Archive of Our Own

Shigeta Harua isn’t hard to get—he’s impossible. Everyone at school knows that. Untouchable, unreadable, and completely uninterested in anyone who tries.

So when Nicholas makes a bet with his friend Maki—one week with Maki’s car keys if he can get into Harua’s pants—Maki doesn’t even hesitate before laughing in his face.

“So, you gonna do it or what?” Nicholas asks with a crooked smile.

Maki leans back, unimpressed. “And what exactly do I get out of it?” he says with a shrug.

Nicholas grins, something reckless flashing in his eyes. “If you manage to get Harua to sleep with you, I’ll buy you that new co-op game you’ve been whining about.”

Maki raises an eyebrow, clearly entertained, but says nothing. He just stares at him until the red-haired boy finally lets out an exaggerated sigh.

“And,” Nicholas adds reluctantly, “I’ll actually play it with you. Happy now?”

Maki’s grin widens. “You also bring the beers, i want three.”

Nicholas groans dramatically. “Three beers? You’re such an asshole.”

Maki only laughs.

“Alright, fine. Three beers, the co-op game, and I’ll even let you pick the character.” Nicholas sticks out his hand with a smirk. “Now go hit on Harua already.”

Maki snorts before shaking his hand. “Deal.”

 

—

 

A day later, he slips into the school bathroom to make himself look at least a little more decent. He runs a hand through his hair, fixes the strands that had fallen out of place, and sprays a bit of perfume onto his neck. After one last glance at his reflection, he straightens his uniform and heads out.

Later that day, Maki finally spots Harua leaning lazily against his locker, phone in hand. He doesn’t even bother looking up despite the stares trailing after him or the whistles thrown his way as people pass.

Like always, Harua acts like none of it exists. Like he’s untouchable.

Maki pauses for a second, suddenly understanding why Nicholas had called him impossible. Even from across the hallway, Harua carried himself with the kind of effortless confidence that made people nervous to approach him in the first place.

Still, a bet was a bet.

Maki exhales quietly before making his way over.

Harua's slender fingers glide over his phone screen, thumb brushing aside another unwanted DM with practiced indifference. The whispers and wolf-whistles bounce off him like rain on glass—he's used to being wallpaper at this point. His uniform blazer hangs open, revealing a fitted black undershirt that hugs his frame too well for someone who looks like they'd rather be anywhere else. Maki's reflection catches in the locker mirror beside him; Harua doesn't even twitch, just keeps scrolling.

Maki approaches slowly, eyes scanning Harua's profile—the slight curve of his neck, the delicate line of his jaw, the way his slender fingers tap idly against his phone. He's like a porcelain doll, fragile and beautiful, but with an air of cool detachment that makes Maki's challenge all the more appealing.

Maki clears his throat softly, "Hey." He begins, trying to sound casual. Harua's eyes flick up briefly before drifting back down to his phone, his expression unimpressed. "What."

Maki takes a good look at the boy, trying to find something that’ll get his interest. Then he sees, the small pin on the discarded bag—Harua’s bag, no doubt. Maki looks back at his face, keeping calm as he speaks. “You’re Harua right?”

Harua's eyes flicker up to meet Maki's for just a second—sharp and assessing, like a cat sizing up something that got too close. He doesn't seem surprised Maki knows his name; more people do than they realize.

"Yeah?" His voice is flat, unbothered, already dismissing Maki before he has a chance to say much. Harua shifts his weight against the locker, fingers pausing over his phone screen. "...You want the usual?"

“The usual?”

Harua lets out a small, almost inaudible sigh. "A date. Hanging out. Hooking up." He rattles them off like he's listing grocery items, thumb still hovering over his phone. His cat-like eyes finally settle on Maki properly—measuring, unimpressed, already bored. "Pick one. I've heard them all."

He's about to look away when something in Maki's quiet observation catches him off guard. Most people start with compliments or confidence plays. Not this one.

Maki’s gaze lands on the small rock-band pin attached to Harua’s bag—one he recognizes immediately.

Perfect.

He hides his nerves behind an easy grin as he stops beside the locker. “I think I saw you at that rock bar by the coast the other night,” he says casually. “Black Halo, right?”

It’s a complete lie.

Maki had only gone there once, dragged along by Nicholas, and he’d gotten so drunk that most of the night existed only in blurry flashes and a pounding headache the next morning.

Harua's fingers freeze mid-scroll. His eyes—sharp, unreadable—narrow just slightly as they lock onto Maki's face. For a heartbeat, something flickers behind that porcelain mask. Interest.

"You were there?" Harua's voice loses a fraction of its boredom, laced with quiet curiosity now. He glances down at the pin himself, then back up. "...I don't remember you."

It's not a rejection. It's an opening. Maki didn't get rejected.

Maki shrugs, “I usually hang out backstage, my friend plays there sometimes.”

A small, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of Harua's mouth. Not quite a smile, more like his guard lowering by half a millimeter.

"Backstage," he repeats slowly, like testing the weight of the lie. His phone finally lowers to his side. "What's your friend's name?"

The question hangs there, sharp and deliberate. One wrong answer and this whole ruse collapses. Maki can feel his pulse in his throat.

But that wasn’t a lie. Nicholas did actually play there before, just—doesn’t matter if Maki wasn’t there to witness it. “It’s Nicholas.”

Harua's eyes widen—actually widen—for half a second before he catches himself. His phone taps against his thigh.

"Wait. Red hair? More handsome than you? Plays bass?" Harua's voice shifts, losing some of its ice. He sounds genuinely surprised. "I've seen him a few times actually." Ouch.

This is where Maki's gamble pays off. The pin wasn't just random—it was real. Harua frequents that bar.

Okay, now it was time for the second part of the plan.

“Yeah,” Maki says smoothly, leaning one shoulder against the locker beside him. “He gave me your name. Said you were really into The Strokes.”

Absolutely no one had said that. But the pin on Harua’s bag had practically handed Maki the idea on a silver platter.

“I don’t really find a lot of people around here who listen to that kind of music,” he continues with an easy shrug. “So I figured I’d come say hi.”

Harua's phone lowers completely, finally tucked away. His sharp eyes study Maki with something new—actual interest, not just disinterest. The cold detachment slips just enough to reveal curiosity underneath.

"You like The Strokes?" He tilts his head slightly, like a cat that heard a suspicious noise. "Most people pretend to like them for cool points."

His voice softens at the edges, the earlier skepticism fading into something warmer. Harua crosses his arms loosely over his chest and tilts his head.

“So?”

Yeah, so?

Maki hated how naturally the lies kept coming to him. No hesitation, no guilt—just one excuse after another slipping from his mouth like he’d rehearsed them beforehand.

“Angles era or their first single?” Maki asked.

Harua's eyebrow arches, a flicker of genuine intrigue in his eyes now—he doesn't get asked this often, and even less does he find someone who actually knows.

"Angles era," he answers after a beat, testing the waters. "Too many people say 'Is This It' like it's a personality."

He pushes off the locker, standing straighter. "You?"

The conversation is flowing now, and Maki hasn't even had to flirt yet. The rock talk is doing all the work.

“I mean… Is This It really had such a fresh sound when I first got into them,” Maki says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I used to listen to stuff like Nirvana more, but that album was different. It was the first one I heard from them, so it kinda has a special place for me.”

Halfway through the sentence, Maki realizes something embarrassing.

He isn’t lying anymore.

Harua's breath catches—just slightly. Something in his expression shifts, like a crack forming in the porcelain.

"You started with that?" His voice is softer now, almost... warm. He's actually looking at Maki, really looking, for the first time. The dismissive barrier thinned to something else.

Most people pretend or recite setlists. They don't have real entry points. They don't get nostalgic about first listens.

"...Same." Harua admits quietly.

“What’s your favorite track? From ‘Angles’?”

"Under Cover of Darkness," Harua says without hesitation, a flicker of something like passion in his gray eyes. "That opening riff? It's... alive. Makes you feel like you're running through empty streets at 3 AM." He pauses, then adds with a slight smirk, "Though 'Taken for a Fool' hits different when you're pissed off."

His arms uncross slightly, posture relaxing. He's talking with his hands now—small, subtle movements. Maki's hit a vein of real interest.

“Holy shit I get you so well.” Maki laughs. “Though I would say around 5 AM, like when it’s dark enough to be ‘night’ yet the sun is on it’s way.”

Harua's laugh is soft, almost surprised.

"Exactly." He shakes his head, like he can't believe he's having this conversation with someone who actually gets it. "5 AM works, that's when everything feels heavy but also quiet enough to think."

Maki playfully hits Harua’s shoulder. Getting the people arounds’ attention. “You sound like a fifteen year old.”

Harua's eyes widen—then narrow with mock offense. For a split second, the bored, untouchable boy from five minutes ago disappears.

"Sixteen, actually." He flicks Maki's forehead, not hard, just enough to get a point across. "And you're what, thirty? Ancient and crusty."

The banter rolls off so naturally it's almost charming. Around them, people are staring—Harua talking and smiling at someone? The social media bots are probably scrambling to take screenshots already.

“Excuse me, I am nineteen and happy.” Maki mocks. “I have a whole life ahead of me.”

"Yeah, yeah..." Harua waves his hand dismissively, but there's a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "You old folks and your 'whole life ahead of you'. We sixteen-year-olds are the ones with real life experience, you know." He pauses, then adds with a grin, "Like how to stay up all night and function the next day."

“Oh my god, stop with the sixteen already—I know we’re on the same g—“ Maki shuts up as he realizes he almost told Harua he knew him.

Harua freezes. His sharp eyes narrow, analyzing Maki with sudden intensity. The air shifts—no more joking, no more music talk. Something real just slipped.

"...Same what?" Harua steps slightly closer, voice dropping lower. His chin tilts up, cat eyes searching Maki's face like he's solving a puzzle. "You know me, don't you."

Not a question. A statement. He's not angry. Just... watching. Waiting to see what Maki does next.

Maki puts his hands up in surrender. Looking down but still smiling despite getting caught. “You got me, I wanted your attention.”

Harua's eyebrows raise, but his lips twitch—he's fighting a smile. He crosses his arms again, leaning back against the lockers with a calculated air. "You lied about knowing Nico to talk to me." It's not angry, just... impressed. "Creative approach." His eyes gleam with amusement. "Most guys try pick-up lines or free drinks." He pauses, then adds softly, almost teasingly,

“That wasn’t a lie, Nicholas is my best friend.”

Harua pauses, processing that. Then the corner of his mouth ticks upward—not a smirk, but something more genuine.

"Nicholas is your best friend?" He repeats, disbelief mixing with amusement. "That bass-playing idiot is your best friend?"

He shakes his head slightly, the tension melting away completely. "Okay, so you didn't lie about the connection. You just lied about knowing me specifically."

He tilts his head, studying Maki again. "So... you went through all this trouble just to get my attention?"

“It worked, didn’t it?” Maki smiles sheeplishly.

Harua laughs—it's a soft sound, genuine, and it catches a few people off-guard. He's laughing with someone. At something. Which almost never happens. His smile lingers as he shakes his head. "Yeah, it did." He admits, pushing off the lockers. "Most guys just try to hit on me openly and I shut them down. This was... different. It’s refreshing." He pauses, considering Maki for a beat. "You're different."

Maki lets out a small laugh, shaking his head.

“You’re stroking my ego way too much,” he says. “I just wanted to talk to you.”

Harua's laugh turns into a small smirk. "Right, right. Just wanted to talk." He mimics, rolling his eyes playfully. "And here I was thinking you had deeper motives." He straightens up, standing closer to Maki than before—intentionally or not. His voice drops lower, almost intimate. "So... now that you have my attention, what do you actually want to talk about?"

I need to get in your pants, actually.

Maki was in deep shit.

“I play guitar,” he blurts out instead.

Wow. Smooth. Absolutely devastating levels of charm right there.

Harua's eyes flash with interest again. He glances down at Maki's hands, like he's trying to picture them on a fretboard.

"Rhythm or lead?" He asks, his voice shifting back to casual—the kind of question only a musician would ask first.

He doesn't ask where Maki plays, or if he's in a band. Just... what guitar, what role. Simple, intimate details. He's already filtering Maki through a different lens now.

“Lead.”

"Lead, huh?" Harua's smirk grows slightly wider, more genuine. "Figured." He looks Maki up and down, assessing. "You've got those... musician hands." He gestures vaguely at Maki's fingers. "Long, fine motor skills." He pauses, then adds with a hint of challenge in his voice, "You any good?"

Maki shrugs. “I hope so.”

Harua's eyebrow arches, clearly not satisfied with the modest answer. He pushes off the lockers completely, standing right in front of Maki now. "That's not what I asked." His voice is lower, more intense. "Can you play or are you just another guy who bought a guitar because it looked cool?"

There's an edge there, but it's not cruel. It's... passionate. He's testing Maki, but in the way one musician tests another. The kind of challenge that means interest. Actual, real interest.

Maki chuckles. “I got my guitar before puberty, thank you.”

Harua's lips twitch into a smirk, clearly amused by Maki's response. "Before puberty?" He repeats, his voice softer now.

"So you've been playing for what... ten years?" He steps even closer, his voice dropping to almost a whisper. "Show me something." It's not an order—it's a request from one musician to another. A test. A chance for Maki to prove himself in a way that matters to Harua.

Maki shakes his head in disbelief before pulling out his phone.

“You seriously wanna see?” he asks, already scrolling through his camera roll.

When Harua gives a small shrug, Maki finds the video and turns the screen toward him. “There. It’s the latest one I have.”

The clip is chaotic from the very start—Maki sitting cross legged on the floor with a guitar in his lap while Nicholas nearly falls off the bed laughing in the background. Both of them are obviously drunk out of their minds, but somehow they’re still managing to play together without completely ruining the song.

It’s messy, loud, and embarrassing.

Maki suddenly regrets showing it the second Harua starts watching.

Harua takes Maki's phone, his fingers brushing against Maki's hand for a brief moment. He watches the video, his expression shifting from skeptical to genuinely impressed. The way Maki's fingers move, the fluidity, the chemistry with Nicholas—that's years of practice. Real, lived in skill.

He hands the phone back, but his eyes stay on Maki. "You and Nico play together often?" He asks, voice softer now. Not jealous. Curious. Interested.

“Not really, actually,” Maki says with a snort. “I’m pretty sure he hates me deep down.”

"Bullshit," Harua says simply, calling Maki's bluff. "You two play like you've been in a band together for years. That kind of chemistry... it doesn't just happen overnight. You're either actually best friends or mortal enemies." He pauses, studying Maki's face. "Which is it?" His voice drops lower, more intimate. "You two fucking or something?" The question comes out casual enough, like he's asking about their favorite pizza toppings.

Maki’s face immediately twists in genuine disgust. “Fuck no,” he says without hesitation. “We’re basically brothers.”

Harua laughs, a genuine, surprised sound. He's not laughing at Maki—he's laughing with him. The tension between them shifts, the air clearing like a fog lifting. "Brothers, huh?" He repeats, still chuckling. "That explains the chemistry." He shakes his head, grinning. "I was starting to think you two had some secret hate-fuck thing going on."

Maki snorts again, looking over at him with raised brows.

“Do I seriously look like a hate-fucker?” he asks dryly before shaking his head. “Though, you’re probably right about Nicholas.”

"No, you don't." Harua says honestly, his gaze lingering on Maki's face for a beat too long. "You look like a guy who's comfortable in his own skin. Like someone who'd rather play music than worry about who he's fucking." He pauses, then adds with a smirk, "Unlike Nicholas." The implication hangs there—Nico is the type to fuck around and care about image. Maki isn't. It's an observation, not a compliment or an insult. Just a fact.

“You have a point.” Maki sighs while leaning back to the locker. He changes the subject. “Do you play anything?”

Harua's expression shifts, a spark of pride lighting up his eyes. "Bass," he admits, almost reluctantly. Like he wasn't expecting Maki to ask about his own music. "Started when I was twelve. Been trying to learn guitar but my hands are too small." He shows Maki his palms for emphasis—they are indeed slender and delicate. "Can't reach half the chord shapes." He sounds almost embarrassed about it, which is surprisingly cute.

Maki visibly melts a little at the gesture, his expression softening before he can stop it.

“That’s… cool,” he says quietly. “Well not the hand one, you playing bass.”

Harua's cheeks flush slightly at Maki's praise, a rare moment of vulnerability showing through his usually guarded expression. He looks down at his hands again, then back up at Maki with a shy smile. "You think so?" His voice is softer now, less confident than before. It's clear that getting validation from someone like Maki means something to him. The dynamic shifts—Harua isn't just flirting or testing anymore; he's genuinely interested in connecting on this level.

“I do think so,” Maki says with a small smile. He hesitates for a second before adding, “I honestly don’t get why everyone at school calls you ‘The Ice Prince.’”

Harua's eyes snap up to Maki's, a surprised and almost offended look flashing across his face before he schools his expression back into his usual smirking mask. "Oh, you haven't heard?" He asks sarcastically, leaning back against the locker beside Maki. Their arms brush slightly. "I'm told I have a resting bitch face. That I'm stuck up. That I don't fucking feel." He counts off the rumors on his fingers, his voice dripping with mockery. "Which is funny..."

“You’re chill. Though I’ve heard you once declined seven love confessions in a single day.” Maki laughs.

Harua bursts out laughing, the sound surprisingly warm and genuine. "Seven? Try nine." He corrects with a grin, shaking his head. "God, that day was ridiculous." He glances at Maki sideways, still smiling. "People act like I'm being cruel for saying 'I'm not interested'. Like they have a right to my attention or something."

“Can’t even imagine, honestly.”

"You wouldn't understand," Harua agrees softly, surprising Maki with his sudden vulnerability. "You're..." He pauses, searching for the right words. "You actually asked about my music instead of trying to get into my pants." He smirks playfully, but there's truth behind his joke. Maki’s stomach twitches violently.

“Most guys just see me as some pretty face they want to fuck.” Harua’s expression darkens slightly, his gaze dropping for a moment. “You’re the first person who’s actually talked to me like I’m… real.”

Oh, Maki was absolutely screwed.

Because now, instead of thinking about the bet, he was busy feeling like the worst human being alive.

“Oh…”

That’s all Maki manages to say.

The guilt hits him so hard it almost makes his stomach turn. Suddenly the stupid bet, the car keys, Nicholas laughing in his fac —all of it feels painfully childish standing here in front of Harua.

Because Harua is looking at him with something careful and genuine in his eyes, and Maki hates how much he likes it.

For the first time since walking over to this locker, he doesn’t know what to say next.

Harua's eyes flicker up to meet Maki's as he realizes the weight of his own words. He sees the surprise and sudden understanding in Maki's expression—like he's finally getting it. The loneliness. The exhaustion. The constant objectification. Harua swallows hard, suddenly vulnerable. He continues softly, "I mean... fuck, that sounded pathetic. Ignore me." He attempts a joke, smirking weakly. "I'm just tierd of people wanting something from me." He says with a sigh.

Maki exhales a shaky breath with him.

Their eyes lock, and in that moment, something shifts between them. It's not just attraction anymore—it's understanding. Harua sees himself reflected in Maki's gaze, not as some untouchable boy, but as a person. A lonely, tired person who just wants to be seen.

He blinks slowly, his voice barely above a whisper when he asks, "You know what would be nice?" His thumb brushes against Maki's hand where it rests on the locker between them. Maki can only stare.

"To just... talk." Harua continues softly, his thumb still brushing back and forth over Maki's knuckles. "Without expectations. Without people trying to hook up or use me for their own shit." He pauses, his eyes searching Maki's face. "You know? Just two people having a conversation." He smirks slightly, his voice gaining a bit more strength. "Would that be so fucking hard?" He looks at Maki like he's asking a genuine question, not flirting or testing anymore.

“Would you maybe wanna jam together sometime?” Maki asks before he can stop himself.

The words leave his mouth too fast, too honest.

For a second, even he looks surprised he said them. Because that hadn’t been part of the plan at all.

Harua freezes, his thumb stopping its lazy circle on Maki's knuckles. For a moment, he just stares at Maki like he might be joking. Then slowly, a genuine smile spreads across his face—one that reaches his eyes and makes them crinkle at the corners. "Are you serious?" He asks, his voice breathless with surprise. "You'd actually want to play with me?" It's clear this isn't just music to him. This is permission. This is acceptance.

“Well, you can decline—If you want. But you said you play bass, and I also have an electric guitar. It could be fun.”

"I want to," Harua interrupts quickly, before Maki can finish. His face is flushed pink now, and he looks away, embarrassed at how eager he sounds. But then he looks back, meeting Maki's eyes with a vulnerability that's almost painful. "Seriously. That sounds..." He trails off, then just says it. "That sounds really nice." He bites his lip, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear—another uncharacteristic, almost shy gesture. "I'd love to."

Maki’s eyes widen a little.

“Really?”

He blinks a couple of times, caught completely off guard by how easily Harua agreed. Then he quickly clears his throat, trying to recover.

“I mean—yeah. Me too,” he says, a little too fast. “When are you free?”

Harua's face breaks into a full-blown smile now, his eyes sparkling with genuine excitement—it's a look that's probably rare for him. He pulls out his phone, already opening his schedule app. "Today's Friday... fuck, I have plans with some friends tonight. But tomorrow? I'm free all day." He looks up at Maki, his smile never fading. "Would that work for you?" He's practically bouncing with enthusiasm, his usual cool demeanor completely forgotten. It's adorable.

“Yeah—yeah, of course,” Maki says quickly.

He does have plans with Nicholas that afternoon, but surely that can wait. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity. Or at least that’s what he tells himself while trying not to look too eager.

"Cool." Harua smiles, still holding his phone. He hesitates, then adds quietly, "Can I get your number?" He sounds almost nervous now, like he's the one asking for something instead of being the one everyone usually asks. He's not even looking at Maki anymore—he's staring at his phone screen like it might bite him. "For, you know. Jamming schedules and shit." He mutters, trying to play it cool, but his ears are turning red.

Maki's mouth goes dry. He realizes he's been granted something rare—a peek behind the Ice Prince's walls. And now Harua is asking for his number, sounding genuinely nervous about it. Maki quickly rattles off his digits, watching as Harua carefully types them in. He sees the way Harua's shoulders relax slightly when he saves the contact, like a weight lifted.

"Text you tomorrow morning?" Harua asks, looking up with that shy smile again. "Around... 5 PM?”

"That’s perfect," Maki says, and Harua's smile widens—a real, unguarded one. It transforms his whole face. For a moment, they just stand there in the empty hallway, arms still touching, the air between them charged with something soft and warm.

"Okay," Harua breathes, like this is the most important thing that's happened to him in weeks. He clears his throat, stepping back slightly. "Tomorrow then." He lingers though, not ready to leave.

Maki takes a step back, lifting a hand in an awkward wave.

“Yeah, tomorrow it is—”

His foot catches on absolutely nothing.

He stumbles hard enough to nearly eat shit right there in the hallway, barely managing to catch himself at the last second against the lockers with a loud clang.

Harua's eyes widen as Maki nearly faceplants, and he can't help but let out a small laugh—it's a genuine, unfiltered sound that makes Maki's heart skip a beat. Harua quickly composes himself, reaching out to steady Maki with a hand on his arm. "Whoa, okay there?" He teases gently, his eyes crinkling at the corners with amusement.

"You all right?" He asks softly, his thumb briefly squeezing Maki's arm reassuringly before letting go.

“Ah, yeah. Just—yeah. I’ll just go.”

Maki can feel heat crawling up his neck, which is humiliatingly unlike him. He avoids looking at Harua for even another second before quickly turning on his heel and practically speed walking back toward his classroom.

He can already feel himself dying from embarrassment halfway down the hall.

Harua watches Maki scramble away, his flushed cheeks and awkward movements making Harua's lips twitch with suppressed laughter. He shakes his head, still smiling to himself as he watches Maki disappear around the corner. "Adorable," he murmurs under his breath, already looking forward to tomorrow morning's text exchange. Something about Maki's clumsy charm catches his attention.

 

BRO

what??????
did u talk to him??
do u still have your balls?

Maki snorts under his breath while speed-walking down the hallway, thumbs flying over the keyboard.

He asked for my number

fuck off
wait
ur joking right?
say something

BRo I am NOT kidding rn

WHAT
NO WAY
HOW
DID YOU MOLEST HIM?

fuck you mean??!!??

okay okay sorry
ur actually a legend in school now
holy fuck
you said yes right?
hello
please tell me you said yes

dwdw i got it
AND we’re going to his place tmrw

WHAT
OH MY GOD
OH MY GOD
YOURE GOING TO HIS PLACE?
ALONE?!!??
WITH HIM???!!
maki swear if u dont send me live updates every second i will disown u as my best friend forever
what u gonna wear?
do you have condoms?
protection is necessary

Yeah mom i know
And I don’t think he wants me like that

WDYM???!!!
oh my god maki
istg
maki
my dear
sweet
naive
dumbass
brother
harua may play hard to get but he does not just hand his number out to people!!!!!!
hes interested
like 100%

Maki groans, dragging a hand down his face as he unlocks his classroom door.

Okay okayokay okay
Let me breathe ffs

Maki immediately locks his phone the second Nicholas sends an eggplant followed by a peach emoji.

“Absolutely not,” he mutters to himself, shoving the phone deep into his pocket like the messages personally offended him.

 

—-

 

Maki wakes up to the sound of his alarm clock blaring obnoxiously at 10 AM. He groans, stretching his arms overhead as he remembers—today's the day. Today he's going over to Harua's place. Nicholas's excited text from last night pops into his head, making him roll his eyes and smile simultaneously. He drags himself out of bed and into the shower, trying to calm his nerves. "Just be yourself," he mutters to his reflection.

At 4 PM—Maki stands in front of his closet, surrounded by a pile of rejected clothes. A band tee? Too obvious. Hoodie? Too casual. Button-up? He snorts—way too desperate. He snaps a photo of three options and sends it to Nicholas with the caption "I'M DYING. HELP."

Within seconds, Nicholas texts back,

left is boring
right is tryhard
middle is cute but not trying too hard
also
put on deodorant and brush your hair

 

Maki picks out the middle option—a fitted black shirt with some subtle detailing and dark jeans. He sprays deodorant on like it's going out of style, then proceeds to agonize over his hair for ten minutes before giving up and running his hands through it once. It looks intentionally messy now. That's good enough.

His phone buzzes. It's a text from Harua,

hey. you on your way?

Maki's heart drops into his stomach. He stares at the text like it might bite him, his thumb hovering over the screen. "He texted first," he whispers to himself, like that makes this less nerve-wracking. He takes a deep breath and responds quickly before he can overthink,

Yeah just finishing getting ready. Leaving in five.

k
bring snacks

Maki grabs a bag of chips from the convenience store on the way—something neutral, salted. A couple beers, and soda—just to be safe. He checks his reflection in the shop window one last time, making sure his hair isn't doing something weird. Then he plugs the address Harua sent into his GPS.

It takes him twenty minutes to get there. The apartment building is modern, expensive. Maki swallows hard, buzzing the intercom.

The door clicks open almost instantly. "Come up," Harua's voice comes through the speaker, sounding quiet.

Maki drags his guitar case up the elevator, heart pounding in his chest. When he steps out onto the correct floor, he sees Harua already standing by his open apartment door—leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, wearing a plain worn-out tee and black sweatpants. He looks... casual. Approachable. Not like the untouchable Shigeta Harua.

"Hey," Harua greets softly, pushing off the doorframe as Maki approaches. His eyes flick down to the guitar case, a small smile tugging at his lips. "You brought your guitar." It's not a question—more like he's pleased. He steps aside to let Maki in, closing the door behind him. "Come in."

Maki steps inside and stops for half a second, taking it all in.

It’s almost aggressively neat.

A sleek white couch with a fluffy blanket patterned with small bunnies. A low black coffee table with nothing out of place on it. Floor to ceiling windows that spill city light into the room like it belongs there. Everything quiet, intentional, calm.

Very Harua.

Maki suddenly becomes very aware of how much his own room is probably a fire hazard in comparison.

"Nice place," Maki murmurs, fidgeting with the guitar strap awkwardly.

Harua takes the bags. "Thanks for these." He sets them on the counter.

"God, you're thoughtful," Harua mutters softly, checking the bag. There are four beers, two sodas. He unconsciously uncrosses his arms—one less barrier between him and Maki. "You drink?" He asks softly, already knowing the answer. Maki looks older than he is. Like he's been around. Like he's not innocent. "Beer or soda?" He adds softly, not making eye contact. He's acutely aware of how quiet his place is. How alone they are.

“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” Maki blurts out as he heads straight for the ridiculously comfortable-looking couch in Harua’s living room.

The second he drops onto it, he nearly sinks into the cushions.

“Jesus,” he mutters, looking genuinely impressed. “This couch could fix me emotionally.”

Harua pauses, a corner of his mouth tipping up slightly—still not quite a smile, but something close. "Beer it is," he murmurs, grabbing two beers from the fridge. He pops the caps off both and brings them over, handing one to Maki before sitting at the opposite end of the couch. There's enough space between them to be polite, but not so much that it feels cold.

"So... your guitar," Harua prompts softly, nodding toward the case Maki left near the door.

Maki stands up, grabbing his guitar case and setting it on the coffee table. He unzips it, pulling out his electric guitar—a sleek, glossy black instrument that looks well-loved. As he plugs it into the small amp sitting in the corner, Harua watches him closely, eyes tracking Maki's movements.

"You play clean?" Harua asks, taking a sip of his beer. He's relaxed now, legs tucked up comfortably on the couch, watching Maki with undisguised interest. "Or you got pedals?"

Maki plugs in the guitar, his fingers automatically finding the familiar position on the neck. He has a small pedal board set up—distortion, delay, reverb. He looks up at Harua over the guitar body, "I play clean mostly. But I like to mess around with effects sometimes." His voice is casual but there's a hint of nervousness lurking beneath it. He's showing Harua something personal—a piece of himself. The guitar is almost like an extension of him.

Harua leans forward slightly, beer forgotten on the coffee table. His eyes are locked on Maki's hands as they move over the strings—watching the calluses, the confidence in each movement. Maki starts playing softly, testing the sound, but it's clear he's good. Really good.

Harua listens closely, taking in Maki's playing style—clean lines, smooth transitions between chords. He's impressed. He thought Maki would be good, but this is... different. There's emotion behind each note, even in these simple warm up chords. Harua finds himself leaning even closer, elbows on his knees now. "Play something real," he says softly. Not a request, but almost a command. He wants to see what Maki can really do. "Something you like." His voice is low and intimate.

The opening notes of ‘All My Days’ fill Harua's apartment—warm, melancholic, perfect for a rainy afternoon. Maki's fingers glide across the strings effortlessly, his foot tapping lightly against the floor. He closes his eyes halfway through, lost in the music.

When he glances up, Harua's jaw is slack. Literally slack. His phone is forgotten in his lap. His mouth is slightly open, like he forgot to close it.

Harua just stares—completely, unapologetically stares—as Maki plays. The music wraps around him like a physical thing, warm and sweet and achingly familiar. He knows this song. He's listened to it on repeat during long nights of studying, during flights between cities, during moments when he felt too much and needed words he couldn't find himself.

Maki finishes, lowering the guitar slightly. Harua's eyes are wide, dark, vulnerable. He swallows hard.

"That's..."

"That's one of my favorites," Harua admits quietly, which comes out embarrassingly soft—like he didn't mean to say it. He clears his throat, looking away toward the window view but not really seeing it. His cheeks are slightly flushed. "You know your shit."

He takes a long drag of his beer, trying to play it cool. His knee bounces—nervous habit.

Maki feels warmth bloom in his chest. Harua looks different like this. Unpolished. Real.

“Thought we’d play together.”

Harua's eyebrows raise, the flush creeping down his neck. He totally forgot. "Bedroom. Closet." He stands abruptly, almost knocking his own beer over. "I'll get it."

When he returns with his bass—an older Fender, vintage sunburst, clearly well-maintained—Maki feels something twist in his gut. Harua's a bassist. Subtle. Supporting. Holding everything together from underneath. It fits him.

Harua sits back down, closer this time—only a foot between them. He plugs his bass, tuning it quickly with practiced fingers. Maki watches his hands—precise, beautiful. There's something incredibly intimate about watching Harua tune his instrument, about seeing the way he handles something he clearly loves.

"You pick the song," Harua says quietly, plucking a few experimental notes. "Something simple. So I don't embarrass myself." The modesty is new. Charming.

Maki thinks for a second, grinning as he starts the riff to ‘Last Nite’—universal, iconic, instantly recognizable. Harua's reaction is immediate—his face lights up, his eyes sparkling. He slides his fingers down the fretboard, finding the bassline effortlessly within two notes.

They lock eyes across their instruments. Maki counts off. "One, two, three, four."

They start playing. Immediately, the chemistry is undeniable—it’s not just two people jamming; it’s a conversation.

Harua plays the bassline perfectly, head bobbing slightly to the beat. He glances up at Maki every few seconds—smiling, really smiling, a genuine expression that softens his whole face. Maki's grinning back, eyes crinkled at the corners. They're having fun. They're speaking the same language. It's effortless.

The song ends. Maki immediately starts another—something faster, more complex. Harua follows without hesitation, his bass kicking in exactly when it should. They're playing off each other now, listening intently. Maki throws in a solo—Harua backs him up perfectly while laughing, filling the space with those warm, round bass notes. It's like they've been doing this forever. Like they're made to do this together. The room is alive with sound—and something else. Something unspoken but powerful. Connection. Chemistry.

They play for forty minutes straight, losing track of time, losing track of everything except the music. Maki's sweat-damp shirt sticks to his back. Harua's hair is disheveled from running his hands through it while concentrating. They've done covers, they've improvised, they've made each other laugh with terrible fake rockstar moves.

Now they're both breathing hard, sitting close on the couch with their instruments resting beside them. Beer bottles sweat between them.

They sit there, breathing heavy from playing, close enough that their shoulders brush. The music has created this... thing between them. A tangible energy. Maki glances at Harua—really looks at him. There's something different in his expression. Softer. More open. Less guarded.

Harua feels Maki's gaze and turns his head slowly. Their faces are only a foot apart. Maybe less. The playful energy from playing has shifted into something else—something heavier, warmer.

The background music they’d turned on sometime ago has changed to something slow, atmospheric—just a playlist of chill indie rock. Something that makes the moment feel even more intimate, more charged. Harua's eyes drop to Maki's mouth for just a second—just long enough that Maki notices.

His own breath catches. The air feels thick. They're both sweaty from playing, both relaxed from beer, both high on the shared adrenaline of creating something beautiful together.

Harua clears his throat softly. "I should..." He doesn't move.

Maki doesn't move either. He's watching Harua's mouth too now, tracking the way his lips part slightly when he breathes. The space between them feels electric, charged with everything they haven't said.

The music plays on—Ode To The Mets, Maki catches. A song with a slow, steady beat that matches the pounding in Maki's chest. He shifts, just slightly, and his knee presses against Harua's.

Harua doesn't pull away. He leans in, just a fraction. His eyes are dark.

Maki's heart is in his throat. Harua's so close he can see the individual lashes framing his dark eyes. He can smell the clean sweat on his skin, the faint trace of beer on his breath. The air between them is vibrating with tension, with unspoken things.

The moment Harua's lips touch Maki's, everything else falls away. The music, the beer, the guitars—all of it fades into the background. There's only this kiss. Only the soft pressure of Harua's mouth against his own. Only the warm, slightly clumsy way he leans in, like he's been wanting to do this all day. Maki kisses back, slow and soft, his hands finding Harua's waist instinctively. It's gentle, exploration more than anything else.

Harua's hands come up to frame Maki's face, thumbs brushing his cheeks as he deepens the kiss slightly. He parts his lips, inviting Maki in. There's a soft sigh against Maki's mouth, a small sound of relief or satisfaction. Like he's been waiting for this. Like he's finally getting something he's wanted for a long time. His fingers thread into Maki's hair gently, cradling the back of his head. The kiss slows, becoming something softer, more intimate.

Maki melts into the kiss, his hands sliding from Harua's waist to his shoulders, then up to cup his face too. They're kissing like they're learning each other, like they're trying to memorize the shape of each other's mouths. Harua's lips are surprisingly soft, his kisses gentle and exploratory. There's no urgency, no hunger—just a slow, sweet tasting. Like he's savoring Maki's mouth.

Their breaths mingle, slow and deep. Harua pulls back slightly, resting his forehead against Maki's. His eyes are closed, dark lashes fanning against his cheeks. He's still holding Maki's face, thumbs gently stroking his skin. Maki's heart is pounding, his lips tingling from the kiss. Harua opens his eyes slowly. He looks at Maki with an intensity that makes his breath catch.

“Maki.”

Maki's heart stops at the sound of his name on Harua's lips. It's like the first time he's said it out loud, the first time he's acknowledged this moment as real. Harua searches his face, his expression unguarded and vulnerable in a way Maki has never seen before. He looks like he's about to say something important, something he's been holding back for a long time. But then he just leans in and kisses Maki again, like he can't help himself.

This kiss is different. More intense, more passionate. Harua's lips crash against Maki's, parting them instantly. His tongue slides in, exploring Maki's mouth hungrily. Like he's been holding back before, but now he's giving in to whatever this is between them. His hands grip Maki's hair tighter, pulling him closer. Maki responds with equal hunger, their teeth clashing, their tongues dancing. The slow, sweet exploration from before turns into something hot and messy.

Harua breaks the kiss abruptly, panting heavily. His cheeks are flushed, hair disheveled. Without warning, he shifts his position, straddling Maki's lap smoothly. Their groins align perfectly through their jeans—Harua's hips pressing down slightly. Maki groans at the sudden contact, his hands gripping Harua's waist instantly. Harua leans in again, biting Maki's bottom lip roughly before sucking it into his mouth to soothe the sting. His hips roll slowly, rubbing against Maki through their clothes.

The friction is electric. Harua's hips roll down against Maki in a slow, deliberate rhythm, drawing a ragged moan from Maki's throat. Harua's hands grip Maki's shoulders, fingers digging into the muscle through his t shirt. He leans down, kissing Maki deeply, messily—his tongue dominating Maki's mouth. This isn't the gentle, exploring Harua from minutes ago. This is Harua letting go. Giving in to what he wants.

Their grinding gets more intense. Harua breaks the kiss to trail open mouthed kisses down Maki's neck, sucking lightly on his pulse point. His hips move faster now, chasing friction. Maki's hands slide down to grip Harua's thighs, pulling him closer. They're both hard now, their jeans the only barrier between them. Harua gasps Maki's name again, louder this time. “Fuck, Maki..." His voice is husky with desire. “You feel so..."

“Clothes.” Maki breathes.

Harua's eyes snap open, dark and dilated with arousal. "Yeah," he agrees instantly, not even sounding like himself—his voice is deeper, rougher. He pulls back, immediately reaching for the hem of his own shirt. Maki helps him tug it off, revealing smooth, pale skin and a lean chest. Harua goes for Maki's shirt next, yanking it over his head urgently. Their bare chests press together instantly, skin on skin. “Fuck,"

Their bare chests press together, Harua's nipples hardening at the contact with Maki's warm skin. He kisses Maki fiercely, hands moving to unbutton his jeans. Maki does the same, fumbling with Harua's belt. They break apart just long enough to get each other's pants off, kicking them away hurriedly. Now they're both sitting there, half-naked on the couch—Harua straddling Maki again.

“Maki,"

Harua grinds down against Maki deliberately, both of them moaning at the direct contact. They slide together perfectly through their underwear, leaking through the fabric. "We should..." Harua trails off, kissing Maki deeply instead of finishing the sentence. His hips move in steady circles now, seeking friction. Maki's hands grip his bare ass, pulling him closer. "God, I want to..." Harua doesn't finish that sentence either, too lost in kissing and grinding.

Maki’s hands slide up from Harua's ass to his back, pulling him even closer. Their bare chests press tightly together. Maki breaks the kiss to trail open mouthed kisses down Harua's neck, making him arch with a moan. "Maki, wait..." Harua gasps out, but his hips keep moving, chasing pleasure. "Condom. I have one. In my—“ His voice is strained. “In my bag." His head falls back.

Maki quickly reaches behind Harua to grab his discarded jeans instead, fumbling in the pocket for his wallet. He finds the condom and pulls it out, tearing the packet open with his teeth. Harua watches him with heavy lidded eyes, biting his lip as Maki rolls the condom onto himself.

“Lift up," Maki commands softly, and Harua obeys instantly, lifting his hips. "Hold on," Maki adds, one hand gripping Harua's hip tightly.

Harua's breath catches, a shudder running through him. "Side table drawer," he whispers urgently, nodding towards the nearby end table. His voice is thin, nearly desperate. "There's... there's lube in there. Please, Maki..." His fingers dig into Maki's shoulders, nails digging in as he fights to stay still, needing more than just dry rubbing now. His thighs tighten around Maki's waist instinctively, pulling him closer.

Maki quickly grabs the lube from the drawer, its cap popping open with a loud squelching sound. He pours some onto his fingers, then reaches between Harua's spread legs, climbing on top of him on the couch. Harua whimpers as Maki's lubed fingers press against him, his inner muscles clenching eagerly around the foreign touch. "Fuck... oh fuck... Maki..." His voice breaks as Maki pushes in one finger, then two, scissoring them to stretch him open. “You're..”

Harua's head falls back, his eyes squeezing shut as Maki works his fingers inside him. He's trembling, making small, desperate noises with each careful stretch. "More... more," he begs breathlessly, pushing back onto Maki's fingers desperately. He reaches down to stroke himself slowly, completely lost in the sensation. “I'm ready... I'm ready... please...” His legs spread wider instinctively, giving Maki better access. "Need you inside me..."

Maki removes his fingers, making Harua whimper at the sudden loss. He positions himself between Harua's spread thighs,

"Look at me," Maki commands softly, pushing in slowly despite his urgency. Harua's eyes snap open, dark and dilated, locked onto Maki's gaze. Maki groans as Harua's inner muscles clench around him tightly. “Tell me if it hurts..."

Harua shakes his head frantically, his eyes glassy with pleasure. “No, no, it's good— fuck, it's so good," he breathes out, adjusting quickly. His nails dig into Maki's forearms hard enough to leave marks. Maki doesn't need more encouragement. He pulls back slowly, then sinks in deeper, finding a rhythm. Harua's back arches off the couch cushions, his mouth falling open in a silent moan.

Maki sets a slow, steady pace, letting Harua adjust to each thrust. Harua's body is perfect—tight and welcoming, his body wracked with shivers and goosebumps with each penetration. Maki leans down, wrapping an arm around Harua's hips to lift him slightly, changing the angle so he hits Harua's prostate with each thrust. “Fuck!" Harua screams, his eyes rolling back, body convulsing around Maki's length. “There! Right there!"

Maki smacks a hand over Harua's mouth. "Shh. Neighbors," he warns like they haven’t been making enough noise all day, but then deliberately hits that same spot again, harder this time. Harua muffles his scream into Maki's palm, teeth grazing skin in a desperate bite. Maki's pace quickens, losing the slow control from before. He's fucking into Harua now, the wet sounds of their bodies slapping together filling the room. Harua's legs wrap around his waist, heels digging into his lower back. “Harder,"

Maki grabs Harua's thighs and lifts him higher on his lap, changing the angle so he's hitting deeper. Harua's head falls back, throat exposed, a choked moan escaping past Maki's hand. Maki removes his hand from Harua's mouth to replace it with his tongue, swallowing Harua's screams. His thrusts become erratic—rough, punishing. Harua twitches between them, leaking onto both their stomachs, untouched. “Maki, I'm gonna—"

Maki finally relents, one hand wrapping around Harua and stroking him in time with his thrusts.

Harua obeys instantly, his body convulsing as he comes hard between them. His body clenches tightly around Maki, triggering his own orgasm. Maki buries himself deep inside Harua as he comes, filling the condom with a low groan. “Fuck... Harua..."

They ride out their orgasms together, bodies trembling violently against one another. Harua collapses onto Maki's chest, completely spent, his face buried in Maki's neck. He's gasping for air, covered in sweat and his own release, shaking uncontrollably. Maki wraps both arms tightly around Harua's waist, holding him close as they both come down. Slowly, carefully, Maki pulls out, disposing of the condom.

“You okay?"

Harua nods weakly, his body feeling sore in the best way possible. His thighs are sticky with his own release.

“Mhm..." He hums noncommittally, his eyes fluttering closed as he drifts on the post orgasmic high. “My brain's not working..." He mutters, his body going limp against Maki's.

Maki smiles softly, running his fingers through Harua's disheveled hair. He can feel the rapid beat of Harua's heart against his side, see the flushed skin and relaxed muscles. He grabs some tissues from the box nearby and gently cleans Harua up, his movements slow and caring. Harua doesn't protest, too content to move. Once he's clean, he nuzzles against Maki's chest like a cat, purring softly. “You're cute like this,"

Harua huffs against Maki's chest, but doesn't deny it. “Shut up," he mumbles, but there's no bite to it. His fingers trace lazy patterns on Maki's stomach. “I'm not cute." His voice is tired, almost whiny. Maki chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest. “You're exhausted and whimpering. You're cute." He pulls the blanket from the back of the couch over them both, bringing Harua closer. “Sleep?”

Harua doesn't even protest—he's already halfway asleep. His breathing evens out quickly, becoming deep and steady. Maki watches him for a moment, brushing damp strands of hair from Harua's forehead. He's never seen Harua look so peaceful, so... satisfied. It makes something warm bloom in Maki's chest. Carefully, he shifts them both so they're lying down properly on the couch, Harua curled against his side.

---

Harua wakes up slowly, groaning softly as he stretches. Every muscle in his body aches deliciously, reminding him of exactly what happened last night. He blinks his eyes open and realizes he's still on the couch... and not alone. Maki is asleep beside him, one arm wrapped around Harua's waist possessively. They're tangled together under the blanket, Maki's face relaxed and peaceful in sleep. “Oh my god," Harua whispers to himself, touching his bruised lips gently.

Harua stays perfectly still, not wanting to wake Maki. He just lies there, examining Maki's sleeping face and trying to process what happened. They had sex. Actual, passionate, mind blowing sex. And Maki looks so different sleeping—softer, younger, less guarded. Harua's heart does something weird in his chest, something that feels dangerously like affection. “Stop it," he whispers to himself, but can't look away from Maki's peaceful expression. "Don't get attached."

Maki stirs slightly in his sleep, pulling Harua closer without waking up. His hand moves from Harua's waist to rest possessively on his hip. Harua swallows hard, feeling a flutter in his stomach at the intimate gesture. He carefully extracts himself from Maki's embrace, trying not to wake him. He needs space to think—space away from Maki's warm body and sleepy face. “I need coffee," he mutters softly, standing up quietly. “And clothes."

Harua pulls on a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie, avoiding his reflection in the mirror. He doesn't want to see the post sex glow on his skin or the love bites on his neck that Maki definitely didn't mean to leave. He escapes to the kitchen, starting the coffee maker with shaky hands. While it brews, he leans against the counter and tries to have a rational thought, but keeps getting distracted by memories of Maki's hands and mouth. “It was just sex," he tells himself firmly.

Harua pours himself a massive mug of coffee, black and strong—just how he likes it. He takes a big gulp, scalding his tongue intentionally. "Ow," he hisses, pressing a hand to his mouth. The pain helps him focus. "It was just really good, mind blowing, can't-stop-thinking-about-it sex, he admits to himself quietly. “But it doesn't mean anything. It was a onetime thing."

Harua sees Maki's phone vibrating on the counter. He glances over, curious. The screen lights up with a message notification. The name 'Nicholas' flashes across it. A ton of notifications.

dude
answer
hello????
did u win the bet or nah?
was he good
omg fucking answer already
tell me so i can clear this night
wanna beat u up in game

 

Harua scrolls through. His blood runs cold. The mug slips from his fingers and shatters on the kitchen floor, coffee splattering all over the tiles. He doesn't hear it. His vision tunnels on the screen, on the word 'bet’.

It was never real. Just a stupid dare between friends.

He feels like he's been punched in the gut, the air knocked out of his lungs.

The screen blurs. Harua reads it once. Twice. Three times. The words burn into his retinas. Every intimate moment, every soft touch, every kiss—reduced to a joke. A game.

He feels sick. Absolutely, violently ill. He places Maki's phone back on the counter with terrifying precision, his knuckles white.

Maki stretches, yawns, and sits up on the couch. He hears shattering glass from the kitchen. "Harua?" He calls out softly, pulling on his own discarded clothes from yesterday. He finds Harua in the kitchen, standing perfectly still, back stiff as a board. The coffee mug is shattered at his feet, dark liquid seeping into the tiles. "What happened?" He asks, but something in Harua's posture makes him pause.

"Harua?" He steps closer.

Harua doesn't move. Doesn't breathe. He's staring at Maki's phone on the counter, his own reflection staring back at him from the shattered mug fragments on the floor. He hears Maki's voice, concerned, sleep-roughened. He feels Maki's warmth approaching, his presence growing closer. But he can't unsee those messages.

His heart shatters into a million pieces, just like the mug on the floor.

Harua turns slowly. His eyes are red—not from tears, he hasn't cried yet, he's too numb for that. But there's something broken behind them. Something vulnerable and angry and betrayed.

Harua's voice is eerily calm. Too calm. “Was I worth it?"

Maki's face goes from drowsy to confused to horrified in less than a second. He glances at his phone on the counter, then back at Harua. His mouth opens, closes.

Maki's face drains of color. “Harua—" He takes a step forward but Harua takes two back, his back hitting the counter. Shards crunch under his bare feet. He doesn't feel it. “I didn't—it's not—" But his voice cracks. He has no defense. He picks up the phone, reads Nicholas's messages. Nothing he can say will make it better. “I swear to you, I wasn't going to—" He looks up, desperate.

Harua laughs once. It's a harsh, ugly sound. Not humorous, just bitter. “Weren't going to what? Cash in on the bet after you got me naked?" His voice cracks on the last word, finally showing some emotion. He swallows hard. “God, I'm so stupid. I actually thought..." He shakes his head, laughing again—this time it sounds closer to crying. “That's how much I was worth to you?"

Maki's eyes widen, watching Harua fall apart. He realizes with crushing clarity that Shigeta Harua is breaking in his kitchen—breaking because of him. Because of a stupid bet. Because Maki didn't say 'no' when he should have. He sees red eyes, shattered mugs, bare feet cutting on glass. He hears laughter that sounds like crying.

He feels like the worst person in the world.

"Harua, please," he tries, desperate to fix this. “It was just—"

Harua cuts him off, his voice suddenly sharp, dangerous. “Just a joke. Just a bet. Just easy money. Oh who is gonna be able to fuck The Ice Prince." He repeats Maki's own excuses back to him, each word a razor blade. “I heard you last night. I saw your face. You played me." His eyes flash, watery and furious. “Get out." He points a trembling finger at the front door. “Get the fuck out of my house. Now." His voice cracks on the last word. “Don't touch me."

Maki freezes, stunned by the venom in Harua's voice. This isn't sad Harua or shocked Harua—this is angry Harua, hurt Harua, betrayed Harua. The kind of Harua who's never been hurt like this before. The kind of Harua who trusts deeply and doesn't forgive easily. Maki realizes with horror that he might have ruined something precious—something real—for a stupid joke. "Harua—" He tries again desperately. “I can explai—“

“GET OUT.”

Harua screams, a raw, primal sound that echoes off the kitchen walls. He throws the broken mug handle at Maki's head—it misses, clattering against the cabinets instead. "GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE YOU—“ He's crying now, tears streaming down his face, snot running from his nose. He's a mess. A broken, shattered mess. And it's all Maki's fault. “I HATE YOU!"

Maki stands frozen for a split second, devastated by the screaming, by the tears, by the sheer betrayal written all over Harua's face. He realizes he can't fix this. Not now. Maybe not ever. He grabs his stuff from the floor, scrambles for his keys, and practically runs for the door. He doesn't look back—he can't.

The door slams shut. The silence that follows is deafening. Harua collapses onto the kitchen floor, cutting his palm on a shard of glass.

 

When Nicholas picks up, he doesn't even give him a chance to speak. “You're dead," Maki snaps. “I mean it. If you ever text me again, if you ever bring up that stupid bet again... I'll break every bone in your body. Harua just... he just..." He runs a hand through his hair frustratedly. “Fuck.”

Nicholas can hear the genuine distress in Maki’s voice. “Whoa, whoa, chill out. Did he find out?" Nicholas asks, his tone shifting from joking to nervous. “Maki, it was just a joke. We didn't think—" Maki cuts him off instantly. “He saw the texts, Nicholas. He saw the fucking texts. He threw a mug at my head and told me he hates me." Maki’s voice cracks. “I ruined it. I ruined everything."

Nicholas is silent for a moment, probably realizing the magnitude of what he's done. "Shit, Maki... I'm sorry, man. I didn't think—"

Nicholas swallows hard. He's starting to realize just how serious this is. "Look, Maki, I'm really sorry. But it was for a day, right?" He tries to sound supportive, but Maki's not having it. “You don't get it," Maki snaps. “You'll never get it. He... he was different. And I fucked it up." He hangs up abruptly, ending the call. Nicholas is left staring at his phone, feeling strangely guilty.

 

Monday morning. Harua wakes up with puffy eyes and a heavy heart. He showers mechanically, choosing a uniform that makes him look as bland and invisible as possible—no effort to look nice today. He pulls on his blazer, straightens his tie without really seeing it. He doesn't want to face Maki at school. He doesn't want to face anyone.

Meanwhile, Maki hasn't slept. He arrives at school early, pacing outside the gates, hoping to catch Harua before classes start.

Harua arrives later than usual, hoping to avoid Maki. He keeps his head down as he walks through the gates, hands stuffed in his pockets. But Maki spots him immediately, striding over with a determined look on his face. Harua freezes when he sees Maki, his heart rate spiking. He considers turning and walking away, but Maki reaches him before he can decide.

Maki grabs Harua's arm gently but firmly, stopping him in his tracks. Harua tries to pull away instinctively, but Maki holds on tighter. “Harua, wait," Maki says urgently, his voice low and sincere. Harua refuses to look at him, staring fixedly at the ground. "Please, just listen to me for a second." His thumb rubs soothing circles on Harua's arm without thinking. “I need to talk to you."

Harua's expression shifts instantly, the vulnerable boy from yesterday replaced by the cold, distant boy everyone knows. He pulls his arm out of Maki's grip smoothly, his voice icy when he speaks. “Let go of me." His eyes finally meet Maki's briefly—cold and unreadable. “I have nothing to say to you." He starts walking again, expecting Maki to drop it. The schoolyard goes silent around them—Harua is back in full force.

Maki's heart drops. He didn't expect the ice wall to come back up so quickly. But he can't let this go. He falls into step beside Harua, matching his pace easily. He keeps his hands to himself, knowing better than to touch Harua right now. “I'm not dropping this, Harua.”

“You can ignore me all you want, but I'll just keep talking until you listen." He's determined, stubborn.

Harua stops abruptly, turning to face Maki with a scathing glare. He's back in character completely—no trace of the broken boy from yesterday. “And I'll keep walking and ignoring you until you finally get the hint that I don't want to talk to you." His voice is dangerously calm, his eyes flashing with anger. “Go away, Maki." He turns and continues walking towards the school building, his steps purposeful and confident.

Maki watches him walk away, jaw clenched. He knows pushing will only make Harua retreat further into his icy shell. But he can't just give up. He watches Harua enter the school building, surrounded by their classmates who all seem to breathe easier with him back in place. Maki realizes something painful—everyone at school prefers this version of Harua. The version that doesn't feel things deeply. The version that doesn't get hurt. “Fuck,"

Maki runs a hand through his hair in frustration. He sees how everyone interacts with Harua—how they laugh with him, how they seek his approval. How they treat him like the untouchable boy he portrays himself to be. Maki sees something else though—the slight stiffness in Harua’s shoulders, the forced smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He sees the act for what it is—a defense mechanism. A way for Harua to keep everyone at arm’s length.

Class starts and ends in a blur for Harua. He sits at the front, taking notes perfectly, answering questions correctly. He's the model student, the perfection of the class. No one suspects the turmoil inside him. During lunch, he sits alone in the library, eating quietly and pretending to read—a lonely figure even among his peers. He pulls out his phone—Maki's messages light up the screen. Unread. He hesitates, then deletes them without opening them. He can't face Maki's words right now.

Maki watches from the doorway, his eyes finding Harua in the library instantly. He sees the solitary figure, the unread messages on his phone. He sees Harua delete them without opening. His heart sinks. No messages. No calls. No contact whatsoever until he decides otherwise. It could be days or weeks before Maki hears from him again—or never. “Fucking hell,"

Maki turns and walks away slowly, trying to look casual. He grabs his lunch tray and sits with his usual group of friends, forcing himself to laugh and joke along. Inside, he feels like he's dying. He steals glances at the library door, hoping to see Harua walk out. He doesn't. The cafeteria is loud and chaotic around him, but all he can hear is the silent treatment he's now officially receiving from Harua. “You okay, Maki?" One of his friends—Jo—asks, noticing his distraction.

Maki snaps back to reality, forcing a smile. "Yeah, fine." He stuffs food in his mouth, not tasting a single bite. Throughout the afternoon, he finds excuses to pass by the boy. Harua stays put. After school, Maki lingers near the exit, but Harua slips out the back door without him noticing. By the time Maki checks his phone that night, it's the same story—Harua's been seen in class and left. Nothing more.

 

One week later, Maki stands outside Black Halo, the roar of the ocean waves mixing with the bass-thumping music from inside. Nicholas had set this up—the owner, a friend of theirs, had agreed to play matchmaker without either party knowing. Maki's hands are shaking. He hasn't spoken to Harua in person in a week. No calls, no messages, nothing. “He's coming," Nicholas says, checking his phone. “Alone." Maki nods, his stomach in knots.

Harua walks into the rock bar sometime later, looking effortlessly stunning in a leather jacket and dark jeans. He comes here often—it's his sanctuary, a place where he can escape the pretty doll persona and just listen to loud music. He doesn't suspect a setup. He heads straight for the bar, ordering his usual drink. The bartender, a friend of Nicholas, slides him a coaster. Not a coaster—a napkin with neat handwriting. “Go to the private booth in the back. Someone's waiting." Harua frowns. “Who?"

The bartender leans in, lowering his voice. "You'll see. Trust me, you won't want to miss this." Harua's curiosity piqued, he finishes his drink and heads to the private booth at the back. It's dimly lit, the only sound the muffled bass from the main room. He pushes aside the curtain and freezes.

Maki sits there, dressed casually in a black shirt and jeans, looking nervous as hell. A bottle of whiskey sits on the table between them, untouched.

Harua's eyes flash with surprise, then anger. He opens his mouth to speak—likely to tell Maki off and leave—but before he can, Maki speaks first. His voice is low, sincere, desperate. “Just listen to me for five minutes. That's all I ask. If you want to leave after that, I swear I won't stop you." His hands are shaking as he pours two glasses of whiskey. “Please." He pushes one glass towards Harua.

Harua stands frozen at the booth entrance, his usual icy composure cracking slightly. Part of him wants to leave—to walk away and never look back. But the other part—the exhausted, lonely part that's missed Maki more than he wants to admit—has his feet rooted in place. He sits down slowly, picking up the glass but not drinking. “Five minutes," he says flatly, not meeting Maki's eyes. “Then I'm gone." His voice wavers just slightly. “Make it count."

Maki takes a deep breath, steeling himself. He knows he has one shot at this—five minutes to say everything he's been holding back for a week. He starts softly, his eyes locked on Harua's whiskey glass rather than his face. “I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry, Harua.” His voice breaks on the name. "The bet was stupid and cruel. I never meant to actually go through with it." He runs a hand through his hair frustratedly. "You have to believe me."

Maki exhales. “When I approached you by the lockers, it was to get your attention—yes. But I found myself enjoying your company more than I should’ve. Five minutes in I started being myself, I crossed the bet out in my brain. I just wanted…you.”

Harua's hand tightens around the whiskey glass, his knuckles turning white. He keeps his gaze fixed on the amber liquid, refusing to look at Maki. But his voice is barely steady when he speaks. “Too little, too late," he whispers, but there's a hint of vulnerability in his tone that Maki grabs onto like a lifeline. “You should've thought about that before you made the fucking bet." His voice cracks slightly. “Before you laughed about it with Nicholas." He swallows hard.

Maki leans forward, his voice low and intense. “And if I could go back and change it, I would. I'd slap myself stupid for even entertaining that bet. I'd tell Nicholas to fuck off before he could even suggest it." He pauses, his eyes finally meeting Harua's briefly before looking away again—too much, too soon to hold that gaze for long. "But I can't change the past. All I can do is sit here, humbly begging you to forgive me."

Harua watches Maki's profile—his jaw clenched, his dark lashes fanning out against his cheeks. He hears the sincerity in his voice, the genuine regret. It's tempting—to believe him, to forgive him. But the hurt is still fresh, the betrayal still stinging. He looks down at his whiskey glass again, swirling the liquid around slowly. “Forgiveness isn't something you get to demand," he says quietly, his voice almost sad. “You broke something between us. Something real."

Maki's shoulders slump slightly. He knows Harua is right—it's not something he can demand. He takes a shaky sip of his whiskey, then sets the glass down firmly. “Then let me fix it," he says, a new determination in his voice. “Not in five minutes. Not in a day. however long it takes. I'll earn it back, every single day, if you'll let me." He finally looks directly at Harua, his dark eyes pleading. “I miss you.”

Harua feels like he's been punched in the gut. Maki's voice is raw—honest. And those three words... "I miss you." It's everything he's been longing to hear, everything he's been telling himself not to want. His mask cracks completely, showing real emotion for just a moment—his lower lip wobbles slightly before he bites down hard to stop it. "Don't," he whispers hoarsely. “Don't say things like that." His voice breaks completely.

Maki sees the crack in Harua's armor—real emotion peeking through the ice prince facade. It gives him hope. But he knows pushing now would ruin everything. Harua is still protecting his heart, still wary. Maki nods slowly, backing off gently. “Okay," he says softly, picking up his whiskey glass again. “I won't say nice things." He tries to joke lightly, giving Harua space to breathe. “I'll go back to being an asshole."

Harua actually huffs a quiet, almost involuntary laugh at that. It's barely there—a ghost of a smile—but it's something. The tension in his shoulders drops just an inch. He takes a sip of his whiskey, the liquid burning down his throat, giving him courage. “You're already an asshole," he murmurs, finally looking up to meet Maki's eyes. The anger isn't gone, but the murderous rage has faded into something softer—something tired. “Five minutes are up," he says quietly.

Maki nods, accepting the statement without argument. He knows Harua's walls are still up—he can see the tiredness behind his eyes, the vulnerability hidden beneath the facade. But he also sees something else—a tiny spark of something that wasn't there a week ago. Something that gives him a tiny, fragile thread of hope. "I know," he says softly, finishing his whiskey. “I'll go." He stands up, grabbing his jacket.

Maki pauses at the booth entrance, looking back once. “I'll be here next Friday. Same time. Just in case you want to talk... or drink... or just ignore me completely." He offers a small, crooked smile—no pressure, just an invitation. “Take care of yourself, Harua.” He slips out of the booth, leaving Harua alone with the whiskey and his thoughts. Harua sits there for a long time, staring at the empty glass across from him.

Friday comes, then goes. No Harua. The next Friday rolls around. Maki shows up at the same time, orders the same whiskey. He sits alone in the booth, nursing his glass. He looks up every time the curtain moves, hoping to see Harua's familiar figure. But the booth stays empty. He stays until closing time, paying the bill and leaving a generous tip. He walks out alone, his footsteps echoing in the empty parking lot. "Stupid," he mutters to himself. "What did you expect?"

The third Friday comes. Maki is late—just a few minutes, but his heart is pounding as he walks into Black Halo. He's almost given up hope, almost certain Harua won't show. He orders his whiskey, sits in the booth... and waits. Ten minutes pass. Then twenty. Just as he's about to leave, defeated, the curtain moves. Harua steps inside, looking tired and wary—but present.

“You're late,"

Maki freezes, his heart skipping a beat. He turns slowly, taking in Harua's appearance—dark circles under his eyes, hair slightly messy like he ran his hands through it too many times. But he's there. Maki swallows hard, trying to keep his voice steady. “I know," he says softly. “I got held up." He gestures to the seat across from him. “You gonna sit?" His eyes search Harua's face for any sign of anger or rejection.

Harua hesitates, then slides into the booth opposite Maki. He doesn't look at him directly, focusing instead on the whiskey glass in front of him. The silence stretches between them, heavy and uncomfortable. Maki breaks it first, pushing Harua's untouched glass towards him. “Drink," he says gently. “It'll help." His hand brushes against Harua's briefly—an accidental touch that makes them both freeze. "Please," he adds softly when Harua doesn't move.

Harua's eyes flicker down to their hands—Maki's rough, calloused fingers against his own pale ones. He snatches his hand back quickly, wrapping it around the whiskey glass instead. He brings it to his lips and takes a large gulp, feeling the burn spread through his chest. It gives him something to focus on besides the man sitting across from him. The silence returns, thick and oppressive. “Why are you still doing this?" he asks suddenly, his voice hoarse from disuse.

Maki doesn't hesitate. “Because I mean it," he says simply, watching Harua over the rim of his glass. “Three weeks of coming here and you showing up tonight—that's the longest you've ever looked at me without venom in your eyes." He takes a slow sip, then sets his glass down deliberately. “You're starting to believe I might actually care." It's not a question—more like an observation of a tiny victory. "So I'll keep showing up. Every Friday."

Harua stares at Maki, his fingers tightening around the whiskey glass. He doesn't want to admit it, but Maki's right. He's starting to believe—just a little. And that scares him more than anything. Because believing Maki cares means opening himself up to getting hurt all over again. He looks away first, breaking the intense gaze. “I'm not forgiving you," he mutters, taking another sip. “Just so you know."

Maki nods, accepting the statement without argument. He knows Harua is still protecting his heart—still wary. But he also sees something else—a tiny spark of something that wasn't there. Something that gives him a tiny, fragile thread of hope. “I know," he says softly, finishing his whiskey. “But you're talking to me. That's progress." He smiles slightly—a small, crooked smile that doesn't reach his eyes. “I'll take it." He stands up, grabbing his jacket.

Harua's hand shoots out instinctively, grabbing Maki's wrist before he can leave. "Wait," he says, surprised at himself for stopping him. His grip is firm but not painful, his thumb brushing against the pulse point there. He doesn't know what he wants—but he knows he doesn't want Maki to go yet. He won't admit it, but he's spent every night counting down to this Friday. “Sit down," he mutters, not letting go of Maki's wrist.

Maki pauses, looking down at Harua's hand on his wrist. He can feel Harua's thumb moving slightly—an unconscious, soothing gesture. He slowly sits back down, his heart racing as Harua keeps holding his wrist captive. The air in the booth feels charged, electric. Maki turns his hand over carefully, intertwining their fingers without breaking eye contact. “Better?" he asks softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Harua looks down at their joined hands—his pale, slender fingers intertwined with Maki's rough, long ones. It feels intimate. Dangerous. He doesn't pull away, but his grip tightens slightly. “Don't push it," he mutters, but there's no real anger in his voice. Just exhaustion. “I'm still mad at you." He brings his whiskey glass to his lips with his free hand, drinking to hide the slight tremble in his fingers. “Don't think holding my hand fixes everything."

Maki nods, not pushing further. He knows he's won a small victory—Harua isn't pulling away, isn't yelling, isn't ignoring him completely. It's progress. He lets their hands rest on the table between them, not squeezing or moving, just existing together. "I know," he says softly. “I'm not trying to fix everything right now. Just... being here." He glances at their joined hands. “You gonna finish that whiskey or what?"

Harua glances down at his whiskey glass, realizing he's been holding it for a while without drinking. He takes a large gulp, feeling the burn spread through his chest. "Mind your own business," he mutters, his face flushing slightly. He's aware that Maki is watching him closely—too closely. He finishes the whiskey in one long gulp, setting the glass down loudly. “Another," he says to the passing waiter without looking away from Maki. “And something to eat."

Maki orders the same for himself when the waiter returns. He watches Harua carefully—his flushed cheeks, his slightly glazed eyes. He's starting to relax, cracking just a little. Maki orders some fried food to soak up the alcohol, knowing Harua needs to eat. “You're drunk," he states calmly when the waiter leaves. “Like, actually drunk. Not just a little tipsy." He tilts his head, studying Harua's face.

Harua scoffs, though the effect is ruined by the slight slur in his voice. “I am not drunk," he argues stubbornly, crossing his arms—which is tricky with Maki's fingers still intertwined with his. “I'm perfectly sober."

The waiter arrives with another round of whiskey and plates of fries and wings. Harua immediately reaches for a whiskey, only to have Maki cover the glass with his hand. “Hey." Harua glares at him. “Move." He pokes Maki's hand.

Maki doesn't move his hand, holding Harua's whiskey glass captive. “You've had enough," he says firmly, his voice gentler than it could be. He reaches for the plate of food instead, pulling it closer to Harua. “Eat something first." He picks up a French fry deliberately, holding it to Harua's lips. "Open up." His tone is soft but commanding. “Or I'll feed you myself." His eyes dare Harua to refuse or make a scene.

Harua stares at the fry poised at his lips, indignant. He considers biting Maki's finger—hard. But his stomach growls betrayingly, ruining the moment. Maki's eyes are steady, patient—waiting. Harua's face flushes darker with embarrassment and stubbornness. Finally, with a huff that blows his bangs out of his eyes, he leans forward and snaps the fry from Maki's fingers, chewing aggressively. “I hate you," he mutters, swallowing. “So much."

Maki just smiles—a small, knowing smile that makes Harua want to throw something at him. “I know," he says calmly, feeding Harua another fry before Harua can protest.

“But you're eating. That's progress." He continues like this—patient, methodical—feeding Harua fry after fry until the plate is half empty. Harua accepts them with grumpy reluctance, his cheeks puffed out like an angry bunny. “Good boy," Maki murmurs unintentionally, then freezes.

Harua chokes on the fry he was chewing, his eyes widening in shock and outrage. He swallows painfully, coughing slightly. "Excuse me?" he splutters, his face turning an even darker shade of red. He tries to pull his hand away from Maki's grip but fails—Maki's fingers tighten instinctively. “Did you just... call me a good boy?" His voice drops dangerously low—part anger, part something else entirely. “I swear to god..."

Maki panics, realizing what he's said. He quickly feeds Harua another fry to silence him, his face flushing bright red. “Shut up and eat," he mutters, avoiding Harua's glare. He feeds Harua faster now, trying to distract him—trying to ignore the way his heart is pounding at the dangerous look in Harua's eyes. “Almost done," he lies, pushing the plate towards Harua's mouth. "Open wide."

Harua glares at him, but opens his mouth anyway—stupidly, weakly compliant because he's hungry and buzzed and currently being served. He bites down on the fry aggressively, chewing with exaggerated slowness.”Don't ever say that again," he warns, his voice low and dangerous. “Or I'll stab you with a fork." He swallows, then reaches for his whiskey glass—which Maki promptly slides out of reach. “Oi."

Maki slides the new whiskey glass to his own side, keeping it far from Harua's reach. “Water," he says, ordering the waiter to bring some when he catches her attention. "You've had enough." He reaches for a wing, breaking off a piece and holding it up to Harua's mouth without waiting for permission. “Another bite?" His eyes are dark, challenging—daring Harua to fight him on this. Something about taking care of Harua is making him feel dangerously good tonight.

Harua stares at the chicken wing like it's poisoned. He considers refusing—he really does—but his stomach growls again, betraying him completely. With a huff of pure annoyance, he leans forward and eats the piece directly from Maki's fingers. He licks a stray drop of sauce from his thumb aggressively—a silent challenge. “I'm not a child," he mutters, chewing. “I can feed myself." The waiter arrives with water. Harua immediately grabs the glass.

Without hesitation, Harua tips the entire glass of ice water directly over Maki's head. The water splashes everywhere—soaking Maki's hair, dripping down his face, soaking his black shirt.

Harua drops the empty glass on the table with a loud clatter, looking entirely unrepentant. “New one," he tells the passing waiter instantly, pointing at the empty spot. “And more whiskey." He turns back to Maki, whose hair is dripping wet, while looking completely unbothered.

Maki sits there, dripping wet and stunned. Water runs down his face, dripping onto the table. He blinks rapidly, shock written all over his features.

The place goes silent for a moment before bursting into laughter and whispers. Harua just sits there smugly, ordering his new whiskey without a care in the world. “Problem?" He asks Maki sweetly, taking a sip of his fresh drink when it arrives. “Cat got your tongue?" His eyes sparkle mischievously over the rim of his glass.

Maki wipes water from his face with one hand, not even pretending to be upset. He's soaking wet, his shirt clinging to his chest, and his hair is dripping into his eyes—but he's laughing. Actually laughing. “I deserved that, didn't I?" he says, reaching past Harua to steal the new whiskey glass. “Okay, fair." He takes a long drink, setting it back down. “But you owe me," he adds, suddenly leaning closer—his wet forehead pressing against Harua's.

Harua's breath catches at the sudden contact—Maki's wet forehead is cold against his, water droplets transferring between them.

He can smell the whiskey on Maki's breath mixed with the clean scent of water. It's too intimate, too close. His heart pounds, but he refuses to back down.

“I don't owe you anything," he breathes, but his voice is quieter now—less aggressive. His eyes flicker down to Maki's lips for a split second before snapping back up. “You deserved it."

Maki notices the flicker of Harua's eyes to his lips—sees the tiny crack in Harua's armor. He leans in just a fraction closer, their noses almost touching. He steals Harua's whiskey glass again, but instead of drinking, he sets it aside and leans back slightly. “I'm going to the bathroom to clean up," he says, standing. "Don't you dare leave."

Harua watches Maki walk away, He looks like a total asshole who just dumped a glass of water on his friend. But Maki didn't even get mad. He just... laughed. And now he's giving Harua orders like he has the right to tell him to stay. “Stupid," Harua mutters to himself.

“Stupid, annoying, soaking wet dog.”

Harua stands abruptly, knocking his chair back. He doesn't think—he just walks. Straight to the bathroom. He pushes open the door and finds Maki at the sink, shirt off, wringing water from his black t-shirt. Water droplets slide down his bare back, his shoulders.

He crosses the bathroom in two steps, grabs the back of Maki's neck, and kisses him.

Hard. Desperate. No explanation, no warning—just finally snapping.

Maki freezes completely, shocked. Harua's lips are suddenly there, aggressive and demanding, pressing him back against the bathroom sink. His wet hands grab Harua's shirt instinctively, holding on rather than pushing away. Harua kisses like he's angry about it—frustrated and needy and so, so unexpected. Maki's brain short-circuits, his body responding immediately before his mind can catch up. “Wait," he tries to say into the kiss, but Harua just kisses him harder.

Harua doesn't wait—he can't. He kisses Maki like he's trying to prove a point—like he's trying to convince himself this is just a stupid kiss, a stupid mistake. But it feels good. Too good. He bites Maki's lower lip hard enough to sting, kissing him sloppily, messily, like he's trying to ruin it.

“Shut up," he mumbles against Maki's mouth, pushing him back against the sink roughly. “Shut up and kiss me back."

Maki stops trying to talk and kisses back instead—hard and messy, matching Harua's frustration. He drops the wet shirt to the floor, his hands sliding under Harua's jacket to grip his waist. Harua kisses him like he wants to consume him—like he hates him and needs him all at once. Maki's back hits the sink with a thud as Harua presses against him. “Fuck," Maki groans into the kiss, finally getting his hands under Harua's actual shirt.

Maki lifts Harua onto the sink, spreading his legs to step between them. Harua doesn't break the kiss—he just wraps his legs around Maki's waist instead, pulling him closer. Maki's hands slide up Harua's sides, finding the hem of his shirt and pulling it up.

Harua breaks the kiss just long enough for Maki to pull his shirt off, then he's kissing Maki again—desperate, hungry kisses that leave both of them breathless. Maki's hands roam over Harua's bare chest, fingers tracing his collarbone before moving lower. Harua shivers against him, breaking the kiss to gasp as Maki's mouth moves to his neck. "Mmph—" He bites back a moan as Maki sucks a mark into his skin.

“Booth.” Is all Harua says. Suddenly realizing they’re in a public bathroom.

Maki pulls back instantly, panting against Harua's mouth. Harua's chest is bare, his lips swollen and red, neck marked up—looking completely kissed and utterly ruined.

Maki's brain finally catches up to the fact that they're making out in a public bathroom sink. “Right," he says hoarsely, helping Harua off the sink. They both scramble to put their shirts back on silently, adjusting themselves “Fuck," Maki mutters under his breath.

They stumble out of the bathroom separately, trying to look like they weren't just aggressively making out against a sink. Maki's hair is still damp, his shirt wrinkled. Harua looks thoroughly disheveled—his lips pink and swollen, a dark hickey already blooming on his neck that he tries to hide by pulling his collar up.

They slide back into the booth in silence, avoiding eye contact. The whiskey glasses are still there. The tension has shifted completely.

Maki picks up his whiskey glass, taking a long sip to hide his flustered expression. Harua does the same, his hand slightly shaking as he brings the glass to his lips. Neither of them speaks for a moment, just sits there in the dimly lit booth, trying to process what just happened. The air is thick with unspoken words and lingering desire.

"So..." Maki starts, setting down his glass carefully. “What was that—“ He tries to keep his voice light, but it comes out husky instead.

Harua sighs as he slams the glass to the table, shutting Maki up. “It means I forgive you. Asshole.”