Chapter Text
Takada Hyoga had learned to live like fog, quiet, untouchable, gone before anyone could ask him to stay. He walked the halls of Aokawa Highschool with his collar buttoned, his gaze fixed somewhere no one could reach. He wasn't cold. He just never knew how to be warm.
He liked the quiet corners of the library, the windows that faced the river, the way rain hit the rooftop like a lullaby. His presence never demanded space—but it lingered. Even the teachers spoke his name with something like caution.
And then, as it always does, life knocked.
Tanaka Gaku was late that morning—again. He ran into class with his hair still wet from the rain, his smile crooked, and his tie stuffed in his pocket like an afterthought. He crashed into Hyoga’s desk with a laugh that didn’t apologize, only said, “Oops, hey, I’m Tanaka Gaku. I guess I sit here now.”
Hyoga blinked at him.
It was not love at first sight. It was irritation. A crack in the perfect silence Hyoga had worked so hard to build.
But something in that crack… let the light in.
They became desk partners. Not friends—Hyoga didn’t have those. Gaku, on the other hand, had too many. But for some reason, during breaks, his feet stayed pointed toward Hyoga’s chair. He'd hum nonsense songs, offer half-eaten snacks, doodle stupid things in the margins of Hyoga’s notebooks.
Hyoga never responded, but he never moved away either.
One afternoon, Gaku pulled off his earphones and held them out. “You like music, right? You always tap your finger on the desk when you think no one’s watching.”
Hyoga stared. “I wasn’t.”
“You were,” Gaku grinned. “Try this.”
It was an old song—acoustic, raw, imperfect. The kind that cracked in the chorus like it had cried too much. Hyoga didn’t say he liked it. But he asked for the title the next day.
That was how it started. No grand moment. Just a borrowed song and a shared silence that didn’t need fixing.
One day, Gaku asked, “Do you believe in fate?”
Hyoga shrugged. “I believe in choices.”
“That’s boring,” Gaku said, poking him in the side. “I think some people are born to meet each other.”
“And then what?” Hyoga asked, barely above a whisper.
Gaku didn’t answer. He just looked at him for a long time, like he was trying to memorize the sound of his breathing.
That winter, Hyoga caught a cold and missed three days of school. When he came back, there was a folded letter on his desk.
It wasn’t signed.
It said,
"You don’t talk much. But your silence feels different from others. It’s the kind that listens. The kind that knows.
I don’t know if this is weird. Or if I should’ve said it to your face. But I missed you. And I don’t miss people often.
I hope you’re warm now. If not, I’ll sit a little closer tomorrow.
– someone who sees you."
Hyoga read it twice. Then again. His hands trembled slightly, but he told himself it was just the cold. He never brought it up. But the next day, when Gaku arrived and threw himself into his seat, Hyoga scooted his chair just a little to the right.
Gaku noticed. But didn’t say a word.
That day, it snowed a little bit heavily than usual. And for the first time, Hyoga didn’t mind walking without an umbrella.
Because Gaku was there—talking too much, laughing too loud, always getting the answers wrong in class.
And Hyoga, for the first time, felt something growing in his chest that terrified him.
Something tender. Something dangerous. Something like love.