M i k i

⟡ keiji loves your hands in any condition and always treats them gently. after a long day at work or whatever else you've been doing he'll come over to massage them a little bit, pressing kisses to your knuckles and fingertips. to him, they're the hands that work so hard to bring you two the life you want, and so he adores them. plus, the better loved your hands are, the better they'll feel gripped on his back when he....shows you how much he loves you

⟡ he loves to lay in your lap while you recap the events of your entire day. you're on your couch, keiji's head draped across your thighs. he smiles gently, tugging your fingers to comb through his hair. as always, he melts into your touch. your day doesn't have to be eventful for him to love these recaps — he simply enjoys the sound of your voice talking through a cute mug you found, or pretty places you want to visit with him. it's his favorite part of the day, being enveleoped in your scent, your voice, and feeling your lips pepper kisses to his forehead every now and then.

⟡ a guilty pleasure of his is sitting between your thighs as you read. in his personal opinion, books are so much more interesting when he's kissing your legs, pressing kisses behind your knees, and watching your thighs shake in anticipation. "what was that?" he mumbles, his lips slowly inching up your thigh. your face flushes, the book trembling in your grasp. "t-the main character is about to fight the prince. she thinks he's evil." you shiver when keiji's tongue traces a heart into your inner thigh. "oh?"

SUGAWARA KOUSHI:

⟡ koushi loves carrying you bridal style. there's something so whimsical about lifting you off your feet, holding your weight in his arms. he's especially happy when you loop your arms around his head and lean in to give him a kiss. he feels like the prince in a manhwa or shoujo manga

⟡ he loves kissing your neck. koushi is a big enthusiast of lazy makeouts. he traces little hearts into your skin when he presses you against the wall, his lips tracing a heated path down your neck, collarbone, and dipping to kiss your sternum. he does it specifically so he can feel your hands wrapped into his shirt, the sweet little hitches of your breath spurring him further

⟡ he loves when you just lay on top of him. there's something so comforting about it, his hands wrapping firmly around your waist and burying his face into the crook of your neck. he could just disappear from the world. usually these cuddle sessions stay wholesome until his hands wander beneath your shirt. he says it's just to feel the warmth of your skin, but before no time he's flipped you over and pulled one of your legs over his hips.

KITA SHINSUKE:

⟡ shinsuke loves holding your hands when you walk together. there's something so divinely perfect about the feel of your hand in his, your fingers lacing together like puzzle pieces that were crafted together. he can hold your hand for what feels like centuries, rubbing his thumb gently across your skin to remind you that he'll forever be by your side. when he gets the chance, he slides his lips over your knuckles, a reverent pledge of love

⟡ if you have any moles on your body, shinsuke kisses every single one of them. your arms. your legs. your chest. your face. his personal opinion is that it's a little personal treasure that he gets to find and cherish. he firmly believes in the idea that your moles are where your soulmates kissed you the most in a previous life. he ensures he kisses every part of your body enough so that if there's ever another birth where he finds you, you'll be covered in all the relics of his love

⟡ when the two of you make love, he's not done until you're done. the first time he told you this, he was so earnest about it, and sure you believed him, but you never thought it could be like this. "shin!" you choke out desperately, hands scrambling to grip something, anything. kita's lips drag down to your neck, nibbling ever so slightly, his one free hand wrapped around your back to keep you close. you whimper into his mouth, overwhelmed by the sensations of his hands doing things nobody's hands should be able to do. "is this alright?" he smiles, leaning to kiss your forehead sweetly while your thighs tremble around his hands. "ya' deserve to feel so good."

DAICHI SAWAMURA:

⟡ sawamura adores back hugs, especially when you're in his clothing. it's morning — early, but not enough to be offensive, and you're in his old jersey from his karasuno days, hung as a relic in his closet. he pauses at the sight of you, dripped in sunlight and angelic, thanking whatever force gave him this sight. he pads over on the kitchen tiles, sliding up behind you and wrapping his arms around your waist. in his arms, you're warm and secure

⟡ he loves having a hand on you at all times. it doesn't matter what it is you're doing, but he'll always be around. when shopping for groceries, he has an arm around your waist (it's just potatoes, but he's invested in them if you're beside him). you're working on a project and his hands massage your shoulders. you're watching a movie and suddenly, he's shifted you onto his lap. it's for warmth and comfort (he claims), but the reality is he's addicted to your presence

⟡ he might not seem it, but he is a hickies kind of man. there's something so.....romantic, he thinks, leaving hickies where nobody else can see them. it's your little secret. however, his style isn't just bite and bruise. no. it's not a good hickey if you can feel it at all. "oh my goodness." you shudder, a vice grip on his arm as his lips suck kisses into your skin. "please don't make me wait." daichi smirks. "you and i both know they feel better when you're blissed out. let me take care of you." with a grin, he goes back to trailing his kisses down your stomach.

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pspsps tags: @cowboylo @karnevil @brooksviolin

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ｡ﾟ ⊹ㅤwanderer !ㅤ

if you think the easiest way to fluster this man is by staring at him with that lovesick look in your eyes, then you're absolutely correct.

he could be minding his business and you'd take your place beside or in front of him, and after a few minutes he can just feel the way you stare at him. your eyes burn into his skin, but not in the way he'd grow uncomfortable under your gaze, instead, in the way he could feel his face heat up.

he would huff before looking up at you, about to nag you for staring, but he always finds his words locked in his throat when he locks eyes with you. archons, the way you look at him is always so hypnotizing, it makes him feel vulnerable in a way that he'll never admit he likes.

he tsks, "can't you go, i don't know even just a minute, without staring at me ?" he snaps his fingers in front of your face, causing you to hum and look away from him. no, no don't stop staring. i didn't tell you to stop. his eyebrows furrow.

you chuckled, "sorry sorry," you turn back to him, chin resting on your palm, "i can't help it when you're so handsome." and you just had to back that up with a grin. archons you were doing this on purpose !

as much as he tries to fight back the warmth in his chest and the shudder your voice sent through his body, the shaky breathe he let out betrayed him as he opted to look back to the textbook he was reviewing.

he stuttered, "w - whatever ! just stop staring so much." before burying his nose back into the textbook as you laughed at him. "i can try ~"

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ｡ﾟ ⊹ㅤshikanoin heizou !ㅤ

in your relationship, it's usually heizou doing the flustering. and he does a whole lot of that staring too, especially when you're busy and he happens to be bored out of his mind, but ironically enough it's his weakness too. especially like this . .

the two of you had a free afternoon ahead of you, and what better way to spend it than to wind down in a hot spring ? you stepped into the water first, beckoning heizou to join you.

he turned his back to you, rather shy to take off his shirt, and you happened to make him even shyer by whistling once he slipped his shirt off. he turned to you over his shoulder, a smirk on his shocked red face, only for you to return a cheeky grin as you leaned against the rocks of the spring.

he shook his head, choosing to retaliate by teasing further. "so, you like what you see ?" he turned to you, hands on his hips with confidence that you'll be the one turning red, only to watch your eyes look him up and down. "yeah, yeah i do." you hummed, closing your eyes, missing the way heizou's face burned up again.

he cleared his throat, now stepping into the spring and taking a seat beside you, trying his best to brush off your gaze on him. since when did you know how to look at him like that ? he leans back, relaxing in the warmth of the spring and closing his eyes.

"if i get to see this sight everytime i take you here, i might just buy this entire place for ourselves." you spoke, piquing heizou's attention as he opened his eyes to turn to you, and not even the heat of the spring could compare to the heat he felt on his face as he met your gaze.

he chuckled, embarrassed, "well, aren't you bold today ?" he tried to tease, scratching the back of his neck. "why, don't you like it ?" you joked, cupping his chin to make him look at you, earning a shy smile from him. "i do, i do like it actually."

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ｡ﾟ ⊹ㅤalatus xiao !

being new to the concept of expressions and reactions to certain antics, xiao is easily flustered, though he is yet to realize it.

"is it a natural habit for you mortals to. . stare ?" he quizzed without looking at you, his eyes still closed as he savored the rich flavor of the almond tofu you had brought him. he opened one eye slowly and gazed at you you from the corner of it, perking up to the sound of you chuckling softly to yourself. "i suppose you can say that," you waved a hand in front of you.

"more like, it's natural for us to stare at something, or someone, we find interesting, puzzling, or alluring." xiao now fully turned to face you in curiosity, the bowl of half-eaten almond tofu set on the fencing of the balcony.

there was an emphasis on alluring, he mentally noted. was that intentional ?

"i see, so, which do i fall under ?" he asked, his gaze now fixated on you with an emotion you couldn't quite decipher. you tilted your head at him, "what ?" "do you. . stare at me because i'm interesting, puzzling, or —" "alluring." you smiled at the way amber eyes seemed to widen for just a split second before they were replaced with the back view of messy sacramento green locks as the male turned away from you.

"i stare at you because you're alluring, xiao. very alluring, even." you hummed, leaning your elbow against the fence of the balcony and resting your chin on your palm ever so casually, watching and noting the way his shoulders tensed then relaxed.

he might consider being thankful that your view was locked on his back, hence you couldn't see the humiliating red he could feel his face burst into. he tried to clear his throat, his hand grabbing the bowl of almond tofu and spooning the rest into his mouth to distract himself.

"every part of you is alluring, even how red your ears are." and at your words, one of his hands reflexively came up to cover his ear, causing you to laugh out loud as the adeptus turned to glare at you lightly.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ｡ﾟ ⊹ㅤkamisato ayato !ㅤ

if this man thinks he's not easy to win over, he is funnily mistaken.

sure he's the smoother one with words, he knows all the right words and habits to adapt to make you swoon. but other than that, he's more vulnerable to your simple antics as he lets off.

"ayato," the way you'd say his name and drag on the last syllable, as if cooing at him, how he loves it. "ayato," the way your touch would linger on him even at the lightest taps, something so simple could tug his lips upward into a grin. "ayato !" a soft hit to the back of his head caused him to turn to you, finally.

"ah - good afternoon, darling." "i called your name three times ?" "ye. . yes, pardon me. i thought i was lost in my imagination again." he admitted as he took your hand in his and kissed your knuckles gently.

you hummed, "and what was so engrossing about your imaginations this time ?" you questioned, taking a seat next to him while his hand rested on your waist, now leaning his head against yours. "you, i was just thinking about you." he hums, "you smell sweet."

and a few minutes of comfortable silence followed after, enveloping the two of you in a rare calming atmosphere, ayato's head was now laid in your lap as you stroked his hair softly. ayato then started to feel your gaze on him, by how familiar it was. he smiled, looking up at you.

"staring much ?" he teased, sharing laughter with you as you playfully messed with his bangs. "i can't help it, you're very pretty like this."

"only like this ?" ... "stop staring at me, darling, answer my question." ... "please ?"

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ｡ﾟ ⊹ㅤchilde !

"childe."

now, you wholeheartedly think your boyfriend's eyes are pretty, regardless of how lifeless they are whenever he's not gazing at you like this.

"tartaglia."

but, at this moment, you can't help but find them a little bit irking. just a little bit. just a tad.

"ajax."

it's the third call of his name, yet he's still sitting there, chin on his palm and everything, with that smug smile on his face ! while you're here, trying to cook a full course meal, he's sitting there staring at you like you're the food.

but in his defense, is there a law against admiring your lover ? there better not be ! he's done nothing but sit there innocently, just drinking in your pretty face, because if he can't do it no one else can !

it's when you softly pinch his side—not enough to hurt, but enough to make him snap out of his daze—that he finally raises his hands up in surrender. "what, i can't ogle at my own darling lover anymore ?" he makes a show of jutting his bottom lip out in a pout, but you just huffed at his antics. "you can, if you would actually help me cook." "help as in ?" "cut some carrots maybe." "but i can't stare at you intently if i'm cutting something." "maybe that's the point."

ah, how you wound him.. kidding, a day without your attitude is a day incomplete for him. he fakes a sigh before standing up from his chair. he grabs a chopping board, a knife, and a few carrots, then gets to work.

it's a few minutes later that he feels your eyes on him, so from over his shoulder he turns to see you, in your seat with your cheek propped up against your fist, smiling at him. he grins, "now you're staring at me." "what, i can't ogle at my own boyfriend anymore ?"

he raises an eyebrow at the way you turned his words back onto him, but he laughs nonetheless before shaking his head and going back to work, assuming you would too.

you did not go back to work. he could still feel your eyes burning into his back. and he would never, ever—he would, out of the blue just to fluster you one day—admit that it was starting to shake his focus. his cuts were starting to get uneven as a result.

"are you going to keep staring at me ?" "is there a law against me admiring my handsome boyfriend ?"

alright, you win. just this once.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ© amaiaqt, 2023 ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤdo not plagiarize !

You meet an adorable lamb on your way to the neighborhood when you’re a child.

He’s sweet-smelling and soft in the face, fluffy like a Maltese with fur the color of brown sugar. There is a wide-eyed cherubic gloss to his violet gaze, so credulous and saccharine that you grow sick in the stomach just looking at him. But you can excuse your nausea, because he’s so adorable and affectionate, skin milk white and blemishless.

Alexis Ness might just be the most innocuous little lamb you’ve ever met.

He’s six and you are as well, but Mother always told you that you were wise beyond your years, an adult residing within the confines of young flesh. Alexis is dreamy and silky, so pristine and untouched by sin, and it’s this virtue that first draws you to him. Mother likes him because she likes his parents, who are all elegant and sophisticated in a way that Alexis is not. That’s alright, because you like him better this way anyways.

The first time you invite Alexis to church is when your father passes away. His funeral is held in the cathedral that your uncle is the priest of, and the event is mournful and drowsy and so terribly boring that you can barely hold in your yawns. The emotion that chokes up the room feels suffocating, unnecessarily heavy. You don’t particularly think highly of your father. He’s too abrasive, too effusive and wayward, and the only part that you don’t find bland is during the requiem mass. When the dozens of rosy-cheeked children vocalize hymns through their soprano voices, you are reminded of Ness through their glassy eyes. When you glance over at him, his face is enraptured in the magic of it all, mouth agape, saliva trickling onto his bottom lip. 

After your father’s passing, Mother distances herself from the Church. She never liked the people in your father’s fellowship, all rendered dumb and starstruck by the force of an invisible God she loathed to believe in. She expects you to follow her in atheism, but you don’t.

Instead, you begin to drag Alexis to Sunday Mass.

Perhaps it is because the idea of a higher being fascinates you most. When Father Gottfried preaches that the Holy Father knows the thoughts of all his children during the Children’s Ministry, you feel elated to the core, consumed by an appetite for scripture. You’ve never had a single person understand your mind, you in your strange, impassive temperament, too mature for your eleven-year-old body. In a world driven by emotion, would God and his unrelenting principles understand you in all your detached disillusionment? Would a God be able to conjure a purpose for you? A passion for life that you so intrinsically lack?

Alexis is equally enamored by the newfound faith you both share, though differently from you. He stares at you with not just his glassy-eyed virtue, but the spellbound belief of a boy changed by Christ. You see him kneel in hallowed prayer in front of the gilded portrait of an unknown seraphim in the Cathedral gallery, through the crack of the door that separates your aloof desire for a rational God from true reverence. 

Sometimes, you see feathered wings unfurl from Alexis’s back as he mumbles in tongues below his breath. Logic tells you that you are imagining it, but your heart says otherwise.

The two of you grow in this way, so bound to each other through the fascination of the Heavenly Father, through the ungodliness of both your families. Trying to convince your mother to return to the church is fruitless labor, and you quit your efforts after a few months of pleading. Alexis, however, is unrelenting in his pursuit of converting his family, even when they reject him, sending him sniffling and whimpering in your arms. You find this sort of infantile stubbornness adorable, and you imagine this is what God must feel when he stares upon the faces of his tenacious followers.

You gift Alexis a Bible on his fifteenth birthday. Mother had given you some money, told you to spoil your best friend, buy him a soccer ball or a sports jersey like all boys his age loved. You did just that, but the Bible you bought is with your own money, saved up from doing various errands across the months. Alexis is flushed crimson at your gifts, eyes staring at you with honeyed delight as he embraces you with fervor. You hadn’t realized how tall he’d gotten, how well built his physique was from years of football. When he pulls away, it is impossible to deny the beauty crafted upon his features, his amethyst eyes the magnus opus of God’s creations.

He’s so happy, he tells you, he’s so happy that he might kiss you.

You allow him to. You do not think of it as unholy or obscene; rather, you see it rather like a venerated son of God bestowing devotion upon his fellow disciple in Christ. It was fellowship at the most intimate level.

You disregard the sinful fluttering of your heart as his mouth claims yours. After all, Alexis is the embodiment of chastity, innocent and sanctified like a babe in the womb, archangel Gabriel in mortal form. That sensation you feel is simply a biological response crafted by Satan to lure you into defiling God’s virtue.

If Alexis is chastity embodied, then you must be temperance incarnate. If Alexis is Gabriel the Divine Herald, then you must be Michael the Heavenly Commander. The two of you must be the right and left hands of the Heavenly Father, the archangels under His realm.

But Michael is a name already taken by another.

Alexis calls him Michael, but his name really is Mihya. He is vermin, you think, a serpent in the Eden you have crafted between yourself and Alexis. Instead of Michael, Kaiser ought to be named Lucifer. 

Alexis, the innocent thing, falls victim to the masked sin of Kaiser. He follows him around like a puppy dog, crawling around his trail with a rabid sort of engagement, as if he is forced by some external force to worship. Kaiser has become Alexis’s idol, a distraction from the calling of God.

You only see Kaiser from afar, away on a field you cannot access. He seems almost alien, golden hair stained sapphire blue, flesh etched with ink burgeoned into the petals of an azure rose. Ness is rapt with attention as he gazes at him, doe eyes alight in indigo familiarity, hands curled into his side as if he is repressing the urge to touch him. There is a certain desperation in Ness when it comes to Kaiser, a sort of uncompared longing for the cold Mihya’s approval.

For weeks, you barely see Ness. Every time, you assume it is because he has gone off with Kaiser, practicing football and getting berated for not giving his “emperor” the perfect passes. Alexis ends up a perspiring dog of a boy afterward, slick with sweat and flushed from exertion, flesh damp from the fruits of his labor. There are fig-like bruises booming on his milky legs, which have grown athletic and taut from his arduous endeavors, tainted muscle cut and blue.

“Nothing I can ever do can ever satisfy him,” he mumbles to you as you clean off the blades of grass off his knees, dried blood staining your towelette black. “Michael is too good for me. He wants to replace me with someone better. I suppose he’ll do away with me when my purpose is served.”

You wrap his calf in gauze. “Why do you talk like that? Of course he won’t discard you, as long as you two are on the same team. You told me that he said you were his perfect defender, no?”

You know nothing of Kaiser, really, except he has reduced Alexis to a self-doubting shadow of his previous light. Alexis is excellent at football, especially to you, who knows nothing of the sport, and you are astonished that Kaiser could serve to seed doubt within Alexis. Alexis speaks of him as if he were the second coming of the messiah, saying his name with a reverence he once held only for God. 

“I…I don’t know!” Alexis curls his fists against his face, hiding behind the lengths of his pale fingers. “I’m a poor excuse of a defender, that’s what. Kaiser thinks I’m a shitty player–” you frown at his swearing. “--and he’s right.”

There’s something odd about Alexis when he talks about Kaiser. There is a certain veneration one should reserve only for God, yet Alexis wastes all his on the blonde striker. Alexis talks about Kaiser with all the stars in the sky contained inside his eyes, a swirling mixture of inadequacy and awe, one that fills you with unease. He seems to have separated himself from God; before his speech was filled with the praises of the Lord, but now he only praises Kaiser.

A part of his innocence is lost, and Kaiser is the reason why.

Kaiser, who propels his opponents to kneel before him after each victory, who feeds on his pride and ego like the devil himself, who upraises Alexis up with cherished compliments before tearing him down with a guttural slice to the heart. Kaiser, a boy carved from ice, so awe-inspring yet cruel, as if Alexis’s very existence was a bane to his ilk.

Poor Alexis, you think, as the glassiness of his eyes condenses into fat droplets that run down his lovely face, dribbling onto the skin of your shoulder as you console him over another one of Kaiser’s jabs. It crosses your mind to think what Alexis must have done to inspire such viciousness in the man he admires so much, a man who would usually treat others with disinterested superiority.

To you, Alexis has committed no sin except for well-intentioned naivety. He is pure, untainted, agape to the corruption and misery that Kaiser could inflict on him.

On Sunday, Alexis skips Mass for the first time in years. Later at night, when he knocks on your door, eyes every bit as earnest and glassy as they were when he was six, he furrows his eyebrows in visible upset when he knots his arms around you.

“I’m sorry, I really am,” he cries into your shoulder, curling into your body like a lamb to his mother. “Kaiser said that I had to go train with him. I really wanted to see you today.”

You stroke his back comfortingly. The rivets of his back muscles fall appropriately in the grooves of your knuckles, and your touch seems to calm Alexis down. “Apologize to God, Alexis. Not to me.”

Alexis lets out a confused whimper as you pull away from him. “...Oh. Yes, to God. I’ll do just that.”

“Good boy.” You ruffle his hair affectionately. “It’s getting late, isn’t it? Walking home might take some time. You’re welcome to stay the night if you want.”

Alexis perks up, delight coloring his face into the warmest shades of peach. “Really? Yes–yes, I’d love to!”

You offer to sleep on the couch that night, but Alexis bunches his face up in pleading anguish and you give in, partially in complacency, partially in prideful vengeance for Micheal who has stolen away Alexis’s attentions. As the two of you lie onto your tiny twin bed, Alexis on top of you, he asks you a question. 

“How is humanity so sure that God has not abandoned them?”

You hum in response. It’s rather nice, you think, with Alexis’s arms curled around your torso as he breathes against your cheek, skin cool to the touch. When you glance down, you can make out his violet gaze, wide and ample in candid affection, rising from the cusp of your bosom. It’s strange, though. You don’t recall when Alexis started to look at you with such hunger.

“I think…” you start slowly. “Well, I think God will never abandon humanity. He promises to never forsake us, and He keeps all his promises. Other than that, one can find evidence of God’s devotion to us through the joyous moments that occur in our lives.” Perhaps meeting Alexis was one such moment, a gesture of grace and sanctity to the nonbeliever.

“Then…” Alexis’s gaze fixates on you. Even without looking at him, you feel his eyes memorizing the lines of your face, staring up at you in such reverence and craving that your heart trembles against your ribcage. You’re certain, with him so close to your chest, that he can hear the palpitations.

“Do you promise to never abandon me?”

You reach down to stroke Alexis’s hair, caressing his scalp and threading through the magenta-tinged curls that poke through your fingers. You touch something that feels like bone, two curves of hard tissue against your fingers. Again, your vision seems to flicker, your eyes settling upon the nimbus that settles above his hair. You blink, and it is gone. Perhaps you are just tired.

Instead, you focus on what you know is real. You don’t recall when he has begun to dye his hair in this way, brown fading into the same violet of his eyes. “Ask that not of me, Alexis, but of God.”

“But you said yourself that God will never forsake me. Please. Say that you won’t abandon me.” 

There is a desperation in his voice that makes you shudder. You can’t possibly say no to him, this cherub of a man who blesses you with all the affection in his open heart. His innocence is so glaring and barefaced that you feel guilty for even thinking that his request sounds awfully amorous. “Alright, then. I promise to never forsake you.”

He nuzzles in closer to you, lips against your collarbone. You think to yourself that this is absent of superficial romance, that this is the venerated affection between fellow lambs under the touch of God. For only God can create such virtue as Alexis Ness, His love embodied with each curl of hair, each crease of lip, and you were just a destitute believer vulnerable to such godly acts.

When you fall asleep, chest rising and falling with each breath, Alexis ceases his faux slumber and stares at you, gaze blurry from the haze of darkness. 

And with great joy, he reminded himself that God always kept His promises.

___

As you grow out of your adolescence, Alexis alongside you, there is a certain strain that grows between you and him. Age hardens both of you beyond the trivial struggles of teenage impulse, and affection grows scarce as the both of you fall into routines of work and godly direction. Your only point of contact these days lies in Sunday Mass, in which Alexis forgoes practice for a few hours and you put aside your academic pursuits to bask under the light of the savior. Even then, Alexis seems distant, less susceptible to the sermons taught, as if he has come to realise something about himself that separates himself from the Father. 

It seems that he comes to Mass not to encounter God, rather, to see you.

His affection, while limited to once a week, grows heavier, more intimate. He drags you behind the Cathedral after Mass to kiss you, sloppy and dense with contact, and you comply only because you feel the burden melt off after each session. There is a fervor in the way he messages you, relentless texts that convey desperation of some sort, but you chalk it up to stress. Now that Alexis has been signed to Bastard München alongside Kaiser, his training regime has only increased, days filled with militaristic discipline. It pains you to see the bruises on his legs replaced by braces and thickly wrapped gauze, see the drip of innocence shed from his eyes in fat tears, leaving behind a thick exhaustion that clouds his gaze.

 Alexis is included in all your evening prayers. You hope that Saint Sebastian, patron saint of athletes, may bless his body, and Saint Philip Neri shall invigorate the joy in his eyes. Most of all, you pray to Micheal the Archangel, to guard Alexis throughout the trials that God has put before him, to strike against the evil that may dare corrupt him.

Speaking of Micheal…

Alexis says Kaiser has finally grown to appreciate him, that Alexis has now been molded into the perfect midfielder. A part of you is glad, but the other part is hesitant. Spending too much time with Kaiser has changed him. It is as if he has discovered something he shouldn’t have, something you’ve unknowingly hid from him.

Alexis invites you to his practice, and you readily accept. You want to see Alexis, of course, but you’d also like to meet Kaiser formally, meet the specimen that has dared divert Alexis from his righteous calling.

As you step onto the bleachers, you feel a severe gaze land upon you. You pay it no mind. You’re far too entrenched in the essay for your religious studies course, an abstract paper on the doctrine of the First Council of Nicaea. It is only obvious that you have chosen to study theology in university, and with your mother's resigned approval, you’ve had no issues with your finances. Your friends from high school had regarded you with a bit of befuddlement at your choice, but they relaxed when you told them you were also planning on studying psychology and sociology as well. They knew about your faith and were well-accepting of it.

Ultimately, no one seemed to have any qualms about your decision.

Except for Alexis.

When you tell him about your choice, all the light seems to drain from his face. His puppy-dog elation is replaced by something unfamiliar, something sinister.

“D-does that mean you're moving away?” He asks, bewildered. “From Munich? You’re moving away? No, you can’t. We won’t be able to see each other if you do.” He steps towards you, eyes alight with an alarming fervor as he comes closer. “You can’t leave.”

You furrow your eyebrows, disturbed by the reaction. “Alexis, I’m literally studying at LMU. I’m staying in Munich.”

Alexis seems to realize this. In an instant, his face brightens up, eyes brimming with bliss as he embraces you ardently. “Oh, yes, you’re right! I’m sorry for overreacting. Don’t be scared, schlatz.” 

You realize how tense you’ve gotten, now that Alexis has pointed it out. You force your muscles to relax and pat his back awkwardly. “It’s alright.”

Now that the two of you are adults, Alexis has freed himself of the confines of family and inserts himself into your daily life. He lingers in your apartment, acting as your de facto roommate, despite the fact that Bastard München has already supplied him with his own dorm at their facilities. Sometimes his presence is appreciated, while other times it serves as a hindrance to you. While you loathe to find annoyance in your best friend, he has certain habits that have only ramped up now that the two of you live together. Alexis exclusively sleeps on your bed, despite your protests that you could always buy him a mattress, and thus you’ve resigned yourself to sleep on the couch. Alexis seems to dislike this, though. 

“Can’t you just sleep in bed with me?” His voice is pouty, promising unshed tears as he comes up behind you as you’re doing your skincare in the bathroom. You frown, wetting your hands in the sink.

“I don’t think that would be appropriate.” Alexis is already doing things like pitching in for rent and doing your laundry, so you suppose you can’t be too mad at him for annexing your bedroom.

“Don’t say things like that,” Ness steps closer, arms swinging forth as he grips the counter, caging you in his embrace. “Please? Like we did when we were kids?”

Too close. You swat at his forearm, attempting to free yourself from his touch. In response, he dips his head down to your shoulder, resting his chin against your neck. A kick of warmth curls in your gut, but you’ve long grown familiar to the sensations that Alexis incites in you. After all, what else is mankind to do when he encounters an angel?

Alexis always gets what he wants.

And such, you allow Alexis to curl up against you at night, even when you’re awoken mid-slumber with his arms practically straggling your torso in a death grip. Strangely, in these dark, lethargic moments, you feel a stutter in his breath against your neck, as if he’s been awake all along.

He’s already come to the point of calling it “our bedroom”, much to your irritation. After all, it is still your apartment, and the lease is under your name. As is your speciality, you exude temperance. With great sufferance, you endure.

A ball comes flying at you from the corner of your vision and misses you by an inch. Startled, you take off your headphones and look at the field for the first time in the hour that you’ve been there. Alexis looks horrified, mouth agape in distress as he gestures furiously to Kaiser, who deadpans at him in the most aloof expression you’ve ever seen. Kaiser says something to him, which Alexis freezes at, and begins to walk towards you.

Beholding the avenging snarl on his face, you can presume that Kaiser had kicked the ball at you on purpose.

Instead of retrieving it, he instead comes to a halt in front of you. “My deepest apologies.” He looks the least bit apologetic. Nonetheless, you nod at him, accepting his amends without confrontation.

You’re just about to put your headphones back on when Kaiser grabs your arm and forces you to look him in the eyes.

You’re taught that the devil makes himself look beautiful to deceive humans. If that is the case, then Kaiser is certainly Lucifer incarnate, a sapphire-eyed seraphim with bones carved from marble and quartz, golden hair tinged royal blue. His gaze is hawkish and imposing, birthed from the sky itself, and his limbs are long and taut. No amount of gazing from afar can amount to the marvel you feel at the moment. Perhaps Ness was justified in his devotion.

You try to shake his hand away, but his grip on you is too mighty, akin to one of Alexis’s deathholds. It seems he has something to say to you.

“I want to talk to you, Liebling,” He hisses out with a tone of vengeance. You flinch, dumbfounded. Kaiser’s hand is bleak and frigid, as if snow inhabits his veins instead of blood. How odd. You would have thought a demon would be warm-blooded.

“Erm, you have my attention,” you say blandly, eyeing your poor hand with warriness. “Can you let go of me, please?”

His grip weakens, but he still refuses to let go. “You have no idea how curious I was about you. You’re all Ness talks about. It’s aggravating.”

“Uh,” is all you have to say. “I’m sorry about that, but I also need to get back to work. If you want to converse further, you can ask Alexis for my email.”

“I don’t want your email. I’m not a professor that you’re trying to get a letter of recommendation out of,” his tone is condescending, bone chilling. “I want to have a long chat with you. ”

“No, thank you?”

“You don’t know what kind of person Ness really is, huh?” He looks over you, blue eyes narrowed in scrutiny. “Or maybe you do. Either way, I can tell why he likes you so much. Let me take you out, angel.”

Is he complimenting you? It certainly doesn’t sound like he is, with how much harshness seems to leak from his mouth. “Thank you for your kind words,” you say slowly. “I’ll keep them in mind–”

“Just what are the two of you chatting about?”

Alexis appears behind Kaiser, mouth curled in a sickeningly sweet grin, eyes sweeping and rapt. It’s the same smile that made you sick to your stomach when you first saw him, and you realize it’s because he’s forcing it. 

How strange. You didn’t know that your cherub of a best friend was capable of fake smiling.

“Nothing, Ness,” Kaiser’s tone is dripping with disdain. You find it odd that Kaiser refers to him by his last name. “Your friend and I were having a lovely chat. They’re just as wonderful as you make them out to be.”

“Let go of them.” 

“Since when do I take orders from some miscreant like you?” Kaiser spits out. “Pray for me to stop. Perhaps God might actually heed your wishes like you’ve always dreamed.”

Alexis’s expression is bleak, a Siberian landscape broken up by the sun of his smile. There is an arresting mania in his gaze, slicing lavender blades into the blonde’s flesh, hungry and vehement. You feel a stuttering in your heart, agitation gnawing up your spine as his expression evolves, becomes something unaccustomed and unfamiliar.

Kaiser notices the change. Just when you think he’s going to provoke Alexis further, he lets go of you and seizes the shorter man with an iron grip, stepping off the bleachers.

“I advise you to rethink your decisions, only because of our history. ” He shoots you a glance. “Think about my offer. My treat, Liebling.”

When Kaiser is out of earshot, Alexis sinks down to kneel before you, eyes thundering with such emotion that the devil seems to have taken hold of him, a depraved, sick venom glazing over his eyes in the form of wet tears. You reach out to pat his head, and he shudders, eyes rolling back as he leans into your touch. Once again, that sinful flutter of your heart trembles, but you’ve grown far too used to it. Temptation cloaks your surroundings like a stick web of spider silk and sugar, and the unknowing arachne is your archangel, your innocent Ness.

“We’ll talk about this later,” you say calmly, albeit tensely, releasing him from your touch. He looks up at you, brows furrowed in docile obedience, and carefully gets up to retrieve the ball that had started the whole incident.

For the rest of practice, you’re encumbered by the suffocating weight of two gazes, both laden with such zeal that your rational mind can nigh comprehend it. 

One is blue, the other is violet. 

___

That night, you came home late. 

Your productivity skyrocketed as soon as you left that suffocating Bastard Münchin field, and you dipped as soon as you could no longer feel Alexis watching your every move, going straight to the library. There, cloaked in the environment of parchment and undisturbed quiet, you managed to finish both your essay and Church Dogmatics. 

For once, Alexis is not here. For once, you can sleep in your own bedroom, without the presence of your best friend weighing you down into the mattress. You decide to treat yourself to a lengthy bath, a luxury you cannot afford with one bathroom and a de facto roommate. You light vanilla candles to inhabit your counters with aroma, set up a makeship table against the porcelain walls of the tub, and slip off your clothes as you sink into the water.

The heavy scent of vanilla clouds your nostrils as the water curls around your limbs. It’s warm, you think, so warm and relaxing that the knots in your flesh undo into ribbons. Here, you are alone, vulnerable, naked as the day you were born.

The steam from the tub renders your eyelids heavy, catching onto your eyelashes in droplets. You submerge your mouth and nose into the water, savoring the heat as your limbs grow numb. You don’t usually indulge yourself like this, basking in complacency, but you can make an exception. With drowsiness chasing down your gaze, you think about the daydreams of your youth, how counting sheep would render you defenseless in slumber.

Your adversary, the devil, prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour.

Your eyes fly open and you rise from your slouched position. You are alone, you realize, you must be. You can’t think of why that verse would conjure in your mind so suddenly. Perhaps you are just being paranoid.

Nonetheless, you keep your ears peeled. There are footsteps, but they come from the floor above you. Your neighbor's snores echo into your room. The front door is locked. No one has a key except you and Alexis. There is no one here, no one here but you.

When you exit the tub, you don’t realize how Alexis’s books have been rearranged, how the shoes in the foyer look slightly ajar, nor do you notice the shift in temperature as your slick skin touches the cool air of your apartment.

You certainly don’t hear the breathing of a brown-haired boy outside of your door, back pressed into the wood.

__

For some reason, you go along with Kaiser’s plans.

Of course, you don’t tell Alexis that you are going to meet Kaiser. Alexis is stressed enough already, and with his constant practice and ruthless ethics professor, you haven’t been able to see him much recently. He’s travelling for games too, you notice, when one morning you find souvenirs from Berlin stacked upon your bedroom nightstand. You don’t want him to get moody about you meeting up with someone that isn’t him.

The thought seems odd to you. Why would Alexis care so much about who you’re meeting?

Whatever the case, Kaiser has somehow found you on social media and has been bombarding you with messages about meeting up. Finally, you accept, and end up in front of the library of all places.

You never considered that Kaiser might be academically-inclined. Nonetheless, you enter and find him in the section of the library that you frequent the most.

Theology.

Peering around the corner, you spot Kaiser propped up against one of the plush loveseats, reading glasses resting on the curve of his nose as he flips through Summa Theologiae. His hair is spun gold against the blue linen of his button-up, the whorls of ink on his neck hidden behind a curtain of blonde.

“I know you’re there,” he says without looking up. You frown slightly before nodding at him.

“...Hallo.”

He shuts his book dramatically and gazes up at you. “Lovely to see you, Liebling. I wonder if Ness knows you’re here.” He raises an eyebrow when you shake your head in response. “Hm. You might have not told him, but he knows. He knows everything.”

“Pardon me?”

He flicks his wrist flippantly. Your eyes narrow on his slender fingers curling in the air, milky strokes of paint against the backdrop of book spines. “Indulge me and answer my questions, o wise theologian. Is the name ‘God’ used univocally or equivocally, as it signifies God by nature, by participation and according to opinion?” He taps the cover of Summa Theologiae. “Do enlighten me.”

You sigh. “One with a faulty understanding of God uses the word “God” analogically with respect to the true meaning of the term, and things that have some share in the divine nature are referred to “God” analogically. From the sixth article, the analogical use of terms is founded upon the relation of the analogical use to the central use. In the case you presented, the use of “God” refers to the divine substance, and thus all uses of the term that do not refer to the divine substance are analogical uses.”

Kaiser looks dumbfounded.

“I literally memorized the Quizlet flashcards that you pulled that question out of.” You shrug off your bag and plop down in the seat across from Kaiser. “Are you just quoting theological concepts to impress me?”

“...Yeah.”

“Don’t do that, please.”

Kaiser leans forward and flicks his glasses back upon his nose. “Will it impress you if I talk about what I really study?”

“Sure.”

“Pyschology,” Kaiser gazes up at you. His eyes are so deeply blue, a pool of melted sapphire surrounded by a shock of red eyeliner. “I like to see how the psyche impacts the physical, material aspect of our world. Or how the knife of obsession renders us into dolls of another’s will. Simply put, I am intrigued in what makes humans break, in a fantastical sense.”

“Do you normally throw around prose like that or are you just extra pretentious today?”

“Extra pretentious.” He shuffles through another assortment of paper he has laid out on the table. “You’ve grown up with him, correct? Ness?”

“Yes. What about it?”

“You seem to see him as far more of a saint than he really is. Tell me, does he not make you at least a bit suspicious? A wolf-in-sheeps clothing, for lack of a better term?”

You shift uncomfortably in your seat. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t either.” Kaiser’s gaze is haunting, cold. “Maybe it would be more accurate to call him a serpent in Eden. A goat in sheep’s clothing, horns hidden in the curls of his hair.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, but you do.” You cannot bear to look at the intensity of his eyes. Instead, you focus on the curve of his pink mouth, so soft as opposed to the blasphemy spilling out of it. “You’re the one who studied this kind of stuff. Why can’t you recognize it when it’s right in front of you?”

You have always been one for the abstract, one that relishes the thought of the fantastical, but what Kaiser is insinuating feels deeply delusional. Mysticism, through all its practices and vague promises of divine unity, feel like subjects far beyond your current understanding of God. “I am amazed at your creativity. Please take care on separating the magical from reality. I’m sure you study schizophrenia in pyschology.” You stand up. “I’ll be leaving now, if that’s all you have to say.”

“Sit back down.”

By some force of nature, you comply. It does not register in your mind how your body has been moved to such a position, yet it feels right. It is as if this moment of sitting down has now become your sole righteous calling.

“Listen to me, mortal.” 

Micheal’s voice seems not his own. It seems as if something has taken ahold of him – no, as if this is his true self, and the Kaiser of ego and arrogance is a caricature, a facade.

“Alexis Ness is no mortal. Do you understand? Do you see his barely veiled sin?”

“Yes…” you rasp, although your mind seems to have transcended your human form. Your ears are simply instruments for God’s divinity to run through, to access the locked away flesh of your human mind, soul weaved into every wrinkle and drip of fluid. Yes, His voice is law. He is correct, with every glimmer of your faith, you know that listening to him is what God has envisioned for you.

You bow, half-lidded, to the beauty that glows before you, lips parted, eyes agape in obedience. Micheal, feathered and porcelain, reaches down to cusp the predella of your jaw, his fingers a blade of frost against your human flesh. You relish this ice, lean into it. Micheal’s touch is gentle beyond gentle, the hand of God.

“Heed my words, child. I shall be your protector, your striker against evil. When time is right, you must banish sin as you have been taught to.”

“B-begone…”

“Begone, Satan.”

And in a daze, you snap back to reality. Kaiser, no – Micheal stands before you in all his glory, all your reverence directed towards the beacon of protection promised in scripture. This is your protector, the archangel God has promised his children since the dawn of time.

“Do it, Liebling. Only then can you be free of sin.”

Micheal bends down to caress the corrupted person that accommodates your reprehensible soul, and you want to push him away so he may not contaminate himself from your sin. Yet still he remains, and so do you, and as his wings curl into a hallowed embrace around your kneeling position there exists a moment where his mouth touches your forehead. 

“Farewell, my saint. When mankind falls, your soul shall be the first I search for. May we meet again in Heaven.”

You look up into the deep cravat of sapphire that contains his eyes. In reverence, you whisper the prayer of Saint Michael, the prayer that has brought him to you. His face softens at the familiar message.

Micheal departs at your final word, just as quickly as he arrived. “Amen.”

___

When you enter your apartment, it’s eerily quiet.

You know that Ness is there. You spot his shoes lying against the rack, his soccer bag neatly tucked on the couch, along with stacks of folded laundry and pages of his philosophy notes strewn about. He isn’t a messy person, so you know for a fact that he must have done this on purpose. You scrunch your face as you realize you have no choice but to sleep in your bedroom tonight.

Tiptoeing about, you set your bag down and take a shower, do your skincare, annotate your Bible on the kitchen island – anything you can to push back interacting with Alexis. You contemplate whether it would be so bad to sleep on the floor. But then Alexis would know, and your plan would be foiled. 

You gently shuffle into the bedroom, changing into your pajamas in the corner to hide your nudity. It’s not like Ness hasn’t seen you naked before, but some part of you is reminded of Adam and Eve discovering their nakedness after sin, shame nagging them on the weight of their imperfect, corrupted bodies.

Ness is curled on his side, coated by the white duvet you had bought just for him. His face is painted cream and peach, curls tousled against the pillow. Thankfully, he has left just enough space for you to squeeze in without disrupting his slumber. 

Sliding into the sheets, you close your eyes and pray that Micheal may protect you. That you shall be brave in the face of evil, that sin will have no hold upon your mortal, tainted flesh.

But before you can finish praying, Alexis’s soft voice crashes into your ear.

“I know you’re trying to avoid talking to me, schlatz. Don’t pretend that you’re asleep.”

You still before opening your eyes, turning to face Alexis. His face is cloaked in twilight, but the nightlight that you have installed in the corner shines just enough to make out the sheen of his eyes. Strange. You never really realized how deep his gaze seemed to probe, how haunting and hungry it seems.

“Mm. It’s late.”

“Uh huh. I know, schlatz.” His hand finds yours underneath the duvet. “I’m so cold. Hold me?”

You hesitate before saying yes. His hands feel warm, almost blazing, and his flesh is exposed. He clearly isn’t cold.

With familiar ease, he slides on top of you, arms circling your ribcage as his head fondles your collarbone, legs curled between yours. From what you can feel from the exposed muscle of his torso, he feels scorching, almost feverish.

You feel fear to your very core.

“Are you…do you have a fever?” You mumble. Alexis props his head up against your chest, practiced and familiar after years of the same position. The two of you fit so well together, as if your bodies were created by God to complete each other, as if you were fitting pieces of a puzzle.

“No…” he drawls out a sigh, tickling your flesh, meeting your gaze in a docility you assume is pretend. “What did Kaiser talk to you about today, hm?”

You furrow your brows. Of course, he knows. You want to get out of this conversation, but you physically can’t. Alexis has you trapped under his limbs, weaving his flesh around yours to enfold you under his superior strength. With his ear against your chest, he can hear every acceleration of your heartbeat, feel every gasp or sigh that his ears cannot detect. There’s a sinking thought that this is why Alexis loves to crawl on top of you so much. Here, you are under his jurisdiction. Here, you are his prisoner, his captive.

“He didn’t say much, really.” It’s technically true. The two of you had only exchanged a few short sentences. “Just…stuff about our studies.”

“Did he say anything about me?”

“...Sort of.”

Alexis shifts around, pressing his legs firmer around yours as he stretches out to his full height. His arms loosen from their hold and instead cement themselves in the space beside your shoulders, effectively pinning you into place. Now, it is your head that lies at his chest, you who must look up instead of down to meet his gaze.

“Elaborate.”

Your fingers curl into the bedsheets. “Alexis, why are you acting like this?”

“Like what?”

“Like…” Like a man in heat, a common creature of flesh and bone, an animal that rises from the dirt and returns to it when it dies. Like he isn’t the portrait of purity that you have thought him as for your entire life, like he isn’t deferential and servile and tender. 

When had he shed his angel skin, molting like a serpent in search of expansion?

“Like a controlling boyfriend.”

Alexis pokes your cheek with his finger. “I don’t act like that…” his voice is pouty, a choir of indulgence and infancy, like the little choir boys at Mass all those years ago. He sounds so pathetic, consummated in fragility, but you are not fooled by his pitiful cries. Alexis is a man, not a boy. 

He has been a man for a long time, longer than you. When you had first met, perhaps he was already a man. The devil shapeshifts to seduce his target, and you fear that he has hit the bullseye.

Alexis Ness is no lamb.

“For lack of a better term,” His affection no longer seems naive and guileless. Instead, calculation is painted in the ripples he traces in your flesh, the syrupy heat dripping from his voice. “I’d say I’m acting appropriately. I don’t like seeing you with Micheal. It makes me jealous.”

“Cease that thought.” Your voice is wary. “Envy is a sin.” 

What use is it to say such a thing? Speaking of sin to the very embodiment of evil.

“Why do you keep speaking if I am innocent when you know that’s not true?” Alexis lowers his face until his nose brushes yours. You cannot divert his gaze any longer. “You know what I am, schlatz. You’re the aspiring theologian.”

“Alexis–”

“Shh. Be quiet and let me speak.” His voice curls in sticky dominion. You go completely still as his fingers begin to curl around your throat. “Micheal isn’t very clever, is he? Choosing a name so on the nose. Micheal Kaiser. ‘God’s Chosen Emperor.’ Load of bullshit.”

“Stop this–”

“I told you to be quiet,” he hisses. The pressure on your neck increases by a fraction. “You promised me something. You said you’d never abandon me. Now that you see me for who I really am, will you keep that promise?”

“Alexis, stop–”

“Stop calling me Alexis, dammit. That boy is no more. Say my real name.”

You’re completely silent, heart hammering in your chest. How could you have let this fiend into your orbit? How could you have been so brainless to not question his blind obedience to a God that even you impugned the existence of? How could you have mistaken the rapturous depravity lying in his eyes for clueless bliss? 

How could you have come to be the victim of his mania?

“...Satan.”

At the mention of the devil, Alexis’s flesh seems to flare up in heat, boiling against your physique as the flush of his cheeks deepens to a deep burgundy. You feel, with great terror, a sudden darkness about the room that was not there before, a quivering presence taking hold of the man you thought to be a saint. His beauty shines ever cruelly now, no longer bound by the confines of a facade of virtue.

“How limiting this human form is,” he murmurs with carnal frustration, so full of malice that it drips out his mouth in strings of saliva. “How could you have known? Alexis Ness is no angel. But I fooled you so well, didn’t I?” 

He relinquishes the way you squirm in his grasp, audacious enough to dare break free in the face of absolute evil. “Do not fear, schlatz. We can continue playing your little charade until I get bored of it. Think of me as your good little Alexis.”

You must comply with his evil, you realize, you must comply with his sin to be free. For Alexis to be free, Only then can the defenses of the devil be crushed, only then can you exterminate and eradicate sin from this world. This is your holy calling, you think. It must be.

“...What is it that you want from me?”

Alexis, no – Satan stares at you with all the debauchery of the world condensed into two irises of violet. You are blind for not having realized that his wet eyes were only to disguise such evil hidden within it, that perhaps the light reflecting off his gaze would become a true representation of his inner being.

“Many things, schlatz.” Is he Alexis, or is he Satan? Is he both? “All along you have thought of me as the innocent one, when it is you that has been untouched by sin all along. It is only I that can inspire sin in you, do you realise?”

Yes, you do, and the thought terrifies you.

“I want your innocence. I want your mortality. It is you that has been chosen by God, and not me.” What words of prose arise from its mouth! It is hearing a reflection of the melody sung by Micheal, except the lyrics are wicked and malevolent.

“I want to ruin you, Schaltz. I wish to drag you to sin like I have done to your mother and her mother and her mother all the way to Eve.” Direct admittance. You inhale sharply. “Perhaps I’ll treat you better than I have with all the other sinners. Shall I make you Lilith? Shall I make you a noble devil that even the archangels cannot look down on?”

You do not want this, you know, but how sweet the words sound from its sultry mouth. What more can it offer you? Power? Riches? Magic beyond your wildest dreams?

“I wish for none of those things.”

“Then what do you wish for?” It grows louder, more sloppy, words of grace replaced by desperation. It is luring you, like it has tried to lure you before, and tried to lure many more before you. “What is it that I cannot give to you? Tell me your wish, and I shall fulfill it, under the circumstance that you give into your nature of sin.”

Open acceptance of the mortal want. Yes, this is right. This is the path to exterminate evil. This is what your father’s death has led to, your meeting with Alexis. Finally, you find purpose.

“I wish for you to begone, Satan.”

At first, there is nothing but silence. You force your eyes open to take in whatever has begun, to witness the collapse of evil as foretold by Micheal the Archangel. Then it is loud, so vivid and cacophonous that you feel as if your flesh is curdling and tearing apart by the tissue, a guttural scream sounding from above you as Alexis and It are forced apart. There is a certain awe you feel when you witness his eyes metamorphosing and transcending what you know to be atomically possible, from purple to red to purple again. Wings disperse from his spine, feathers at once black and white, the limbs of a fallen angel attaching upon a mortal that now dissolve into the air, returning to its origins.

In horror, in resolve, you call out again. “Begone, Sata–”

Before you can finish your cry, Alexis clutches your face against his and bites down onto your lip. Tears prickle in your eyes at the crush of flesh, the salt of your blood mixing in with the saliva of his vicious tongue, a suffocating embrace. With crimson fervor, he coats his mouth in your blood, coaxing out as much of you as he can, lips melting into yours as if to silence your cries.

When It pulls away, the saliva that strings between your lips is red.

Its eyes contain webs of sin, purple and venomous but so enchanting that you cannot make yourself look away. You see the pride coated around each cinnamon eyelash, the greed of its smile painted red with your blood. Yet still there is fear in Its movements, a panicked, fervent unrestraint that tells of something working. This is Its last attempt, the last persuasion of a fallen angel. It wants you to fall, It wants to taint your virtue.

You demur the offering. It is not Alexis that embraces you, but instead the workings of evil incarnate, evident in the drips of your blood that curl off his lip and fall onto your face.

“A mere mortal like you–”

“A mere mortal like me has bested you.” You rasp in response. “I exorcise you, demon. Abandon the flesh that you have claimed as your own, and return to me its rightful owner.”

You expect it to scream and cry, perhaps latch onto you in a horrible rampage. Instead, It smiles, one last time. It is a smile that has grown familiar, yet one you will not miss. 

“When mankind falls, your soul shall be the one I search for first in purgatory. Farewell, mortal. Our next meeting will end differently.”

A final glow of darkness emerges from the body, and the weight collapses on you as the spirit departs from the flesh. Then, it is still – no, Alexis is still, and he is crying. Yes, the glaze of his eyes now drips onto you, salt and water pooling on your flesh, heavy and wet and naked. The heat seems to seep from Alexis’s body, leaching from him the great malice of his gaze. 

“Rid yourself of evil, schatz,” your voice is soft as he continues to cry onto your flesh, reduced back to pure mortality, no longer a vessel of malevolence.

You met him on your second day. You were lost — which was impressive, considering you were supposed to be taking photos of the training field. Somehow you’d wandered into the players’ hallway, clutching a camera you barely knew how to use.

He appeared out of nowhere, towel slung over one shoulder, droplets of water glinting on his neck.

“You’re new,” he said, voice smooth and lightly accented. “Willkommen in meinem Reich.” Welcome to my kingdom.

You froze. “I—uh—sorry?”

He smirked. “Ah, shy. I like that.”

You blinked, smiling awkwardly, because what else were you supposed to do?

“Ich bin Kaiser.” I am Kaiser.

“Oh! Right, yes. I know that,” you said, fumbling your camera strap. “You’re… the Kaiser.”

He laughed softly — the sound low, teasing, deliberate. “And you are?”

You gave your name, still uncertain why your pulse was doing gymnastics.

“Schöner Name,” he said. Beautiful name.

You smiled back, clueless. “Thank you?”

He grinned wider, clearly entertained. “Anytime, Liebling.” Darling.

And just like that, he walked away — leaving you in a state of mild confusion and completely unjustified butterflies.

You didn’t realize it then, but that was the first of many German phrases you’d pretend to understand.

Over the next week, Kaiser made it his mission to “accidentally” run into you.

Every morning, when you brought the cameras to the sidelines, he was there — stretching in the most dramatic possible way, his shirt conveniently riding up. He’d call out,

“Guten Morgen, wunderschön!” Good morning, beautiful!

You’d smile and wave. “Morning, Kaiser!”

He’d wink. “Ah, you say my name so nicely.”

You had no idea he’d just called you “beautiful.”

Sometimes, he’d show up behind you while you were typing reports in the lounge. His voice would dip low, practically brushing your ear.

“Du hast keine Ahnung, was du mit mir machst,” he’d murmur. You have no idea what you're doing to me.

You’d freeze, typing gibberish. “Haha… yeah… totally.”

He’d chuckle, walk away, and leave you flustered for the rest of the day.

You figured he was being friendly.

He figured you were teasing him.

It was the start of a very confusing game.

Somewhere in between, poor Ness developed eye twitches.

Ness, meanwhile, was watching this slow-motion disaster unfold like a soap opera.

He tried to warn Kaiser once.

“Uh, Kaiser, I don’t think they—”

“Shh, Ness. They’re just playing hard to get.”

“No, I think they literally don’t underst—”

“Hard. To. Get.”

By week three, Kaiser was half-mad with frustration. You always smiled politely, always responded vaguely, always looked so calm — as if his best lines bounced right off you.

He was the emperor, the crown jewel of Bastard München — and yet here he was, losing sleep over someone who didn’t even blush when he said, “Ich will dich.” I want you.

It happened one afternoon when you were filming practice. Ness wandered over, looking slightly nervous.

“Uh, hey,” he said, scratching his head. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure?”

“Do you… speak German?”

You shook your head. “Not even a little. Why?”

Ness sighed like he’d just witnessed a car crash in slow motion. “Kaiser’s been flirting with you nonstop. In German.”

Your brain stalled. “...He’s what?”

“Yeah.” Ness looked genuinely pained. “He thinks you’re ignoring him on purpose. Says you’re playing hard to get.”

You stared at him. “I’ve been saying ‘totally’ to flirting?”

“Oh my god.” You buried your face in your hands. “What do I do?”

“Tell him?”

But before you could, Kaiser appeared behind you, hair shimmering in the sunlight, smirk already loaded like a weapon.

“Na, Engel? Verpasst du mich schon?” Well, angel? Are you missing me already?

You panicked. “Totally!”

Ness groaned audibly and walked away.

From that day onward, things somehow got worse.

Kaiser became bolder — leaning closer, standing behind you during interviews, dropping German lines that sounded like the verbal equivalent of winking.

“Du bist der schönste Fehler, den ich je gemacht habe.” You are the most beautiful mistake I have ever made.

“Ich schwöre, du machst mich wahnsinnig.” I swear, you're driving me crazy.

You’d nod politely, smiling like you were on autopilot, while your brain silently screamed: Why does he sound angry and romantic at the same time?

He started showing off more during training too — every goal followed by a quick glance in your direction, every smirk clearly asking, Are you watching?

And honestly, you were. Who wouldn’t? The man moved like art — all precision and arrogance and glow.

But then he’d ruin it by blowing you a kiss mid-goal and shouting, “Das war für dich!” That was for you.

You clapped awkwardly. “Yay… goal!”

He grinned. You died inside.

One late afternoon, you were sent to drop off photo files in the media office — conveniently located next to the locker rooms.

You were almost done when you heard a familiar voice.

“Da bist du ja, mein Glücksbringer.” There you are, my lucky charm!

You jumped. Kaiser leaned against the doorway, still in his training gear, sweat-slick hair and that impossible grin.

“Kaiser! You scared me.”

“Du magst es, wenn ich auftauche, gib’s zu.” You like it when I show up, admit it.

You blinked. “Uh… yes?”

He stepped closer, towel draped loosely around his neck, eyes sparkling like trouble.

“You really like saying yes, don’t you?” he teased, switching to English now, voice dripping amusement.

You blushed, unsure whether to laugh or run. “You say a lot of things I don’t understand.”

“Good,” he said. “Mystery keeps the spark alive.”

You muttered, “It’s keeping me confused, that’s for sure.”

He tilted his head. “What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“Hmm.” He smirked again. “You’re dangerous, you know that?”

“I literally just deliver footage.”

“Exactly,” he said, and walked away.

You stared after him, completely baffled — and slightly more doomed than before.

It became a bizarre routine.

Kaiser flirted. You nodded.

He smirked. You smiled politely.

Somewhere, Ness developed migraines

Sometimes he’d whisper something that sounded scandalous:

“Du bist mein Lieblingsfehler.” You are my favorite mistake.

You’d beam, thinking he’d said something about the footage.

Or he’d murmur,

“Du raubst mir den Verstand.” You're driving me crazy!

You’d reply, “Thanks! You too!”

Each misunderstanding only made him more intrigued. He thought you were teasing; you thought he was eccentric.

It was chaos, but harmless — until he started trying harder.

Two weeks later, Kaiser snapped.

You didn’t know it, but he’d spent the entire morning grumbling to Ness about you.

“They ignore me. No one ignores me. They’re obsessed, secretly. Has to be.”

“Maybe they’re just—”

“Playing. Hard. To. Get.”

Ness sighed so hard it could’ve powered a wind turbine.

That afternoon, when you passed Kaiser in the hallway, he blocked your path.

“We need to talk.”

“Uh—about what?”

“About this—” He gestured vaguely between you. “Whatever game you’re playing.”

You blinked. “Game?”

“You pretend not to care, but you do. You always smile when I talk to you.”

“I’m… polite?”

“Polite,” he repeated, eyes narrowing. “That’s what you call it?”

He took a step closer, frustration flickering behind his grin. “Every time I compliment you, every time I flirt, you just smile and walk away. You’re driving me insane.”

You raised your hands defensively. “Wait, wait—back up. You’ve been flirting?”

“Obviously!”

You stared, mortified. “Kaiser, I don’t speak German.”

Silence.

Actual, stunned, pin-drop silence.

His eyes widened slightly. “You… don’t?”

You shook your head quickly. “Not a single word!”

Then came the slowest, most bewildered laugh you’d ever heard.

“No way.” He pressed a hand to his forehead. “You’re telling me I’ve been pouring my heart out in German for weeks, and you just—nodded?”

You winced. “And said ‘totally,’ yeah.”

He doubled over laughing. “Oh, Scheiße! Ness was right!” Shit.

You covered your face. “This is so embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing?” he wheezed. “I told you you were the most beautiful mistake I’d ever made!”

You peeked through your fingers. “You what?!”

He laughed even harder. “And you said ‘totally!’”

You groaned. “I’m going to evaporate.”

When he finally stopped laughing, he leaned against the wall, smiling in that lazy, dazzling way that made you feel like the air had thinned.

“You really had no idea.”

“None,” you admitted, cheeks burning. “I thought you were just showing off your accent.”

“You thought this”—he gestured to himself—“was casual conversation?”

“I mean… it seemed very you.”

He chuckled, pushing off the wall. “You know, I should be angry. You ignored me for nearly a month.”

“You could’ve just switched to English!”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

You glared. “You’re impossible.”

He grinned. “And yet you keep talking to me.”

You rolled your eyes, but your lips betrayed you with a smile. “So what now, Your Majesty?”

“Now?” His voice dropped an octave, soft but teasing. “Now we start over. In a language we both understand.”

He insisted on walking you back to your workspace. You expected him to gloat, to make more jokes — but he was oddly gentle, tone quieter.

“You really didn’t know what I was saying?”

“Not a clue.”

“And you still smiled.”

“Because you seemed nice,” you said honestly. “A little dramatic, maybe, but… nice.”

He laughed softly. “That might be the first time anyone’s called me that.”

You shrugged. “Then you should hear it more often.”

Something flickered in his eyes then — the showman dimmed for a heartbeat, replaced by something almost shy.

“You’re… different,” he said simply. “Most people either worship me or hate me.”

“I didn’t understand you enough to do either.”

He laughed again, this time with real warmth. “Maybe that’s why I like you.”

You stumbled over your words. “You—what?”

“See?” He smirked again, confidence returning. “That’s what I’ve been trying to say for weeks.”

The next day, he found you in the lounge with a notebook.

“If you won’t learn German, I’ll teach you,” he said, sitting beside you uninvited.

You sighed. “Is this another excuse to flirt?”

“Absolutely. Lesson one: Date. That means ‘date.’”

You snorted. “Wow. Tricky.”

“Lesson two: Küss mich.” Kiss me.

You narrowed your eyes. “And that means…?”

He smirked. “Ask me sometime after lesson ten.”

You threw a pillow at him. He caught it easily, laughing.

“Don’t worry,” he said, leaning back. “We’ll take it slow. I’ve got time.”

I've been giggling to myself like an idiot writing this, my mom started giving me sceptical looks.🤣

It was supposed to be harmless.

Something private. Something silly.

A writing exercise for literature—a pretend love letter, meant to test tone and form and emotional honesty without being real. The kind of thing you write while chewing your pen cap, giggling under your breath at the absurdity of pouring out fake feelings onto a blank page. The kind of thing you submit, laugh off, and forget about.

Only you didn’t turn it in.

You kept it. Folded it twice and tucked it into the back of your folder, marked not for submission. It felt… too honest. Too specific. Even if it was just a joke. Even if it was meant for no one’s eyes but your own.

You didn’t even sign it.

But you described him. Clearly. Unmistakably.

You’d written about his voice—the one that lingers in your head long after he reads passages aloud in class. About the way he tips his head when he’s thinking, how he pinches the bridge of his nose when Bokuto’s being dramatic, how his hands are “embarrassingly elegant” and distractingly expressive when he speaks.

And now?

Now that folded page was sitting in the very capable, very real hands of Akaashi Keiji.

He read it in the gym.

In front of the team.

You didn’t even know it was missing until Bokuto shouted something across the court about “Keiji’s secret admirer,” and you looked up, heart seizing, just in time to see your best friend unfolding your handwriting in the middle of practice.

He didn’t laugh.

He didn’t share it.

He just read it—brows drawing together, quiet as the world moved around him—and folded it again like it was something precious.

You ran before he could see your face.

He found you afterward. Of course he did.

You were leaning against the locker room wall, arms crossed tight over your chest like you could physically hold in the embarrassment threatening to swallow you whole. Akaashi stepped out of the gym, hair still damp from a quick rinse, a folded paper in his hand.

The paper.

He looked at you.

“This isn’t for class,” he said softly. “Is it?”

Your mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

You weren’t sure if your soul had already evacuated or if it was still making a run for it.

“What gave it away?” you asked weakly.

He glanced down at the page again. “Well, the line ‘you look prettiest when you’re annoyed at Bokuto’ felt… oddly specific.”

You groaned and buried your face in your hands.

“Of course you recognized yourself. Of course you read the one thing I didn’t mean for anyone to see.”

Akaashi’s voice was gentler now. “Bokuto found it under the bleachers. He thought it was part of someone’s homework and handed it to me. Didn’t realize it was about me until…” He trailed off.

You peeked through your fingers. He was holding the page like it was fragile. Like it mattered.

“You weren’t meant to see it,” you said, voice muffled through your palms. “It was… it was supposed to be a joke. A fake letter. I wasn’t even going to turn it in.”

“Still,” he murmured. “You wrote it.”

There was a pause.

You nodded, slowly.

“I did.”

Akaashi Keiji has always been calm.

Not just quiet—but calm. In that rare, grounding way that makes people lean toward him without realizing. Like he carries gravity in his chest and people orbit it instinctively.

He’s been your best friend for years.

The constant. The person you text when your umbrella breaks, when your brain won’t shut up, when you need someone who won’t try to fix you but will listen. He’s been the voice of reason during Bokuto meltdowns, your late-night study partner, the first person to notice when you were upset even when you smiled through it.

He was your lighthouse.

And you… you tried your best to stay afloat. To be steady. To look like you had it all under control.

But he was holding that letter now. Holding it like it was something more.

His voice was quieter when he spoke again.

“Can I be honest?”

You looked up, startled.

He’d stepped closer.

Not close enough to touch—but enough that you could see the tiny droplets of water still clinging to the ends of his hair. Enough to notice that his eyes weren’t sharp like they sometimes were on the court. They were soft. Searching.

“I liked it,” he said.

You blinked. “The letter?”

He nodded. “I liked that you notice when I get annoyed. That you remember what I wore the day of our midterms. That you like how I read out loud, even when I think I sound like a textbook.”

There was a tiny smile tugging at his mouth now.

“I liked that it came from you.”

You stared, heart hammering.

“And if I’m being really honest…” He hesitated, then gently reached out, his fingers brushing your sleeve. “I’ve been wondering if you’d ever say something.”

“Say what?” you asked, breath barely there.

He looked at you like you were the only thing in the hallway.

“That you like me,” he said simply.

The words cracked something open in you.

“I didn’t think you noticed.”

“I noticed everything,” he replied.

You were still processing—still somewhere between panic and floating—when an unmistakable voice echoed from inside the gym.

“Whaaaaaaaaat?!”

Bokuto slammed open the doors with the force of a gale, arms wide, socks squeaking against the polished floor as he launched into view.

“No. Way.” He pointed, bouncing. “No. Way this is happening. Finally.”

You flinched. Akaashi didn’t.

“How long was he—?” you began.

“The letter,” Bokuto shouted, positively glowing. “The letter was real?! I knew it! I knew you two were in lo—”

“Please,” you moaned, face in your hands again. “Please let me evaporate.”

“I read it too,” Bokuto beamed. “It was so good! So romantic! The part where you said he has ‘hands like he plays piano in another life’? Art. Masterpiece. I cried. Internally.”

You looked at Akaashi in horror. “You let him read it?!”

“I did not,” he said dryly. “He took it out of my bag when I was showering.”

Bokuto did a twirl. “I had a feeling! My OTP! Blooming before my eyes!”

You groaned into the wall.

“I’m never writing anything again.”

“Noooo,” Bokuto said. “You must write more. You’re a poet. The youth needs your words.”

“She’s exaggerating,” Akaashi said mildly, lips twitching.

“She’s not! That letter was amazing. I’ve been shipping you two since junior high!”

“You’ve been what?” you gasped.

“Shipping!” Bokuto declared. “Like ‘relationship-ping’? Keep up!”

You stared. “You cannot be real.”

“I’m the captain of love,” he said seriously. “And I demand a kiss. For proof.”

Akaashi, impossibly, didn’t roll his eyes. He just looked at you again.

“Ignore him,” he said gently. “Unless…”

He trailed off.

You met his eyes.

Unless.

Unless you wanted it too.

And then—slowly, so slowly—you felt his hand reach for yours. Fingers threading together like it was something you’d done a hundred times already.

He stepped closer.

And then, soft as a secret, he kissed your forehead.

Your knees nearly gave out.

It wasn’t loud or showy. It wasn’t something made for Bokuto’s theatrics.

It was quiet. Intentional.

Like he’d wanted to for a long, long time.

“I was right!” Bokuto screamed from behind you. “Love is real! I’m telling the whole team. I’m putting it in the group chat.”

“Please don’t,” Akaashi said, still remarkably calm, though his hand tightened slightly around yours.

You were still frozen, your forehead tingling, breath caught in your throat.

“Are we… dating now?” you asked, stunned.

Akaashi tilted his head. “We can take it slow. One step at a time. But yes. If you want to.”

You nodded.

“I want to.”

He smiled—a real one, warm and unguarded.

“Unless you regret writing the letter,” he murmured.

You looked at him.

At the boy who’d been your constant.

At the boy who noticed everything.

And you said, with a quiet kind of certainty—

“No. I’m glad it ended up in the right hands.”

Bonus scene

“Hey,” Bokuto said proudly, slinging an arm around both of your shoulders as you sat together on the bleachers, post-practice.

“I still think you should’ve made out.”

“Bokuto,” Akaashi said.

“Just saying! That forehead kiss was like, PG. Come on. Spice it up for your number one fan!”

You reached over and lightly smacked his arm.

He grinned.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” he added, nudging you. “If I hadn’t picked up that letter—”

“I know,” you sighed.

“Wait,” Akaashi said slowly, turning to him. “Why were you under the bleachers?”

Bokuto paused.

Then looked away. “…That’s not important.”

Akaashi stared at him.

You leaned into Akaashi’s side, watching Bokuto whistle innocently as he swung his legs over the edge of the bench.

“God help whoever he ends up dating,” you muttered.

Akaashi smiled again, softly, and brushed a knuckle over your temple.

“Let’s just hope they’re patient.”

And maybe—just maybe—romantic enough to write something silly and private that turns out to be everything he was hoping to hear.

You first met Nagi Seishiro through your best friend, Mikage Reo — Hakuho High School’s golden boy.

If there was anyone who could juggle soccer captaincy, straight A’s, an overflowing social life, and still find time to tease you before homeroom, it was Reo. He had the kind of smile that made people trust him too easily and the kind of confidence that made teachers both adore and resent him.

Everyone adored him.

But you never did — not like that.

You and Reo had known each other since you were five, since he’d tried to share his pudding at daycare and got it smeared across his designer uniform when you slapped it away. From then on, it was chaos and camaraderie: late-night calls for math homework, popcorn fights during cram sessions, and long car rides in the Mikage family limo with your knees knocking under shared blankets.

You were like siblings — something even Reo’s fangirls at school refused to believe.

“Why would I date Reo?” you’d asked once, horrified. “That’s like dating my cousin.”

Reo, overhearing it from across the hall, only shrugged. “That’s her way of saying I’m the more attractive one.”

It was all harmless teasing — always had been.

But then came him.

The day Reo introduced you to Nagi, you had no expectations. You were just tagging along to another of his after-practice hangouts, this time near the gym’s side benches, where he said a “new recruit” was waiting.

You weren’t prepared for the tall, white-haired boy who barely spared you a glance when you arrived.

“This is Nagi Seishiro,” Reo had said with a proud grin, clapping a hand on the stranger’s shoulder. “Monster on the field. Zero social skills. Doesn’t care about anything except games.”

Nagi looked up from his phone — not because he wanted to, but because Reo had nudged him. His eyes were dull, like nothing around him sparked much interest. The only life in him came from the game lighting up his screen.

Reo gestured to you. “This is Angel.”

You blinked. “Excuse me—”

“It’s what I call her. Don’t question it.”

Nagi’s gaze lingered for a second. “Angel, huh.”

His voice was flat, disinterested. But oddly enough… he repeated the name like it mattered.

That was all he said before looking back down at his phone.

You’d never met someone so unimpressed with the world.

And yet — somehow — you found yourself drawn to him anyway.

Maybe it was the way he moved like everything was too much trouble, yet still found his way next to you. Or maybe it was the quiet comfort of his presence, how even in silence, he never made you feel alone. There was something hypnotic about his stillness — as if chaos couldn’t touch him. And when you were around him, it couldn’t touch you either.

It started subtly.

Nagi never called you by your name. Just Angel.

Not once had he asked if it was okay. He just picked it up the way someone picks up a new favorite song — without effort, without question. It was like a default setting in his brain. Automatic. Natural. Like he couldn’t imagine calling you anything else.

It didn’t help, though. Not when he kept giving you mixed signals.

Nagi might’ve looked distracted all the time, his gaze often glued to his phone or drifting to the clouds during class — but he always paid attention to you. He remembered the details you told him: your favorite snack during exam season, the exact way you liked your tea, the movie you wanted to watch next. Once, you’d casually mentioned how your feet always got cold in the library, and the next time you studied together, he brought an extra pair of fuzzy socks like it was no big deal.

He didn’t say much. Never did. But he showed up in ways that made your heart ache.

Like the way he’d always wander over to you after hours of football practice, the sky fading pink above Hakuho High’s rooftop or the sun casting long shadows on the back field. Sweaty and slow-moving, he’d drop his duffle bag beside you with a grunt, flopping onto the grass like gravity had finally won.

Sometimes he’d tug at your sleeve in that lazy, silent way of asking for attention — head resting on your thigh as if it were the most obvious pillow in the world. No warning. No asking. Just trust.

And you always let him.

You’d card your fingers through his soft white hair, and he’d hum, quiet and content, almost like a cat purring. The world seemed to dull when he was like that — when his breathing evened out and his body melted into yours like he belonged there.

Sometimes, he’d shift closer, burying his face into the crook of your neck, voice barely a whisper.

“Sleepy, Angel.”

Just two words. But you’d feel them for hours after.

You’d sit there frozen, breath caught in your throat, heart thundering like it was trying to break out of your ribs. And he — unbothered, eyes half-lidded and heavy — would fall asleep to the sound of your racing pulse.

He didn’t realize what he was doing to you.

Or maybe he did. You could never really tell.

Because when the sun dipped low enough, and the rest of the team started filing out, Nagi would lift his head, yawn, and walk off like nothing happened. Like he hadn’t just cracked your heart open with one word, one look, one casual lean into your shoulder.

It wasn’t fair — how someone so unattached could still have that kind of power over you.

It wasn’t fair that you started hoping he’d do it again.

Because every time he touched you like that — every time he called you Angel in that soft, half-asleep tone — it felt like a dream you weren’t allowed to wake up from.

And yet, you never stopped waiting for the next time.

Oh, but it didn’t stop with lazy afternoons and fleeting moments of closeness. Not even close.

There were other moments — quieter ones, tucked between school and soccer practice, when it was just you, Reo, and Nagi heading off-campus for food. Reo would always act like he was treating royalty, leading you both with swagger and flair, his platinum card practically flashing in the sunlight.

He’d announce, “My treat, obviously,” before you even stepped into the restaurant. Mikage Reo: Hakuho High’s golden boy, heir to the building you were sitting in, and yet still the same loud, dramatic idiot you grew up with.

But your focus was never on him.

Because Nagi, without fail, would always slide into the seat beside you. Even if Reo sat next to you first, Nagi would stand there, towering, blinking once before saying, “Move.” And Reo — used to his antics — would just sigh and scoot without complaint.

He didn’t even try to hide it anymore.

And every time Nagi settled beside you, your heart did that stupid thing again — tripped over itself, stumbled into your ribs, and reminded you that you were already too far gone.

It always happened the same way.

You’d be mid-bite or mid-conversation when suddenly, his fingers would find yours beneath the table. Not a brush. Not an accidental touch. A full-on interlock. As if your hand was made to fit into his.

Sometimes, his grip was light, absent-minded — his thumb rubbing lazy circles against your palm while he focused on his rice bowl. Sometimes, it was firmer, grounding. Like he needed to hold on to something, and for some reason, that something was always you.

One time, he caught your hand before you could even sit down, pulling it into his lap casually.

“Your hand’s warm,” he murmured, eyes half-lidded with that usual drowsy calm. “And soft.”

Like it was the most obvious observation in the world. Like it meant nothing.

But it didn’t mean nothing to you.

It never did.

Because every time he said something like that—quiet and thoughtless, like a dream slipping through your fingers—it burrowed deeper into your heart. And left you wondering: Does he even know what he’s doing to me?

Across the table, Reo would catch your eye with a smirk.

He’d rest his chin in his hand, grinning like a fox. “You two should just date already,” he’d say one afternoon, loud enough for Nagi to hear.

You choked on your drink.

Nagi didn’t even flinch. “Too much work,” he replied without missing a beat—but his grip on your hand didn’t loosen.

Your stomach twisted. And Reo? He looked at you knowingly, as if he could see the spiral in your mind before you even admitted it to yourself.

You wanted to believe there was something there. That the touches meant something. That the nickname wasn’t just a habit. That the way he leaned into your shoulder and closed his eyes wasn’t just comfort—it was you.

But Nagi never said anything.

And you were too scared to ask.

Because what if it really was just who he was? What if the closeness you treasured so deeply… wasn’t special to him at all?

You hated how much the uncertainty hurt.

Hated how you still looked for his name on your phone screen.

Hated how your heart reacted to every small thing he did—like it hadn’t learned how to protect itself.

Because no matter how casual he made it seem… holding Nagi’s hand always felt like the closest thing to home.

And maybe that was the most dangerous part.

Because when something starts to feel like home, you forget it was never promised to you. You start expecting it—counting on it—imagining things that were never said out loud. You start building a future in the quiet spaces between words he never meant for you to read into.

You told yourself you were fine with the silence. That you could live in the in-between. But your heart knew better. It ached louder every time Nagi pulled you a little closer… and said nothing at all.

So now—suffocating in feelings you never meant to have—you were sprawled like a corpse on the oversized couch in Reo’s ridiculous penthouse living room.

Hakuho High’s golden boy, born with a silver spoon and a rooftop garden, was currently snacking on something that cost more than your weekly lunch allowance and watching you fall apart with the patience of someone used to your drama.

“Fuck it!” you screamed into one of his designer pillows, muffled but heartfelt. “I hate him. I hate his stupid hair, and his lazy slouch, and the way he breathes like the world is boring and calls me angel like he didn’t just short-circuit my entire central nervous system.”

Reo didn’t even flinch. “So,” he said casually, tossing another popcorn kernel into his mouth, “you’re saying you’re fine.”

You let out a long, wounded groan into the cushions. “You ruined my life, Mikage.”

“Oh, is that what I did?” he said, utterly unfazed. “You were so normal before Nagi, huh? Always emotionally stable, never crying over how ‘his voice sounds like fresh snow falling on a winter night.’”

Your head snapped up. “I never said that.”

He smirked. “You did. Last week. When he called you at midnight to ask what time practice was and you replayed the voicemail six times.”

Your cheeks burned. “That’s… not the point!”

“No, you’re right. The point is, I introduced you two. I should get matchmaking royalties.”

You sat up, dramatically throwing off his fancy blanket. “You should’ve never introduced him to me, Reo!”

Reo gave you a shit-eating grin. “Why? Because he’s hot, mysterious, emotionally unavailable, and clearly soft for you? Yeah, sorry. That’s on me.”

You groaned and flopped back onto the couch. “He’s not soft for me.”

“Oh, right. My bad,” he said, mock-serious. “He just randomly holds your hand during lunch, naps with his head in your lap, and only calls you angel. Totally meaningless.”

“It feels meaningless when he never says anything about it!”

Reo got up, made his way to the mini fridge, and tossed you a can of something carbonated and unnecessarily expensive. “Sei’s weird,” he said, plopping back into his seat. “He doesn’t talk much, but he doesn’t exactly do all that with everyone.”

You cracked open the drink and took a long sip, sighing. “I feel like I’m going insane.”

“No, this is just karma for every time you made fun of me in middle school when I had a crush.”

You threw a cushion at him.

He caught it easily. “Look. You and Nagi? It’s a slow burn. Like, glacial. Like, two rocks eroding in a riverbed over several centuries.”

You gave him a look. “You’re not helping.”

“I am helping,” he said smugly. “I’m listening to your crisis, offering top-tier beverages, and reminding you that he called you angel during conditioning drills, which means even when he’s sweating to death, you’re still on his mind.”

You paused. “You think?”

Reo leaned back, his expression softer now. “I know.”

You stared at the ceiling. “Then why hasn’t he said anything? Why hasn’t he… done anything?”

Reo hesitated for a beat, then shrugged. “He probably doesn’t know what he’s feeling yet.”

You blinked. “How do you not know you like someone?”

Reo looked at you knowingly. “Have you met Nagi?”

“…Fair.”

The two of you sat in silence for a bit, the city lights from the floor-to-ceiling windows spilling across the marble floors. The penthouse was too fancy, too big—but in this moment, it felt oddly safe.

Then, quietly, you said, “I think I like him.”

Reo didn’t tease you that night. He just smiled—crooked and quiet—and let the weight of your words settle in the silence between you.

“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

And for one brief moment, you felt lighter. Like something in your chest had finally been named, and now you could breathe around it.

But that peace didn’t last.

Because after that night at his penthouse, Reo didn’t just return to being your best friend.

He became your personal tormentor.

Not in the mean-spirited way—not really. But in that classic Mikage Reo fashion, he took your emotional meltdown, filed it under “important best friend information,” and proceeded to use it for sport.

Subtle at first.

A comment here. A smirk there.

“Your boyfriend’s under the tree again,” he’d say casually during soccer practice, flinging his towel over his shoulder and pointing across the field with his chin. “Probably waiting for you to come fan him or something.”

You didn’t even bother responding the first few times. But Reo? He thrived on reactions. So the quieter you were, the more relentless he became.

“He’s literally using your hoodie as a pillow right now,” he snorted during one break. “What is he, a stray cat? Did you feed him once and now he won’t leave?”

You tried to ignore him, really, you did.

But it was hard to play it cool when Nagi Seishiro—cool, aloof, half-asleep Nagi—kept gravitating toward you like you were the only person on the planet worth orbiting.

When he’d wander over during water breaks, barely say anything, and drop to the grass beside you with a heavy sigh.

When he’d tug at the hem of your sleeve like a child, muttering, “Move a little, Angel,” so he could comfortably lay his head on your lap.

The first time he did it, you froze.

You had no idea what to do with your hands, with your face, with the ridiculous tempo your heart had launched into.

And when he nuzzled into the crook of your neck and whispered, “Warm. ’M comfy here,” you were sure you’d ascended into another dimension.

Reo, from several feet away, didn’t miss a beat.

“Are you serious right now?” he called out, deadpan. “You’re using her as a human mattress? Sei, we’re in the middle of practice.”

Nagi, eyes still closed, responded with a half-lidded shrug. “We’re on break.”

Reo turned to you, hands on hips like a disappointed parent. “Why do you let him do that?”

You glared at him. “Do I look like I can stop him?”

Reo opened his mouth, then paused, expression flickering to something amused and oddly fond. “You don’t, actually. Which is kinda impressive.”

From then on, he only got worse.

During lunch, he made a habit of sliding Nagi’s bento closer to you before anyone sat down.

“Feed him,” Reo would say, like a waiter taking your order. “Or he won’t eat. Apparently your hands make everything taste better.”

Nagi, seated beside you like it was law, didn’t even look up from his game.

“True,” he said flatly, holding out his chopsticks expectantly. “Angel feeds me better.”

Your face combusted.

Reo nearly fell off his seat from laughing.

And somehow—somehow—this became routine.

If Nagi didn’t get to sit next to you, he’d just drag his chair over. If you were holding your phone, he’d take it and lean against your shoulder while scrolling aimlessly. If you were quiet, he’d lean into you, cheek against your hair, and murmur, “Tell me something. I like hearing your voice.”

Every small thing turned sacred. Every tiny touch set you on fire.

And Reo? He stoked the flames.

It was like living in a dream you weren’t allowed to name. A day-by-day slow burn that left you suspended in something warm and fragile. You didn’t know if Nagi meant any of it the way you hoped he did. He never said anything. Never changed his expression. Just kept calling you Angel and reaching for you like you belonged to him.

And the worst part?

You kept letting him.

You wanted to believe it meant something.

You needed to believe it did.

But the not knowing—it festered. The what-ifs, the maybe-he-does, maybe-he-doesn’t… they turned every smile into a battlefield, every silence into a storm.

You didn’t realize how exhausted you were from hoping until it all came to a head on a regular, sleepy afternoon at Hakuho High.

The sky was bluer than usual. The breeze was soft. You had a bottle of your favorite drink in hand after a long lecture, your thoughts drifting—mostly about how quiet Nagi had been lately. Distant, even.

You were behind the gym, just starting to unscrew the cap of your drink, when someone approached you.

“Hey.”

You blinked up, surprised. He was a third-year—tall, broad-shouldered, sharp features softened by the slight smile he wore. You recognized him vaguely. Vice-captain of the basketball team. The type girls whispered about in the corridors.

“I know this is sudden,” he started, scratching the back of his neck, “but… are you dating Nagi Seishiro?”

Your grip tightened around your drink. The question hit harder than it should have.

You blinked. “Huh?”

“You guys are always together,” he said, shrugging. “It kinda looks like it. I didn’t want to step on anyone’s toes, so I figured I’d ask first.”

You didn’t know how to answer.

Because no—he never asked you out. But yes—he held your hand like it meant something. He napped on your lap. Called you Angel. Looked for you in crowds.

But that wasn’t love, was it? At least… not the kind that gets voiced.

So you shook your head.

“No,” you said softly. “We’re not.”

The word sat heavy on your tongue, like something bitter you were finally forced to swallow. Even saying it aloud—confirming that there was nothing between you and Nagi—hurt more than you thought it would.

The boy blinked, surprised. “Oh. Then… Reo?”

You blinked back, caught off guard. “What?”

He laughed nervously, raising both hands in surrender. “Sorry—just, the way you and Mikage always bicker. I figured maybe you two were, you know… childhood friends-to-lovers or whatever.”

You stared at him like he’d just grown a second head.

Then came the deadpan: “Heck no.”

It was more disgust than denial, and it left your mouth before you could filter it.

The guy laughed again—this time, genuinely. “Alright, alright. Just checking.”

You rolled your eyes, cheeks flushing. “Reo’s like… my brother. That would be disgusting.”

“That clears things up.” He smiled, easing a little. “Then… maybe we could go for coffee this weekend?”

There was a pause.

And then, before you could give yourself a reason not to, you nodded.

“Sure,” you said. “Why not?”

It wasn’t a confession.

It wasn’t a first kiss.

But it was the first time you admitted—if only to yourself—that maybe you couldn’t wait around for Nagi forever.

What you didn’t know, standing there in the soft shadow of the school gym, was that someone had seen the entire thing. From the moment the boy asked if you were dating Nagi, down to the way you wrinkled your nose at the mention of Reo.

And that someone’s stomach dropped like a stone.

Because while you were saying no…

Nagi was across the path—hearing every word like it was a slap to the face.

He didn’t stick around to hear your answer to the guy’s next question. He didn’t want to. Couldn’t. Something in him recoiled the moment he saw you standing there—with him—smiling the way you usually smiled at him.

He walked away, fast and quiet.

The weight of his limbs was heavier than usual. His hoodie felt too warm against his skin, and his hands stayed shoved deep into the pockets like he was trying to bury the strange, twisting ache crawling up his chest.

He went back to the soccer field, eyes blank, lips pressed into a line.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t even look at Reo when the other boy offered him a water bottle.

He just stood in the grass, shoulders stiff, waiting for the whistle to blow.

Why would he feel like this?

You can date who you want. You’re your own person. You always were.

And besides—you were right.

You two weren’t together.

You weren’t his girlfriend.

You were just… his Angel.

His nap partner. His hand to hold. His favorite seat under the sakura tree after a long day of classes. The one who laughed at his flat jokes. The one who listened even when he didn’t respond. The one he could always find in the stands, no matter how far away.

His… friend.

That’s all it was, right?

Just a friend.

So why did the idea of someone else having your attention—the thought of you laughing at someone else’s bad jokes, someone else’s hand holding yours—make his throat tighten like this?

Why did he feel like his chest was full of static?

Why did practice suddenly feel impossible to focus on?

Why did everything burn?

He was Nagi Seishiro—apathetic, unbothered, uninterested in everything except convenience and quiet. He didn’t do emotions. Didn’t care about people.

And yet…

Why?

Why did it feel like he was about to lose something he didn’t even realize he was holding?

The thought wouldn’t leave him alone.

It echoed in his head, over and over, louder than the screech of cleats against the turf, louder than the whistle, louder than Reo yelling plays from the opposite end of the field.

You’d said it so clearly. So easily.

“No, we’re not.”

You weren’t lying. But something in your voice—he couldn’t forget it. It didn’t sound like relief. It sounded like… surrender.

Why did that hurt so damn much?

He pressed forward in the scrimmage, a pass skimming just past his foot because he moved a second too late. His reflexes were off. His instincts dulled. The field felt too narrow. His jersey clung to his back. The usual lightness in his body was gone, replaced by a heavy, dragging weight he couldn’t shake.

He missed another pass.

And another.

He shoved his hands into his hair in frustration, growling quietly, “Tch.”

A few teammates stared. They didn’t say anything, but the tension rippled.

Nagi didn’t care.

No, that was a lie.

He did care.

That was the worst part.

For the first time in a long time, he cared too much and didn’t know how to handle it.

Across the field, Reo watched carefully.

He had known Nagi since first year. Knew the way his best friend moved, the tempo of his rhythm on the field, the lazy but calculated precision of his mind. He’d watched Nagi play sick, play exhausted, even play pissed off—and still look good doing it.

But this?

This wasn’t the usual indifference.

This wasn’t fatigue.

This was Nagi unraveling.

Quietly. Subtly. But painfully.

He could see it in the way Nagi’s shoulders stiffened with every misstep. The way his hands balled into fists whenever the ball rolled too far. The way he didn’t even look toward the bleachers—where you usually sat watching, sometimes waving, always smiling.

You weren’t there today.

And Reo had a feeling Nagi knew exactly why.

But the worst part? He didn’t do anything about it.

Not the next day.

Not the day after that.

Not even when your eyes lingered on him longer than necessary—waiting, hoping, hurting.

Instead, Nagi distanced himself.

No explanation. No text. No lazy “Angel” in the hallway, no sudden weight of his head on your shoulder like he used to do after class. He didn’t take the seat next to you during lunch anymore, even when Reo subtly saved it. He didn’t offer you sips of his convenience store soda, or absentmindedly thread your fingers with his under the cafeteria table.

It was as if someone had pressed pause on everything that felt safe and familiar.

And you noticed. Of course you noticed.

How could you not?

The boy who once made you feel like the center of his world was now acting like you barely existed in it.

You tried to brush it off at first—told yourself he was just tired from soccer, or spacing out like he always did, or maybe he just needed time. You knew Nagi could be… detached. Aloof. He was never the type to chase or cling. That was just how he was.

But this? This was different.

He wasn’t just distracted.

He was avoiding you.

The realization settled in your chest like a weight you couldn’t shake off, especially when Reo—your oldest friend, your partner in chaos since grade school—confirmed the one thing you dreaded to hear.

It was late in the afternoon when it happened. You were at the Mikage penthouse again, your designated post-school escape on days that felt too heavy. You were lying on your back, legs tossed over the armrest of Reo’s imported Italian couch, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling.

Reo was scrolling through his phone beside you, one socked foot pressed against your shin lazily. The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the central air and the occasional clink of ice in your untouched drinks.

“He knows the vice captain asked you out.”

Your stomach dropped.

You turned your head slowly toward Reo, your voice barely above a whisper. “Nagi?”

Reo nodded, still scrolling. “He was nearby when it happened. Didn’t say anything, but I saw his face after. He walked back to the field like he was ready to murder someone.”

You sat up fully now, heart pounding. “Is that why he’s been avoiding me?”

Reo sighed like it physically pained him to deal with the emotional incompetence of his best friend. “Most likely. I mean, it’s either that or he suddenly forgot how to function around people—which, okay, is also a possibility with him.”

You swallowed, the pieces falling into place too fast for comfort. “But… why would he avoid me?”

Reo finally looked at you, his expression unreadable for once.

The teasing had fallen from his features like snow off a rooftop—quiet, unexpected. His voice, when he finally spoke, came soft but firm.

“Because he’s a dumbass.”

You blinked. “I—what?”

He raised an eyebrow at you, like he couldn’t believe he had to spell it out.

“He likes you, idiot.”

The words hit you harder than they should have.

They knocked the air out of your lungs and left you staring at Reo like he’d just casually told you gravity stopped working.

“I—” Your mouth opened, then shut again. You shook your head. “No. No, he doesn’t.”

Reo let out a slow breath, dragging a hand through his perfectly styled hair. “Yes, he does. He just doesn’t realize it the way you want him to yet. That doesn’t mean it’s not there.”

You frowned, your voice quieter now. “Then why is he avoiding me?”

Reo studied you carefully. “Because he’s never felt this kind of thing before. He’s confused. Freaked out, probably. And when Sei gets overwhelmed, he doesn’t push forward—he hides. Retreats.”

You looked away, your fingers curling into the hem of your sweater. “It hurts.”

Reo’s gaze softened. “I know. And it’s killing me watching both of you act like this when it’s so obvious you mean the world to each other.”

You sighed, slumping back against the couch cushions. Your heart felt heavy, bruised in a way that wasn’t physical. Like something was wilting inside your chest—soft and unseen, but so achingly present. “What do I do, Reo?”

He didn’t answer right away. For once, he wasn’t being theatrical or smug. No exaggerated hand gestures or sarcastic comments. Just silence, and a look in his eyes that said he was weighing his words carefully.

Finally, Reo spoke. His voice was gentler than you expected.

“I’m not playing favorites here, but… you already did your part.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I mean, come on,” he said, shrugging one shoulder. “You like him. You know it. I know it. Hell, half of Hakuho probably knows it. You’ve shown him in every way that counts. It’s not your responsibility to make him see that he likes you back.”

Your lips parted slightly, but no sound came out.

Reo leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, gaze fixed on yours. “Sei’s not good with emotions. He feels things, yeah—but he doesn’t always know what he’s feeling. He zones out, pulls away, avoids it like it’s a hard level in a game he doesn’t want to clear.”

Your heart stung. “Then what if he never clears it?”

“Then that’s on him,” Reo said, and there was no hesitation in his voice this time. “Not you. You’ve been patient. You’ve been honest, even if you haven’t said the exact words. If he lets you walk away without realizing what you mean to him… that’s his loss.”

The words echoed in your chest, louder than you wanted them to.

Because deep down, you didn’t want to walk away. Not even a little. Not even when he made you feel invisible. But Reo was right—loving someone didn’t mean setting yourself on fire to light their path. And maybe… maybe it was time Nagi realized that.

You closed your eyes, trying to blink away the sting behind your lashes. “I hate this.”

Reo offered a soft laugh and nudged your knee with his. “I know. Love sucks sometimes. Especially when it comes with a six-foot-tall emotional brick wall.”

You cracked a smile, just barely. “Thanks for the reminder.”

He grinned. “Anytime, Angel.”

And despite the ache still lodged somewhere in your ribs, his words settled into your heart like a gentle promise.

That no matter how messy this all became, you weren’t completely alone in it.

Reo was there—annoying, overconfident, occasionally too invested—but always in your corner. He never let you spiral too far without yanking you back with a half-serious joke or a reality check disguised as sarcasm. And knowing that… made breathing a little easier.

You stayed in his penthouse longer than you meant to that night. He made you tea without asking, switched the mood lighting to a calmer tone, and played some playlist he called “Healing for the Emotionally Exhausted.” You didn’t even have the energy to roll your eyes.

You stared out the window while the city lights blinked back at you like stars—distant and quiet. Your thoughts drifted again to Nagi. To the way his hair fell into his eyes when he leaned over his phone. The weight of his head when he laid it in your lap after practice. The warmth in his voice when he murmured, “Sleepy, Angel.”

You clutched a pillow to your chest and sank deeper into Reo’s velvet couch.

Had it always been this one-sided?

Or was Nagi really just scared?

You didn’t know.

But tomorrow… you were going to try. Even if it wasn’t with him.

Then the day of the date came.

You didn’t wear anything flashy—just your usual clothes with a touch more care. Hair brushed out, light gloss on your lips, perfume you knew Reo teased you about for being too sweet. You stared at yourself in the mirror longer than usual before heading out, trying to convince yourself this was fine. Normal. Just a simple afternoon. Just… something new.

The vice captain was already waiting near the front gates of Hakuho, dressed neatly in the school’s after-hours uniform with a pleasant, easy smile. He wasn’t Nagi. His energy was steadier, more grounded. Not sleepy or unpredictable—but warm in his own right.

He greeted you with a polite, “You look nice,” and offered to carry your bag.

You smiled. Tried to mean it.

But something in your chest tugged.

You walked to the nearby café together, talked about classes, mutual friends, upcoming tournaments. He was kind. Charming, even. You knew girls at school talked about him a lot—and it wasn’t hard to see why. He was attentive without being overbearing, curious about your thoughts, laughing easily at your jokes.

But it wasn’t Nagi’s laugh.

It wasn’t Nagi’s quiet stare.

It wasn’t Nagi at all.

And the vice captain could see it.

Maybe not immediately—but somewhere between you pushing food around your plate and your gaze flickering toward the glass windows every time a white-haired figure passed, he figured it out.

He set his drink down gently and leaned back.

“You still like him, don’t you?”

You froze. The words landed softly, not like a confrontation, but like an observation. A truth laid bare.

You looked at your half-eaten dessert, then slowly nodded. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I think I always have.”

He chuckled—low and not bitter. Just amused in a tired sort of way.

“Well,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “I kinda figured when you spent the first ten minutes watching the sidewalk instead of me.”

Your cheeks flushed. “I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be.” He held up a hand, waving it off with a smile. “Seriously. I knew what I was walking into. Guess I hoped maybe you’d give me a chance to make you forget him.”

You looked at him—really looked at him—and saw no resentment in his expression. Just understanding.

“I really appreciate that you still came,” he added. “Even knowing your heart’s kind of… already somewhere else.”

You swallowed around the lump in your throat and nodded. “Thank you. For being kind.”

He smiled. “He better realize what he has before someone else does.”

And somewhere across the city, under the molten streaks of the setting sun, Nagi Seishiro was pacing the length of Hakuho High’s empty soccer field. The sky above him glowed in soft orange and deep violet, but he didn’t look up once. His feet dragged across the turf like his body was moving on its own—slow, heavy, as if weighed down by something he couldn’t shake off.

Reo’s voice still echoed in his mind, sharp and impossible to ignore.

“You feel something, don’t you?”

Nagi hadn’t answered. He didn’t know how. Because how do you name a feeling you’ve never bothered to understand?

He wasn’t built for messy emotions. He preferred ease—predictable gameplay, soft pillows, long naps. But you? You weren’t easy. You were the one variable he hadn’t figured out. The one thing that made his chest ache when you smiled and made his head go silent when you laughed. He didn’t understand it. Didn’t try to.

Not until he saw it.

That day.

You were standing behind the gym, light bouncing off your hair as you spoke to the vice captain. Nagi hadn’t meant to linger. He was just walking by—heading to grab a juice box or waste a few more minutes before practice.

But then the vice captain asked you something. And Nagi stopped.

“Are you dating Nagi Seishiro?”

It was a simple question, harmless to anyone else. But to Nagi, it sounded like a pin being pulled from a grenade. His steps faltered. He didn’t turn around, didn’t breathe too loudly, just stood half-hidden behind the wall’s edge, frozen like a bug caught in amber.

You hesitated. Just for a beat.

Then your answer came, soft and unsteady. “No. We’re not.”

And Nagi couldn’t explain why that answer—the very truth he’d never had the guts to change—felt like a sucker punch to the chest.

He left before he could hear what came next. Because in his chest, a feeling he’d spent months ignoring had finally started screaming. And it didn’t sound like indifference. It sounded like jealousy. Like regret.

And maybe—just maybe—like heartbreak.

He never knew your answer.

Not from you.

But by the time lunch ended and the hallways quieted, he didn’t have to.

Whispers chased him like ghosts—fragments of your name laced with quiet gasps and knowing smirks.

“She said yes.”

“To the vice captain, right?”

“She finally gave up on Nagi, huh?”

Each word chipped at something inside him. Something he’d never named, never dared to look at too closely.

And now it was bleeding through the cracks.

Practice came like muscle memory. But there was no rhythm. No focus. His passes were too hard. His touches too sharp. A snap in his movements that wasn’t like him. He missed a shot he’d normally sink with his eyes closed.

Reo said his name—twice, maybe three times—but Nagi didn’t answer.

Eventually, they left him there. Even Reo.

The sun dipped lower, dragging shadows across the field, and still, Nagi didn’t move. His limbs sprawled carelessly across the grass, as if exhaustion had pinned him down and frustration had tied the knot. He stared at the sky, expression unreadable, fingers tangled in blades of green.

Everything felt wrong. Off.

His chest was tight again, like it had been all day. Like he’d swallowed something too big, and now it wouldn’t leave.

She said yes.

To someone else.

The thought circled like a vulture.

You found him alone on the soccer field, long after the others had packed up and left.

The lights from the school building flickered faintly in the distance, casting long shadows across the grass where Nagi lay stretched out like a boy made of bone-deep exhaustion. His jersey clung to his skin, a streak of sweat running down his temple. His eyes, however, were still wide open—staring up at the sky like it could answer the ache twisting in his chest.

He didn’t look at you when you approached. But you saw the way his hand twitched in the grass. Like he knew you were coming.

“Nagi.”

Your voice didn’t tremble, but it came out quieter than you’d expected. You stood above him for a moment, waiting, hoping—but he didn’t respond.

You slowly sat beside him, knees drawn up to your chest, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve.

“I said yes,” you said after a long silence, eyes on the horizon. “To someone else.”

He didn’t move. But his jaw shifted, the tiniest tick beneath his cheekbone.

“I said yes to a date because I was tired of wondering what this was,” you continued, voice starting to shake despite your best efforts. “Tired of waiting for you to say something. Anything.”

Still nothing. Only the sound of distant cicadas and the dull thud of your heartbeat in your ears.

“Do you even remember what you said the day we met?” you asked quietly. “You didn’t say my name once. Just called me Angel. Like it was automatic. Like it didn’t matter who I was, just that I was there.”

You laughed bitterly under your breath, your fingers clenching. “I tried not to let it mean anything. I tried not to hope. But then you’d rest your head on my shoulder and whisper like I was your safe place. You’d hold my hand and tell me it was soft, warm. You made me feel like I was… something.”

Your breath hitched. You turned to face him fully, and finally—finally—Nagi turned his head to look at you.

His expression was unreadable. But you could see it—the fear just beneath the surface. The conflict. The guilt.

Your voice cracked when you spoke again. “Do you like me, Nagi?”

The question hung between you like smoke.

He blinked. Once. Then again. And slowly, he sat up, arms bracing behind him.

“I don’t know,” he said.

Your chest caved in.

It wasn’t anger that flared in you. It was heartbreak. The slow, sinking realization that the boy you wanted so badly didn’t even know if he wanted you back.

“You don’t know,” you repeated, breathless, eyes burning.

He looked away, fingers digging into the grass. “It’s not that simple.”

“It is,” you said, voice shaking harder now. “It is that simple. You either feel something for me or you don’t. And if you don’t, that’s okay—” your voice broke. “—but you can’t keep treating me like I’m your world if you can’t even figure out your own heart.”

Nagi’s head snapped back toward you, eyes wide, as if your words had physically struck him.

“You can’t nuzzle into my neck and fall asleep on my lap and whisper ‘Angel’ like I’m the only one who matters—and then say you don’t know. That’s not fair.”

He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

You took a shaky step back. “I let myself believe you did. I let myself fall for you—slowly, painfully. Every time you remembered the little things I said, every time you showed up even in your quiet way, I thought maybe…”

You trailed off, swallowing hard. “But you never said it. You never gave me anything real to hold on to. And now I’m the idiot who said yes to someone else, but all I can think about is you.”

He was silent. Still. His silver hair caught in the breeze, eyes locked on yours like he wanted to say something—needed to—but couldn’t bring himself to cross that threshold.

You shook your head, blinking fast. “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t keep waiting for someone who doesn’t even know if he wants me.”

You turned.

And this time, Nagi didn’t stop you.

But as your figure disappeared across the field—shoulders trembling, arms wrapped tightly around yourself—something inside him cracked like ice splitting under too much weight.

And for the first time, Nagi Seishiro wasn’t sure if he was tired…

Or if this was the first time he was finally awake.

Because something in your voice had snapped him out of the haze he’d been living in—the gentle fog of comfort he’d built around himself like a second skin. You were gone now, walking away from him, and yet your words still echoed in his ears louder than any stadium ever had.

You can’t treat me like I’m your world if you don’t even know your own heart.

It rang like a siren in his skull.

The soccer field felt too open after that. Too wide. Too cold. His limbs buzzed with restless energy he didn’t know what to do with. So he moved on instinct, feet dragging him away from the grass and the guilt and the silence you left behind.

The next time he blinked, he was standing in front of Reo’s building.

The Mikage Tower—an architectural flex of polished glass and inherited legacy—loomed above him like a monolith. Nagi hadn’t even realized where he was heading until the security at the front recognized him and let him through wordlessly, like he belonged there. Maybe he did. He came here often enough. But today, the elevator ride felt different. The music sounded too sharp. The walls too reflective. He could see himself in them—eyes unfocused, jaw clenched tight.

By the time he reached the penthouse, the door was already swinging open.

Reo looked like he’d been expecting him.

“Figured you’d show up eventually,” Reo said, arms crossed loosely over his chest, eyes sweeping over Nagi with a familiar, no-bullshit expression. “You looked like you were about to combust during practice.”

Nagi walked past him in silence, dropping onto the nearest couch like a sack of limbs. He stared at the ceiling as if the answers might be etched into the marble tiles.

Reo shut the door and followed, sitting across from him. “So… you wanna talk?”

“No,” Nagi muttered.

Reo leaned back, exhaling through his nose. “Alright. You wanna sulk here until you rot into the cushions, then?”

“Maybe.”

Silence stretched between them, thick and electric.

Then Nagi spoke again, voice low, like he hated even admitting it. “She went on the date.”

Reo blinked. “You mean you let her go on the date.”

Nagi’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t let her do anything. She can do what she wants.”

“She wanted you, dumbass,” Reo snapped, sitting forward now, arms braced on his knees. “She waited—waited—for you to pull your head out of your ass. You were the one who kept acting like she mattered and then saying nothing.”

Nagi ran a hand down his face, dragging his palm over his eyes like he could rub the thoughts away. “I didn’t know I liked her.”

Reo scoffed. “You knew. You just didn’t realize that’s what it was. You’ve never cared about anyone like that before, so you didn’t recognize it.”

“I felt…” Nagi trailed off, words catching in his throat. “Like something was ripping out of me when I saw him ask her. I wanted to hit something. Or sleep forever. I didn’t like it.”

“That’s what jealousy feels like, Sei,” Reo said quietly. “That’s what heartbreak feels like when you’re too late.”

Nagi let his head fall back, a low groan rumbling from his chest. “She said she liked me. And I told her… I told her I don’t know.”

Reo stared at him like he’d just confessed to committing a felony.

“The fuck?” he hissed, dragging a hand through his already-mussed hair. “Why did you say I don’t know, idiot?”

“I panicked,” Nagi muttered, his voice flat and low, like he hated himself for it. “She was standing there, looking at me like—like I meant something, and I just… froze.”

Reo scoffed, launching himself off the couch to pace across the penthouse. “Unbelievable. You—you lay in her lap. You call her angel. You hold her hand like it’s the only thing grounding you to this planet and then when she finally tells you she likes you, you give her I don’t know?”

“I didn’t mean to,” Nagi said, scrubbing a palm over his face again. “I didn’t think she liked me like that. I didn’t know I felt that way—until she walked away.”

“Bullshit,” Reo snapped, rounding back to face him. “You knew. You’ve always known. You just didn’t want to know because then you’d actually have to do something about it.”

Nagi flinched at that.

Reo’s voice softened just a little. “You think I didn’t notice? The way you’d act around her? You’re not subtle, man. You’d go quiet when she laughed with someone else. You’d light up when she brought you those caramel milk drinks from the vending machine. You’d look at her like she was the only goddamn person in a world full of people you couldn’t be bothered to care about.”

Nagi’s throat worked around something thick. He stared down at his hands like they were foreign to him. “I didn’t know I could feel like that,” he murmured. “I didn’t think I was built for it.”

Reo sighed again, slower this time, and sat back down beside him. “No one is. Not really. But when it’s her… when it’s someone like her… you figure it out. Or you lose her.”

And that—that—was what scared Nagi the most.

He could sleep through classes. He could ignore most people. He could drift through life half-awake.

But the idea of you walking away for good? That terrified him more than he knew how to admit.

Because it wasn’t indifference he felt.

It wasn’t confusion.

It was love.

And now—he might’ve already been too late.

You hadn’t spoken to him since the last time he left you with nothing but silence. Three days had passed, and the distance between you and Nagi had grown so vast, it may as well have been oceans. Not a glance. Not a breath shared. Not even the subtle magnetic pull that used to hum beneath your skin whenever he was near.

It was like he had vanished.

Or worse—you had learned how to exist without him.

You didn’t yell. You didn’t pout. You didn’t cry. But you also didn’t smile when he passed by. You didn’t look up when he walked into the room. And if you were forced to stand within arm’s reach, like during practice or at lunch, you kept yourself composed with a sort of numb grace that cut him deeper than any outburst ever could.

He had never known how much he craved your attention until it was gone.

And now, here he was—locked inside the clubroom with you because Reo, fed up with watching you both suffer in silence, decided to take matters into his own hands.

The door slammed shut behind you. A soft metallic click confirmed it was locked.

“Reo?” you said sharply, turning back.

“I’m not opening it,” came Reo’s smug reply from the other side. “Not until you idiots talk. Or make out. Either one.”

“Reo!” you growled, rushing to the handle. It didn’t budge. “This isn’t funny!”

“Not meant to be,” he said. “Consider this an intervention. Figure it out. I’ll be back… eventually.”

And then his footsteps faded.

You stood frozen for a moment, facing the door, before you slowly turned to face the boy across the room.

Nagi stood by the windows, bathed in fading sunlight, his white hair catching every bit of golden glow like a halo. But he didn’t look like an angel. Not now. He looked exhausted. Haunted. Like someone still trying to understand why the hell his chest wouldn’t stop aching.

He didn’t look at you.

So you stayed by the door, arms crossed. A wall of silence stretched between you, heavy and brittle, ready to snap.

“Say something,” you finally muttered, your voice tired, your throat sore from swallowing your feelings for days.

He flinched. You didn’t miss it.

“I didn’t ask him to do this,” he said quietly.

“But you’re not stopping it either.”

Another silence.

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself. “Then let’s get it over with.”

He finally turned. His eyes met yours.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said.

You laughed—but it wasn’t amused. It was hollow. “But you did.”

He stepped forward, cautious. “When I said I didn’t know… it wasn’t because I don’t feel anything.”

You narrowed your eyes, but said nothing.

“It was because I felt too much,” he admitted, voice quieter now, almost like he was afraid it would break if he raised it any higher. “I didn’t know what to do with it.”

“And what, you thought silence would make it better?”

“No,” he whispered. “I thought if I said it out loud, it’d ruin everything. I was scared.”

You blinked at him, your heart aching all over again. “Scared of what? That I’d say it back?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. His jaw clenched.

“I liked it,” you said, voice cracking. “The attention. The nicknames. You holding my hand. Laying on my lap. Acting like I was the only person who mattered. I liked it—because I liked you. But you don’t get to do all that and then tell me you don’t know.”

You weren’t yelling. You weren’t crying. But your pain filled every word.

“You don’t get to act like I’m your whole world, Nagi, if you don’t even know what I am to you.”

That landed like a punch to the gut.

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. His voice was low, almost hoarse. “I do know now.”

You didn’t move.

He took another step. “I know I’m stupid. That I missed the moment I should’ve told you. That I let you walk away.”

Still, you didn’t say a word.

“I thought I was okay with being your friend,” he whispered, gaze dropping to the floor. “Until I saw someone else try to be more.”

He looked up then, and his eyes held the kind of desperation that only comes when you realize something too late.

“I heard people talking. Saying you said yes. That you were going out with him. And I swear—my chest hurt so bad I couldn’t even breathe.”

You finally moved. Just barely. Your fingers curled into the hem of your shirt, grounding yourself.

“I don’t want to be just your almost,” you said.

He froze.

“I don’t want to keep waiting for maybes. I confessed, and you froze. And that told me everything I needed to know.”

“I was wrong,” he said. “I was scared. But I’m not anymore.”

You looked at him, eyes searching. “Then prove it.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward.

It was thick—full of history, full of missed chances, full of every time he called you angel like it meant everything and nothing all at once. Nagi stood there like he’d been thrown into the eye of a storm he created, a thousand unsaid words flashing behind those pale lashes and sleepy eyes.

But there was nothing sleepy about the way he looked at you now.

Slowly, like the weight of your words had finally dragged him back to earth, he took a step toward you. His gaze dropped briefly to your lips, then back to your eyes, checking—once, twice, maybe even a third time—for hesitation.

There was none.

So when he reached out, his fingers brushing the side of your face, it felt like the world tilted. His touch was tentative at first, like you were made of something he wasn’t sure he deserved to hold. And then—he kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t perfect either. His lips were warm, unsure at first, like he was still learning what it meant to feel everything he’d avoided. But the moment you leaned into him, he melted.

His other hand found your waist, sliding around to hold you steady as if he needed the anchor. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, grounding yourself in the heat of him.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed against your mouth. “I should’ve said something sooner.”

You kissed him back, just as soft. Just as broken.

“You didn’t,” you whispered. “You never do.”

Nagi pulled back just enough to look at you. His eyes were clearer than you’d ever seen them—open, raw, like the wall between you was finally cracking. “I didn’t know how,” he admitted, voice hoarse. “It was easier to pretend. That if I didn’t say anything, I couldn’t lose you.”

You blinked at him, chest tightening. “But you did.”

That broke something in him.

He kissed you again, harder this time—but not in a way that hurt. It was desperation, barely concealed by the tremble in his hands as they held you close. His lips moved with a kind of apology his voice couldn’t carry.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he muttered between kisses. “I swear, Angel… I’ll make it up to you.”

His forehead fell against yours, breaths mingling as his arms slid around your waist tighter, like you might disappear again if he loosened his grip.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he whispered. “I just—every time I saw you with someone else, I felt like I was choking on my own heartbeat.”

Your eyes watered. “Then why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because I thought I could live with just being your friend,” he confessed, voice cracking. “But I can’t. Not anymore. Not after hearing you say yes to someone else. Not after realizing that someone else might get to hold your hand. Kiss you. Call you theirs.”

You closed your eyes, tears clinging to your lashes.

“Do you still want me?” he asked, his voice suddenly small. Uncertain. Like a boy rather than the prodigy the school worshipped. Like someone afraid he’d ruined the one thing he wanted most.

You nodded.

And he kissed you again.

This time it was slower. Not desperate—but deliberate. Tender. Like he was tracing every inch of what he could’ve lost. His hand cupped the back of your neck, pulling you closer, his lips moving with careful reverence.

“You feel like home,” he whispered against your skin, voice breaking. “I didn’t realize it until I walked away from the one place I ever felt safe.”

You held him back just as tightly.

Then—

Click.

The door creaked open behind you, light spilling into the dimly lit clubroom. You both turned your heads slightly—breathless, lips pink, tangled in each other—only to find Reo leaning against the doorframe with a smug smirk plastered across his face.

“Well, shit,” he drawled, arms crossed. “I was joking when I said you two better kiss.”

Your face burned, and you turned toward the wall, hiding your expression in Nagi’s shoulder. Nagi didn’t even flinch. He simply pulled you closer, wrapping both arms around your waist and resting his chin on your head like he’d claimed you completely now—and didn’t care who saw.

Reo raised an eyebrow and backed out of the room with both hands lifted. “You’re welcome, by the way. That’s the last time I play matchmaker for emotionally repressed athletes.”

The door shut behind him with a soft click.

Silence settled again—but this time it was warm. Safe.

Nagi didn’t let go.

He just held you like he’d waited his whole life to.

And in the quiet that followed, with your heartbeat finally slowing, you whispered into the space between his collarbone and jaw, “Then don’t let me go again.”

His answer came in the form of another kiss—slow, aching, sure.

This time, it didn’t feel like the end of anything.

It felt like the very beginning.

Bonus scene.

Reo sauntered out of the kitchen with a plate of fruit and two croissants balanced in one hand, his expression so smug it bordered on criminal.

“Wow,” he said dramatically, flopping onto the couch like it was a throne. “So you finally confessed. In my clubroom. After months of the most agonizing, tension-filled friendship I’ve ever had the misfortune to witness. Honestly? About damn time.”

You sat curled up on the other end of the plush couch, mug of cocoa nestled in your hands, half-tucked into a throw blanket that definitely wasn’t yours. Your face flushed at the memory, and you ducked your head, hiding behind the steam. Nagi was sprawled across the floor with his head resting in your lap, white hair messy, fingers lazily interlaced with yours as if he refused to let you go even in sleep.

“Reo…” you muttered. “You’re never going to let us live it down, are you?”

He grinned over the rim of his juice glass. “Absolutely not. This is what I live for. I carried this friends-to-lovers campaign on my back like Atlas holding up the sky.”

Nagi grunted softly, shifting closer to your stomach and nuzzling in. “Too loud…”

Reo rolled his eyes, but fondness softened the motion. “Still a baby,” he said under his breath, before turning back to you. “Anyway. You’re welcome.”

“For what?” you asked warily.

Reo gestured with both hands like he was presenting fine art. “For being the only reason you two aren’t still stuck in the ‘will-they-won’t-they’ stage while making everyone else around you suffer.”

Your cheeks burned hotter.

Nagi, still barely awake, mumbled against the hem of your hoodie, “Didn’t wanna suffer anymore.”

Reo raised a brow. “Oh, so now you talk about your feelings?”

Another grunt. Nagi tugged on your hand and pulled it close to his chest. “Told her everything last night.”

Reo looked at you with mock horror. “Everything-everything?”

You laughed into your mug. “Reo.”

“I mean, I did say make out as a joke,” he continued, dramatically reclining back into the couch, “but you two took it as a challenge.”

Nagi tugged the blanket you were using, covering part of himself with it like a turtle burrowing deeper. “Didn’t hear you complaining when you left.”

“Oh, I was mentally high-fiving myself all the way to the vending machine,” Reo said smugly. “Finally. Emotional constipation, cured. You’re welcome.”

You gave him a dry look. “Should I get you a medal or something?”

He beamed. “Please do. Make it engraved. Cupid Mikage, or something with sparkles.”

Despite your embarrassment, you smiled. It was easy now. So much lighter than yesterday. Your shoulders didn’t feel weighed down by the what-ifs anymore. Just quiet, humming contentment.

Nagi stirred again, his hand slowly brushing circles against your palm. “Don’t leave today.”

Reo snorted from the other end. “Bro. She’s wearing my hoodie and holding your soul. She’s not going anywhere.”

You playfully kicked Reo’s foot. “You’re such a menace.”

“Hey,” he said, mock-wounded. “I locked you two in a room so you’d stop emotionally blue-balling yourselves. That’s love.”

Nagi pulled your hand to his chest again and mumbled, barely audible, “You’re mine.”

You blinked, glancing down at him.

“Hmm?” you murmured, brushing his bangs out of his face.

“Mine,” he said again, slower. “You’re… mine.”

Reo gagged from across the room. “I’m right here, guys. Show some mercy to the lonely rich kid who third-wheeled your entire relationship into existence.”

You laughed—fully this time. A soft, real, bright sound that filled the room and made Nagi shift to look up at you like it was his favorite melody. He pressed his face against your thigh and closed his eyes again, satisfied.

And for once, with Reo’s chaos and Nagi’s sleepy weight grounding you, everything just… clicked.

The tension was gone.

The fear, the doubt, the silence—it had all broken the night before.

Now, there was only this: morning light, your favorite people, a stupidly expensive penthouse, and a love that had finally found its way home.

it was dumb, but it was entertaining enough that nagi didn’t mind sitting beside you on the couch while you played. he claimed he was only watching because he was too tired to play himself, but you knew better. he always looked like he didn’t care, but his eyes followed everything that happened on screen like it was a soccer match.

you had made miis of everyone you knew, including the blue lock boys, and now they all lived on your little island. nagi’s mii lived in an house right next to yours, mostly because you thought it was funny, and also because it felt wrong putting him anywhere else.

the two of you were sprawled on the couch together, you holding the console while nagi leaned back with his head against the cushion, hair messy, eyes half open. he looked like he could fall asleep at any moment, but the second your mii appeared on screen, he was suddenly awake.

your mii was walking around the plaza, wearing a cute outfit you picked earlier. it was nothing crazy, just a soft cardigan and skirt, but it looked adorable. nagi didn’t say anything, but he stared for a little longer than necessary.

then, as if the game was determined to ruin his peace, another mii entered the screen.

isagi yoichi.

your isagi mii walked up to your mii with that annoyingly cheerful bounce, waving like he had no shame. your mii waved back, smiling. nagi’s eyes narrowed slightly, like his body reacted before his brain did.

you didn’t notice at first, too busy checking the little icons on the bottom of the screen. "oh, isagi’s out again. he’s always wandering around."

nagi’s voice was flat. "he has too much energy."

you laughed. "you’re talking like it’s the real isagi."

"it might as well be," nagi muttered.

your mii and isagi’s mii started walking together. just casually strolling, like it was normal. like nagi wasn’t right there. nagi’s mii appeared a few seconds later, trailing behind them. the game probably did it randomly, but nagi didn’t like how it looked like he was following you.

his eyes stayed fixed on the screen. "why is he walking with you?"

you blinked. "because they’re friends?"

nagi didn’t respond. his expression didn’t change, but there was a subtle tension in his shoulders, like he was offended on a personal level.

then it happened.

isagi’s mii stopped walking.

his face turned pink.

a little blush appeared on his cheeks.

nagi sat up straighter so fast it was almost scary.

"…what...?" he murmured quietly.

you looked at him. "what?"

he pointed at the screen like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. "he’s blushing."

you stared for a second, then burst out laughing. "oh my god, no way."

isagi’s mii turned toward your mii, bouncing nervously. sparkles popped around his head, and the game zoomed in dramatically like it was the biggest plot twist of the century.

then a speech bubble appeared.

isagi’s mii: i have something to tell you…

you gasped, delighted. "wait, is he about to confess?"

nagi’s eyes narrowed. "no."

"nagi, it’s cute!"

"it’s not cute."

the next bubble appeared.

isagi’s mii: i think i like you.

your mii did the surprised animation, hands to her cheeks. she looked flustered, which made the whole thing ten times worse. nagi stared like the screen had personally insulted him. then the game gave you the choices.

accept.

reject.

you leaned forward, eyes sparkling with amusement. "okay, wait. what do i do."

nagi answered immediately. "reject."

you laughed. "why are you answering so fast?"

"because it’s obvious."

you turned your head to look at him, grinning. "are you jealous of him?"

"no."

you raised an eyebrow. "you are."

he looked back at the screen. "i’m not."

"nagi, he just confessed and you’re acting like he killed me."

nagi’s thumb moved over the controller. he didn’t even wait for you to decide. he pressed reject.

your mii smiled apologetically. isagi’s mii froze, eyes widening. then he made the dramatic heartbreak face, the kind that looked like his entire world collapsed in a single second. he started shaking, tears forming, and then he ran off the screen.

you gasped like you were personally offended. "nagi!"

nagi leaned back like he just solved a problem. "good."

"good? you just destroyed him!"

"ehh he’ll survive."

you stared at him, then started laughing so hard you had to cover your mouth. "you’re insane. you’re literally insane."

nagi looked at you, expression blank. "he shouldn’t like you."

you blinked. "why not?"

nagi’s eyes narrowed again. "because you’re mine."

your laughter died for half a second.

then your face heated up, and you shoved his shoulder lightly. "....you're so cringe, nagi."

he barely reacted, only blinking slowly. "what?"

you tried to act normal, but it was hard when your heart was doing 360 leaps. "you can’t just say stuff like that over a game."

nagi’s gaze stayed calm. "it’s not just the game."

you stared at him, then looked away quickly. "you’re embarrassing."

"you’re blushing," he said.

you immediately covered your face with the blanket. "shut up."

nagi didn’t laugh. he didn’t tease you further. he just leaned closer, resting his head lightly against yours like it was the most natural thing in the world. his arm slid around your shoulders, lazy but secure, like he was claiming his spot.

you peeked out from the blanket. "okay, but you can’t reject everyone who likes my mii."

nagi’s voice was quiet. "i can."

you scoffed. "what if bachira confesses next?"

"reject."

"what if chigiri confesses?"

"reject."

you laughed again. "what if reo confesses?"

nagi sighed. "especially reject."

you were still giggling when another notification popped up on screen.

nagi wants to talk.

you blinked. "wait."

nagi’s eyes shifted toward the screen. "..."

you pressed the button, curious, and the scene changed to the plaza. your mii was standing there, and nagi’s mii walked up slowly, looking sleepy like always. then the dramatic zoom happened again.

you froze. "no way."

nagi’s mii: i have something to tell you…

your mouth fell open. "your mii is confessing!"

nagi didn’t react much, but his ears turned slightly pink. "obviously."

you stared at him. "obviously?"

nagi shrugged. "he’s me."

the next bubble appeared.

nagi’s mii: i think i like you.

your mii gasped, hands flying to her cheeks. sparkles filled the screen. it was so cheesy you almost wanted to scream, but it was also kind of adorable. then the choices appeared again.

accept.

reject.

you didn’t even hesitate. you pressed accept.

your mii started jumping up and down happily, and nagi’s mii smiled, just barely. a heart floated above them, and the little jingle played. you found yourself smiling at the screen like an idiot.

"aw," you whispered. "that’s so cute."

nagi’s voice was quiet. "yeah."

you turned to him, grin returning. "so you were jealous."

"i wasn’t jealous."

you laughed. "sure you weren’t. you were about to kill isagi."

nagi’s eyes shifted away. "he deserved it."

"for liking me?"

"for thinking he had a chance."

your face warmed again. "you’re so annoying."

nagi leaned his head closer, eyes half lidded. "you like me."

you hesitated, then muttered, "unfortunately."

nagi hummed like he was satisfied with that answer. "see?"

the game continued, your mii and nagi’s mii walking around together, holding hands in that stiff tomodachi life way. it looked ridiculous, but it also made your chest feel weirdly soft.

then another notification popped up.

isagi wants to talk.

you burst out laughing. "he’s back!'

nagi groaned. "can this loser get the hint?"

you hit his arm lightly. "stop it."

you clicked the notification, and the screen changed to isagi’s house. isagi’s mii stood there looking nervous, hands clasped. he glanced down like he was trying not to cry again.

isagi’s mii: i heard you and nagi are together…

your mii nodded.

isagi’s mii: i guess i was too late.

he looked genuinely heartbroken. you frowned a little, feeling guilty even though it was pixels.

"aw," you said softly.

nagi’s voice was immediate. "don’t."

you glanced at him. "don’t what?"

"don’t feel bad."

you pouted. "but he looks sad."

nagi leaned closer, voice lower. "he’ll get over it. he always does."

"you sound like you’ve been rejected before."

nagi blinked slowly. "i haven’t."

"sure."

he ignored you, eyes back on the screen, watching isagi’s mii walk away sadly. nagi’s expression stayed calm, but his arm tightened slightly around your shoulders, pulling you closer.

then he spoke again, quietly.

"if anyone’s going to be with you, it’s me."

you froze.

the words were so simple, said so casually, but they still hit you like a confession anyway. you stared at him, your face burning.

"nagi," you whispered, "it’s just tomodachi life."

he finally looked at you, eyes soft in that lazy way that always made your heart trip over itself.

"it’s not just tomodachi life," he said.

on the screen, your miis walked around the island together, heart icon floating above their heads like a victory sign. and nagi, still holding you like it was instinct, muttered one last thing.

"we should delete isagi off the island."

you laughed so hard you nearly dropped the console.

"nagi!"

"what? i’m tired of him." he whined, crossing his arms childishly.

you shook your head, still giggling, and leaned into his shoulder again.

"you’re so petty."

nagi’s arm stayed around you, warm and secure.

"yeah," he said, voice quiet and sleepy.

"but you’re still mine."

and honestly, even if it was just a silly little game, you couldn’t deny the way your heart fluttered anyway.

because nagi seishiro was lazy.

but when it came to you, even his jealousy had effort.

the gym doors slam shut behind him, and for a few moments, semi stands there, breathing heavily and jaw clenched. he kicks lightly at the wall before forcing himself to move.

he doesn't know where to go. he would go to the music room, but he's left his guitar and home and he doesn't want to touch anyone else's. the sun is beating hot down on his skin, so he decides to go and wander the corridors.

the hallways are quiet and cool, but of course they are after school. not many people usually stayed, apart from people in clubs and such. lockers line the walls, looking empty and sad without students leaning against them, laughter and chatter replaced by the faint hum of vacant classrooms. semi shoves his hands into his pockets and walks without knowing where exactly he's going. he just lets his irritation bleed out slowly with each step.

the further he goes, the more the school halls change. sure, semi has walked past these halls many times, but he never really payed attention to them. now, that he has nothing to do, he catches how the sport posters are disappearing, replaced with student artwork taped hazardly to the walls. colourful flyers announce upcoming exhibitions and club meetings, and there's splotches of paint adorning the windows.

then his attention snags on a slightly ajar door. the art room.

semi slows. this room - he's passed it countless times and never once cared to look inside. but today, he feels drawn to it. before he can overthink it, he gently nudges open the door with his shoulder and peers inside.

the smell hits him first. it's the smell of paint and paper, and something warm, like the sunlight filtering through the windows has been trapped inside. the space is wide and cluttered, tables arranged randomly around the room. each one is a mess of brushes soaking in cloudy water, palettes smeared with color, sketchbooks left open like people had left the moment school ended. the walls are layed with murals, paper hung with charcoal sketches and paintings. in the corner are a bunch of half finished canvases on easels.

then semi spots you.

you're near the windows, back turned to him and bathed in soft afternoon light, standing in front of a canvas. your posture is relaxed but intent, brush moving with quiet confidence as you hum a familiar melody to yourself.

semi freezes in the doorway, and for the first time that day, his head is silent.

he suddenly feels too big in his gym clothes, too loud even though he isn't making a sound. semi doesn't fit here. he considers backing out, pretending he’d never wandered in, but the floor creaks under his weight.

you turn, and your eyes meet his, surprise flashing across your face before easing into something that resembles curiosity. your gaze flickers briefly to the crumpled paper in his hand, then back up.

"..uh," you say, intelligent as ever.

semi straightens like he’s been caught trespassing somewhere he shouldn't be. he lifts the crumpled slip instinctively, as if it explains his existence. "sorry," he blurts. "i didn’t know anyone was in here."

it’s a lie, sort of. he knew the second he saw you that someone was in here.

you blink, then smile a little, soft around the edges. "it’s okay. i shouldn't be surprised - i didn't lock the door." you gesture vaguely with your brush, and a streak of blue threatens to drip. you quickly angle it up so it doesn't. "are you lost?"

semi shrugs. "you could say that."

he's seen you around before. like a quiet presence, there but not quite. he doesn’t move further in, hovering by the door like a stray cat deciding whether it’s safe. you tilt your head, studying him like he's a priceless painting. the gym uniform, the way his shoulders are wound tight and tense like coiled wire.

"you’re from volleyball," you observe. "semi eita."

"unfortunately," semi replies, then winces. he isn't supposed to say that. "i mean, yeah. yeah, i am."

that earns a small snort from you. he relaxes a fraction at the sound, tension leaking out through his fingers.

"im l/n y/n. and you can come in, you know," you murmur, turning back to your canvas. "i just asked the door, and you're making it nervous." there's a trace of light humor in your tone, and semi bristles.

he takes a step inside, closing the door behind him but leaving it slightly open, just like before. his footsteps are hesitant, like he's scared the floor will open up and swallow him if he steps somewhere he isn't supposed to.

up close, he can see your canvas better. from what semi can see, it isn't finished yet. there are shapes layered over other shapes, colours bleeding into eachother to make new shades. no distinct idea as to what it is.

"what is it?" he asks bluntly before he can stop himself.

you hum, looking thoughtful. "i don't know yet."

semi frowns. "you don't know?"

"nope."

"but.. you're painting it."

"i am."

he stares at the canvas, then at the back of your head. "that seems kinda backwards, to be honest."

you grin over your shoulder. "that's what art is, semi-san."

something about that settles him, and he lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. the itch under his skin quiets, replaced by a dull warmth. he walks over to a nearby table and leans against it, watching you paint careful strokes over the canvas with your paintbrush before dipping it into a wooden plate sort of object.

semi hesitates. he feels like he should know what it is, but..

"what's that plate thing?" he asks sheepishly. you glance at him, confused.

"this? oh, this is a palette." you lift it up to show him, and there are a bunch of paint splotches scattered all over. some small, some big, some mixed, some pure. semi nods.

your brush moves without hesitation, even when you change colors, even when you paint over something you just did. in the gym, every mistake echoes. whistles, glares, the sharp taste of failure. especially the sharp taste of failure. here, in the calm art room, mistakes just become layers.

"did you get kicked out or something?" you ask casually, brush never faltering. semi snorts.

"is it that obvious?"

you smile. "i mean, you are holding that warning slip, so yeah."

he rubs the back of his neck, hastily shoving said slip into his gym shorts pocket. "i lost my temper a little bit. coach washijo said i needed some air."

you nod. you don't question anything else, or try to bug more details out of him. semi appreciates that - he doesn't like nosy people.

"you can stay, if you want. im usually here until the sun gives up. unless you want to go back to the gym, of course."

semi looks toward the windows. the light has shifted, softer now, dust motes floating like tiny planets. he thinks of the gym, loud and sharp and waiting for him to come back improved.

"yeah." he says after a moment. "i think i'd like to stay."

you hand him a dirty rag without looking - it's stained with thousands of colours, more than semi can name. "well, i guess you can clean brushes if you're bored." there's a hint of glee in your voice.

he takes it, surprised. "you trust me with this?"

you glance at him, eyes bright with laughter. "..it’s just paint, semi-san."

just paint.

—

semi scrubs at a brush a little too hard at first, bristles splaying, and immediately eases up, muttering a quiet apology to it under his breath. you hear it and smile to yourself, but don’t comment.

"you don’t have to fight them," you say eventually, nodding toward the brushes. "they’re already tired."

semi huffs a laugh, softer than his usual bark. "story of my life."

he rinses again, slower this time, watching the pigment unfurl in the water like ink clouds before disappearing down the drain. it’s weirdly satisfying. no replays in his head, no correcting his form after the fact. once the paint’s gone, it’s gone.

behind him, you step back from your canvas, head tilted as you assess it with scrutinising eyes. there’s a long pause. semi glances over his shoulder, half expecting frustration, maybe a sigh. instead, you merely dip your brush into a new color.

"do you ever do art?"

"no way. i can barely draw a stick figure without it looking cursed."

you shrug. "that’s fine. cursed can be interesting."

he shakes his head firmly, but there’s no bite to it. "nah. i’m more.. noise than picture."

"music?" you guess.

his hands still for half a second, wondering how you know. "yeah."

you bob your head. "hm. that makes sense."

"how?" he asks, defensive reflex flaring, then immediately regrets the edge in his tone.

you don't react to it, instead shrugging. "im not sure. you just.. kinda seem like a person who listens first."

semi pauses. that doesn't sound like him.

he doesn't know what to do with that information, so he refocuses his attention back to the sink, ears tinted pink. the brush in his hand is clean now, wooden and bare, so he sets it aside to dry.

semi finishes with the brushes and wipes his hands on a new, cleaner rag. he doesn’t know what to do next, so he just stays. leans against the counter and watches.

"you don't have to stand there like you're waiting for instructions," you say lightly.

"sorry," he says automatically, then stops himself. "i mean, right. of course."

you gesture with your chin toward a nearby table, cluttered with sketchbooks. "you can look. just don’t judge them too hard - they get shy."

semi hesitates, then wanders over and flips one open carefully. the pages are filled with loose sketches, studies of hands, faces caught mid expression, with scribbled notes in the margins. they're not perfect. roughly drawn - but semi thinks they look good like that.

"are these yours?" he asks.

"most of them. that's our shared sketchbook, but barely anyone draws in it. just me, usually."

"they're really good."

you hum in acknowledgement, but there's a pleased sort of tilt to your shoulders. "why thank you."

he flips another page, then another. something in his chest aches, quiet and unfamiliar. semi closes the sketchbook gently.

"hey," he starts, unsure why the word feels important. you look over, eyes questioning. "do you ever get mad when it doesn’t turn out right?"

you consider that carefully. "sometimes," you admit. "but then i remember it’s not done yet, so im like, okay. keep going."

semi nods slowly.

outside, the sky darkens. inside, the art room hums on, warm and comforting. semi realises that he hasn’t thought about the gym in a while, and he finds it strangely relaxing.

semi shifts on his feet, glancing at the mess of palettes and paint, then back at you. the light catches the flecks of color in your hair, and for some reason, his chest tightens.

"hey," he mutters, quieter this time. you look up, brush paused in mid air.

"hm?"

he swallows, unsure if he should even say it. "thanks. for letting me.. hang out here."

you smile, like it’s just for him. "you’re welcome," you say softly. then, after a pause, you tilt your head slightly. "i like having you here. it's nice."

"i like being here too," he admits, voice rough around the edges but honest.

your smile broadens, a brushstroke of color in the fading light. you set your palette down and, without thinking, reach up to brush a stray strand of hair from his forehead. semi flinches, then relaxes under your touch, feeling the faint warmth linger longer than he expects.

"is that okay?" you ask hesitantly, and semi nods quickly.

his eyes drift to the palette at your side. it's wooden, messy, and covered in dabs and swirls of color, some blended into unexpected shades. "that palette… it’s kind of like you," he says, voice low. "messy, but.. nice. makes everything look softer. if that makes sense."

you blink, then laugh softly, shaking your head. "that's very poetic, but i would expect nothing less from a musician. i think i’ll take that as a compliment." your eyes sparkle as you glance back at him. "maybe you’re a palette too, semi-san. all raw colors waiting to mix."

he swallows, heat rising in his ears. is he? maybe he is.

the two of you stand there, quiet, just breathing in the soft chaos of the room, the smell of paint and sun mixing. semi thinks that maybe getting kicked out of the gym wasn’t so bad after all - because he found this. found you.

and in that moment, the world outside - loud, sharp, demanding - fades to nothing. all that exists is the hum of the room, the faint dust in the light, and the small, steady thrum of something new stirring in his chest.

you finally pick up your brush again, and semi watches, an unspoken smile tugging at his lips. he doesn’t move, doesn’t need to. he’s exactly where he wants to be, part of this quiet, colorful palette of a moment.

hey i draw/paint why cant this happen to me

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