And even then, well—maybe he’s talking about how Nagi slowly stopped returning Reo’s check-in texts after he left. Or when he didn’t pick up the phone when Reo called him in his birthday. Stop it—Reo shakes his head lightly, /we were kids then. How stupid would it be for me to.

Reo’s just starting to sway to the bass again when someone appears in his peripheral vision. A guy holding a drink and smiling like he knows Reo from somewhere. Reo squints, trying to place him. “Hey,” the guy says, leaning closer so his voice lifts over the loudness.

“Well,” Nagi says with a shrug, almost lazily, though his tone is anything but, “I was done watching people try to touch you.”. The meaning barely grazes Reo’s mind before slipping off, drowned in the warm fuzz of his buzz. “What’s wrong with where I was standing?”.

waist chain glinting at his hip. He hadn’t thought much of it when he got dressed, but the way eyes have been following him all night is proof enough of the effect. Ah—Reo’s startled back into the present by Nagi’s guiding him—not pulling, but directing with the sort of.

His gaze sweeps over Reo once, lingering briefly on his flushed cheeks, the damp strands of hair at his temple, the way his shirt hangs off one shoulder. He reaches out and adjusts the fabric to cover Reo more. His fingers brush Reo’s neck a moment too long before falling away.

“Tell me about him.”. Reo blinks. Their knees clack again, and Reo’s mind draws a second blank. “Him—huh?”. “The guy. From last night.” Nagi’s tone is flat, but underneath it, there’s a darker, angrier current that makes Reo’s pulse leap (in confusion! Definetly in confusion).

Reo sits at one chair of the small table, still in the borrowed shirt from last night (he abandoned the sweats a bit ago—the dorm apartment is a bit too toasty warm now, and the hoodie falls a bit below the hems of his boxers anyway, so it’s whatever. His hair is a little.

Then, gingerly, but without hesitation, Nagi leans in. The press of chapped but warm lips lands against Reo’s hairline, lingering there for a beat. Fingers draw patterns along the edge of his jaw. Nagi tilts his head just enough to brush his mouth against Reo’s temple, then over.

“But I think Reo’ll run from me if I ever tell him,” Nagi sighs. Reo’s thoughts screech to a halt as he continues casually, “How much I missed you. How much I,” he cuts himself off abruptly, forcefully, like he’s restraining himself, the rest of the words sitting on his tongue.

“Worst part is, I don’t even think you realize,” Nagi draws his hand back, then brings his index finger to trace down the slope of Reo’s nose. Sounding fondly amused, “I /know/ you don’t realize. Reo’s the same, still so lovely—everything you feel is written all over your face.”.

Long, thick fingers spread apart, curling around Reo’s neck with increasing pressure. Not rough, though. The pressure is warm, steady, and almost unbearably gentle. Reo lifts his shoulders to his ears with a soft, somnolent sound to dislodge him. Not because he wants to,.

“Feels good to hold you like this,” the words are quieter now, softer, as if not meant to be heard by anyone but himself. Maybe a version of Reo that exists within his head only. “Don’t want to let go.”. Reo’s stomach tightens. They haven’t slept like this since they were kids.

Reo keeps his eyes shut. It’s not that he’s /trying/ to fool Nagi or that he /wants/ to trick Nagi—it’s just easier not to move, to let the moment stretch without having to acknowledge or make excuses for it. (And also, because—). “My Reo,” Nagi mumbles. “My pretty Reo.”. Woah.

can hear a faint rise in pitch, the insistence—but Nagi’s voice only drops lower. “He’s busy.”. Reo frowns against his chest. Busy? He’s literally lying in bed, wrapped up in him. But the word makes something in his chest twist anyway, warm and unsettled all at once.

when he’s listening but unimpressed. “Why do you need to talk to Reo?”. Reo blinks against his chest, startled. He hadn’t even processed yet that Nagi was answering for him, let alone questioning the caller. Another beat of silence, enough to make the caller uncomfortable.

But he doesn’t hand it to Reo. He settles his torso back into its previous position, and answers. “Yeah?” His voice is low, scratchy from sleep. Not unfriendly, but far from welcoming, worse than unfriendly, it’s insultingly indifferent. A muffled voice on the other end, just.

holding him there, steady as stone. Air is dense, thick heavy with that late-morning stillness that feels like it could last forever. Reo wants it to last forever. It’s so warm. But because the universe hates him, his phone shatters the quiet. The sharp buzz makes him flinch.