earlier. On the street.

You don’t have to understand every part of me to stay.

Toya looked around his room again.

The familiar furniture. The piano books. The strict neatness that his father liked. Everything that had once made the room feel orderly now felt too close, like the walls were listening.

“I wish you could see my room,” Toya said.

Akito went quiet.

“Why?”

“I do not know.”

“You do know.”

Toya looked at the desk.

There was a photo tucked behind his music stand. Vivid BAD SQUAD at a small event months ago, all four of them caught mid-laugh. Akito was standing too close to Toya. At the time, Toya had only thought it was because the frame was narrow.

Now he wondered if it had meant something else.

“I want you to know where I am,” Toya said. “Not only because I want to picture where you are.”

Akito’s breathing slowed.

“You want me in your room?” he asked.

Toya’s face went hot.

“I mean—”

“Not physically. I know what you mean.”

“Oh.”

Akito was quiet again.

Toya could hear faint noise from his side of the call. Maybe a car outside. Maybe someone in the hallway of Akito’s building. The sound made the distance between them feel more real.

“You don’t have to show me anything you don’t want to,” Akito said.

“I know.”

“Okay.”

“I want to.”

Akito stopped breathing for a second.

Toya held the phone tighter.

“I want to show you my room,” he said. “Eventually.”

The word mattered.

Eventually did not mean tonight. It did not mean Toya was ready to bring Akito into the house, or introduce him to his father, or explain every piece of his life that he had kept separate.

But it meant Toya could imagine it.

Akito’s voice was very quiet when he replied.

“Okay.”

Toya listened.

There was no sharpness in it. No hurt. Only something careful.

“I’d like that,” Akito said.

Toya’s chest warmed.

The silence that followed was not empty.

He could hear Akito breathing.

He could hear himself.

That was enough for a little while.

Then Akito said, “What does your room look like?”

Toya blinked.

“You said you wanted to show me,” Akito continued. “You don’t have to. I just thought maybe you could tell me.”

Toya looked around.

The question should have been simple.

But no one asked Toya about his room. Not really. His father might tell him when it needed tidying. His brothers would occasionally knock before entering. Guests did not come upstairs.

The room was private in a way that did not always feel like privacy. Sometimes it felt more like isolation.

“It is small,” Toya said.

Akito was silent.

“There is a bed against the wall,” Toya continued. “My desk is beside the window. I have a bookshelf, but most of the shelves have sheet music on them. There is a chair that creaks if I sit down too quickly.”

Akito made a small sound of acknowledgment.

“My piano books are stacked on the desk. They are organized by composer, but I have not reorganized them since I started doing street music.”

“Why not?”

Toya thought.

“I do not know where to put the new music.”

Akito was quiet for a moment.

Then he said, “Put it wherever you want.”

Toya stopped.

The answer was simple.

Too simple.

“I can do that?” he asked.

Akito’s voice softened. “Yeah. It’s your room.”

Toya looked at his desk.

The stack of classical scores stood neatly on one side. His notebooks for Vivid BAD SQUAD were in a smaller pile near the edge, slightly uneven because he had not yet decided whether they belonged on the shelf.

It was a small thing.

But his throat tightened anyway.

“I want to put them together,” he said.

“Then do it.”

Toya hesitated.

“Now?”

“Why not?”

His father was downstairs.

His room was quiet.

His phone was pressed to his ear.

Toya stood up.

“Okay,” he said.

He crossed to the desk and set his phone on speaker, keeping it close enough that he could hear Akito. The call screen glowed on the tabletop.

“You’re doing it now?” Akito asked.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“You told me to put them where I want.”

Akito went silent.

Toya opened the drawer beside his desk and took out the Vivid BAD SQUAD notebooks. There were lyric sheets, set lists, notes from rehearsals, rough drafts of songs. Some pages had Akito’s handwriting in the margins—messy, dark, slanted hard enough that the pen had nearly torn the paper.

Toya had kept every one.

He did not tell Akito that.

Not yet.

He moved the classical scores over.

The sound of paper sliding across wood filled the room.

Then he placed the street-music notebooks beside them.

Not separate.

Not hidden in the drawer.

Together.

“There,” Toya said.

Akito did not reply.

Toya looked at the phone.

“Akito?”

“I’m here.”

“You are quiet.”

“I know.”

“Why?”

Akito let out a shaky breath.

“Because you’re making me emotional over a bookshelf.”

Toya blinked.

“I’m sorry.”

“No.” Akito laughed, but his voice was rough. “Don’t be sorry. It’s just—”

He stopped.

Toya waited.

“It matters,” Akito said.

Toya looked at the books.

The neat, printed names of composers. The scratched labels on folders from their rehearsals. Two parts of his life touching at the edges.

“It does,” Toya said.

He sat back down on the bed.

The call remained on speaker, Akito’s name glowing from the desk.

For a moment, Toya wondered whether he should pick the phone up again. Whether putting it down was rude. Whether Akito could hear him breathing too loudly from across the room.

“Are you still there?” Akito asked.

“Yes.”

“You moved away from the phone.”

“I am on my bed.”

“Okay.”

Toya pulled his knees up, resting his arms around them.

“I am tired,” he said.

“Yeah. It’s late.”

“No. I mean…” Toya stared at the carpet. “I am tired from thinking.”

Akito was silent for a moment.

“Do you want to sleep?”

“I do not want to hang up.”

The confession came out so softly that Toya almost hoped Akito had not heard it.

He had.

“I don’t want to hang up either,” Akito said.

Toya’s chest hurt.

“But you need sleep,” Akito continued. “And I do too.”

“I know.”

“We can talk tomorrow.”

“I know.”

“Toya.”

“I understand.”

Akito laughed quietly.

Then the laughter faded.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said.

The sentence should have been ordinary. They saw each other almost every day.

But tonight, it felt like a promise.

Toya looked toward his dark window.

“Yes,” he said. “Tomorrow.”

“Text me when you wake up.”

“I will.”

“And don’t just send a sticker.”

“I will send words.”

“Good.”

Toya hesitated.

There was something he wanted to say.

He did not know whether saying it now would be too much. He did not know whether Akito would be embarrassed. He did not know whether it would make hanging up harder.

But he wanted to say it.

“Akito?”

“Yeah?”

Toya held his breath.

“Goodnight,” he said.

There was a pause.

Then, carefully, “Goodnight, Toya.”

Toya waited.

Akito did not hang up.

Toya could hear him breathing.

“Akito,” Toya said again.

“What?”

“I want to say something else.”

“Okay.”

Toya pressed his fingers into the blanket.

“I love you.”

The room went silent.

For a second, Toya thought the call had disconnected.

Then Akito inhaled.

Not sharply.

Not like he had been surprised by a compliment.

Like Toya had reached through the phone and touched something tender.

“Toya,” Akito said.

His voice shook.

Toya’s heart began to race.

“I said it wrong,” he whispered.

“No.” Akito’s answer came immediately. “No, you didn’t.”

“Then why are you quiet?”

“Because I love you too.”

Toya stopped breathing.

Akito laughed softly, nervous and unsteady.

“I’ve loved you for a long time,” he said. “I thought you knew. Or I thought you didn’t. I don’t know. I’m bad at this too.”

Toya pressed the heel of his hand against his eyes.

His chest hurt in a way that was not pain.

“I did not know,” he said.

“I know.”

Toya let out a shaky laugh.

Akito did too.

For a moment, neither of them said anything.

They did not need to.

Then Akito said, “Goodnight, boyfriend.”

Toya’s face warmed.

“Goodnight,” he said.

He paused.

Then, because he wanted to try:

“Goodnight, boyfriend.”

Akito made a small, strangled sound on the other end of the line.

Toya smiled into the dark.

Toya stayed awake for another ten minutes after the call ended.

He had meant to sleep.

That had been the plan. He had changed into pajamas, placed his phone face-down on the desk, and turned off the lamp. He had arranged himself beneath the blankets and closed his eyes.

Then his brain had refused.

Every time Toya began to settle, the conversation replayed.

I love you.

I love you too.

The words were too large to fit comfortably inside him.

He turned onto his side.

Then onto his back.

Then onto his other side.

His room was dark except for the thin strip of light beneath the curtains. The bookshelf stood across from him, impossible to see clearly but easy to picture. Classical scores beside street-music notebooks. Everything he had been told he should become placed beside the thing he had chosen for himself.

And Akito had said it mattered.

Toya reached for his phone.

He knew he should not.

They had said goodnight. Akito needed sleep. Toya needed sleep. Sending another message now might make Akito think something was wrong.

But Toya could not stop thinking about one part of the call.

He opened their messages.

The thread was still near the bottom, filled with the small things from the walk home: I am at the station. I am on the train. I am walking now.

Toya’s thumb hovered over the keyboard.

Then he typed:

Toya Are you asleep?

He stared at it.

Deleted it.

Typed again.

Toya I know we said goodnight. I am sorry.

Deleted that too.

The word sorry looked wrong now. Not because he did not feel it. He did. But Akito had asked him not to turn every feeling into an apology.

Toya placed the phone on his chest.

It buzzed.

He jolted so hard he almost dropped it.

Akito no

A second message followed.

Akito why are you awake

Toya stared at the screen.

Toya I am thinking.

The typing bubble appeared.

Akito Shocking.

Then:

Akito What are you thinking about?

Toya looked at the ceiling.

He could answer honestly.

He had told Akito he wanted to tell him when he was scared. He had told him he wanted to try.

Toya You called me boyfriend.

The response took longer than Toya expected.

Then:

Akito You called me that too.

Toya I know.

Akito There it is.

Toya’s mouth twitched.

Toya I understand.

Akito Stop.

Toya held the phone close.

A new message appeared.

Akito Was it bad?

Toya frowned.

Toya No.

Akito Then why are you thinking about it like it’s an exam question?

Toya considered this.

Toya Because it was new.

There was a pause.

Akito Yeah.

Then:

Akito It’s new for me too.

Toya’s chest tightened.

He had not considered that enough.

Akito had sounded confident at the crosswalk. He had said what he wanted. He had teased Toya for freezing. He had made the word seem easy, even if his face had been red.

But confidence was not the same as certainty.

Toya Are you afraid?

The typing bubble appeared, disappeared, then appeared again.

Akito A little.

Toya stared at the message.

Akito Not of you.

Then:

Akito Well. Not exactly.

Toya’s stomach dropped.

Toya What does that mean?

Akito’s reply came slowly.

Akito It means I’m scared I’ll mess this up.

Toya sat up in bed.

Toya You will not.

Akito You don’t know that.

Toya I know you.

There was a long pause.

Then:

Akito You say that like it fixes everything.

Toya read the words carefully.

They did not seem angry. The message lacked the sharpness of earlier. But there was something heavy under it.

Toya thought about the call. About Akito admitting that he got mean when he was hurt. About the way he had said he did not want Toya to feel as though he needed permission to have feelings.

Maybe Akito was not asking to be reassured.

Maybe he was telling the truth.

Toya You are right.

The typing bubble appeared.

Toya I do not know that you will not make mistakes.

A moment passed.

Toya But I know that you care when you do.

Akito did not reply.

Toya’s fingers moved again.

Toya You apologized to me today.

Toya You listened.

Toya You asked me what I needed.

He paused, then added:

Toya I think that matters more.

The typing bubble appeared and stayed.

Finally:

Akito You really mean that?

Toya’s throat tightened.

Toya Yes.

Akito Okay.

Then:

Akito I’m gonna believe you.

Toya smiled into the dark.

He set the phone down beside him.

It buzzed again.

Akito Also, don’t get used to saying boyfriend all the time.

Toya blinked.

Toya Why?

Akito It’s embarrassing.

Toya You said it first.

Akito I know. I made a mistake.

Toya’s mouth lifted.

Toya I liked it.

The reply came after a longer pause.

Akito Yeah?

Toya Yes.

Akito …okay.

Then:

Akito Still embarrassing.

Toya pressed his lips together, trying not to laugh too loudly.

He looked at the screen.

The word boyfriend remained in the messages between them.

He knew he would look at it again tomorrow.

Maybe many times.

But Akito was right.

They were not going to call each other that constantly. It was too direct somehow. Too revealing. Every time the word appeared, it made Toya feel as though the floor had shifted beneath him.

He did not dislike that feeling.

He just did not think he could survive it ten times a day.

His phone buzzed once more.

Akito Sleep, bro.

Toya stared at the message.

The warmth in his chest changed shape.

It was still warmth, but it had an edge now. A small, unwelcome discomfort that tightened behind his ribs.

Bro.

Akito had probably meant it as a joke. Or perhaps he had needed something familiar after saying too many sincere things. Akito often did that—made a sharp comment after being vulnerable, as if he needed to prove he had not become too soft.

Toya knew that.

But the word felt wrong.

It took all the fragile newness of boyfriend and pushed it away.

Toya’s fingers hovered over the keyboard.

He could ignore it.

He could say goodnight.

He could tell himself that it did not matter.

But he had told Akito he would say something when he was scared. He had asked Akito not to decide what Toya meant before Toya could say it.

This was smaller than the things they had talked about tonight.

It still mattered.

Toya Please do not call me that.

The typing bubble appeared immediately.

Then stopped.

For several seconds, there was nothing.

Toya’s stomach dropped.

He had said it too bluntly. He had forgotten to make it gentle. Akito would think he was angry. He would think Toya was rejecting him over one harmless word.

A message appeared.

Akito Sorry.

Toya’s chest tightened.

Then:

Akito I was joking. I didn’t think.

Toya looked at the screen.

Toya I know you were joking.

Akito Did it upset you?

Toya thought.

Toya It made me uncomfortable.

The typing bubble appeared.

Akito Because we just said we’re together?

Toya looked at the ceiling.

Toya Yes.

Then, after a moment:

Toya I think it made it feel less real.

There was a long pause.

Toya’s heart beat too loudly in the quiet room.

Then Akito sent:

Akito Oh.

Toya stared at the single word.

He could not see Akito’s face. He could not hear his voice. He did not know whether oh meant Akito understood, or whether he was hurt, or whether Toya had made him regret everything again.

His fingers began moving too quickly.

Toya I do not mean that being called bro means we are not together.

He deleted it.

Tried again.

Toya I know it is not a serious word.

He deleted that too.

Finally, he typed:

Toya I want this to feel real.

The reply came slowly.

Akito It does feel real.

Toya waited.

Then:

Akito I guess I said it because it got too real and I panicked.

Toya’s breath caught.

He stared at the message.

Akito had panicked too.

Not only earlier, when Toya pulled away. Not only when he feared Toya did not want him. Even now, while they were alone in their own rooms, safe behind separate doors, he was still trying to learn how to be loved without flinching.

Toya understood that.

Toya I panicked too.

Akito Yeah?

Toya Yes.

Akito What did you do?

Toya looked at the messages above.

He considered lying.

He did not want to admit that he had been staring at the word boyfriend until it made his chest hurt. He did not want to say that he had almost cried after Akito said he loved him. He did not want Akito to think Toya was making every little thing into a crisis.

But he had asked.

Toya I could not sleep.

A pause.

Then:

Akito Because of me?

Toya frowned.

Toya Because I was happy.

There was no response for nearly a minute.

Toya began counting the seconds without meaning to.

At thirty-seven, he stopped himself.

At fifty-one, the typing bubble appeared.

Akito Aki—

The message appeared and then vanished.

Toya stared.

Then another message arrived.

Akito I almost called you something stupid.

Toya’s face warmed.

Toya What?

Akito Nothing.

Toya’s fingers tightened around the phone.

Toya Akito.

A pause.

Akito I was gonna call you babe.

Toya stared at the screen.

His entire body went warm and uncomfortable at once.

Not bad.

Just too much.

Too intimate in a way he was not prepared for. Too unfamiliar. Too much like the kind of word people said in movies or songs when they already knew exactly how to be together.

Toya did not know how to answer.

The typing bubble appeared again.

Akito Never mind. That was stupid. I’m not going to call you that.

Toya’s chest tightened.

He did not want Akito to think the word itself was bad. He did not want him to feel ashamed for almost saying it.

But he also could not pretend it made him feel good.

Toya I do not think it is stupid.

Akito replied quickly.

Akito You don’t have to pretend.

Toya I am not pretending.

Then:

Toya It just makes me nervous.

The typing bubble appeared.

Akito Because it’s too much?

Toya read the words.

Toya Yes.

Akito Okay.

Toya stared at okay.

This time, he made himself wait instead of immediately asking what it meant.

A second message arrived.

Akito Then I won’t call you that.

Then:

Akito We don’t need pet names.

Toya exhaled.

Toya Thank you.

Akito You’re welcome.

A pause.

Akito What do you want me to call you?

Toya blinked.

The answer should have been obvious.

His name.

But the question made him realize that Akito said it differently from other people.

An called him Toya in a way that was easy and bright. Kohane said it gently, sometimes with a little hesitation when she was nervous. His father said it formally, like a correction waiting to happen.

Akito said Toya as though it mattered.

As though the name itself belonged in his mouth.

Toya Toya is good.

There was a pause.

Then:

Akito Just Toya?

Toya’s fingers paused.

He looked at the screen.

He had not thought about it. Not fully.

There was one shortened version of Akito’s name that sometimes rose in his thoughts without permission. He had never said it aloud. It was too familiar. Too soft. It felt like something he would only be allowed to use if Akito said he could.

Toya swallowed.

Toya Can I call you Aki sometimes?

The typing bubble appeared immediately.

Stopped.

Appeared again.

Then there was nothing.

Toya’s chest tightened.

He had overstepped.

It was not a pet name, exactly. It was only a shortened name. But maybe it was too close. Maybe Akito hated it. Maybe Toya had made it sound childish.

Toya You do not have to say yes.

Akito replied instantly.

Akito No, I want you to.

Toya stopped.

Another message followed.

Akito I mean. Yeah. You can call me that.

Then:

Akito Just don’t say it in front of everyone tomorrow.

Toya’s face warmed.

Toya Why?

Akito Because I’ll die.

Toya stared at the message.

Toya You will not die.

Akito You know what I mean.

Toya I do not.

Akito You absolutely do.

Toya smiled.

Then he typed:

Toya Okay, Aki.

The message sent.

Toya froze.

He had not planned to use it immediately.

The typing bubble appeared.

It remained for a long time.

Then:

Akito You did that on purpose.

Toya’s heart pounded.

Toya You said I could.

Akito I know.

Toya You said you wanted me to.

Akito I know.

Toya waited.

Finally:

Akito Say it again.

Toya’s face went hot.

He pressed his phone against the blanket, as though hiding it would help.

Toya Aki.

The reply did not come right away.

When it did, it was only:

Akito yeah

Then:

Akito Okay. I’m sleeping now before you make me say something embarrassing again.

Toya held the phone close.

Toya Goodnight, Aki.

There was a pause.

Akito Goodnight, Toya.

Then, after several seconds:

Akito Mine.

Toya stared at the screen.

His heart stopped.

Then started again too fast.

The message disappeared.

Akito had unsent it.

Toya could see the small notice in its place.

Message unsent.

For one long second, he did not know what to do.

He knew what the message had said.

Akito knew Toya had seen it.

The silence between them became enormous.

Then a new message appeared.

Akito Ignore that.