Chapter Text
23 December, 1990
It was Megumi’s 17th birthday.
Well, technically, the day after.
Speaking of technicalities, he wasn’t supposed to be there. Just a few steps away from the entrance of Gojo’s bar, definitely more than just a little tipsy and with a cigarette dangling from his lips. But those were all part of growing up in their shithole of a town.
Standing under the yellowed streetlight, his breath visible in small, foggy puffs, it all felt distant. The laughter and muffled music spilling out from the bar behind him seemed to be a completely different world. He didn’t belong there, not really. But then again, where else was he supposed to go?
Yuuji was there.
That thought alone was enough to anchor Megumi in place. He shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets and tilted his head up, staring at the dark expanse of sky. There were no stars, just a thick blanket of clouds.
The door to the bar creaked open behind him, spilling out a wave of sound—laughter, music, the clinking of glasses. He stiffened, instinctively hunching his shoulders, hoping whoever it was wouldn’t notice him.
“Fushiguro?”
It was the girl he’d been chatting with—amiable, smiling, and too forward for Megumi’s liking. She’d been staying with her grandparents for the holidays; that’s all Megumi remembers years down the line, not even her name.
She stepped closer, and Megumi felt her fingers graze his hand. He knew he should let go, but he didn’t. He was 17, he reasoned; this was something he was supposed to do.
The girl leaned in closer, and Megumi’s pulse quickened—not with excitement, exactly, but with the peculiar mix of curiosity and dread that came when venturing somewhere unfamiliar. Her hand slid up to his shoulder, and he let it, feeling his chest tighten, almost bracing himself. Then her lips met his, warm and soft, lingering in a way that should have meant something.
But it didn’t.
The cigarette fell to the ground.
Megumi kept his eyes open, staring into the night over her shoulder. He felt a strange sense of detachment, like watching someone else’s moment unfold. He thought this was what he should want, yet all he felt was the press of her lips and the uncomfortable awareness of how wrong it felt.
Her lips were soft and warm, but there was nothing beneath it, no spark, no pull. It felt like wasted effort, wasted emotion, a hollow gesture he made to pretend he fit into a mould he didn’t belong in.
Then, an ugly idea appeared.
He closed his eyes and imagined, just for a second, that someone else was standing before him.
He imagined Yuuji.
In his mind, he saw Yuuji’s smile, how his eyes crinkled when he laughed, the warmth that always seemed to surround him.
The girl’s hands slid to the back of Megumi’s neck, her fingers cold against his skin. He tightened his grip, pulling her closer, his heart pounding with longing and guilt. He kept his eyes shut, his mind reaching for the image he’d conjured, an illusion that felt safer than reality.
If he tried hard enough, he could pretend the hands were Yuuji’s, that it was Yuuji leaning into him, Yuuji’s warmth against his own. And for a moment, he let himself sink into it, feeling something he rarely allowed himself to feel—something close to desire.
Their lips moved in a rhythm that grew more urgent, almost desperate. Megumi could feel his face heating and his heart pounding as the image of Yuuji became almost real. It was as if he was letting go of every restraint, every carefully guarded boundary, and diving headfirst into something forbidden.
Then, her hands slipped under the collar of his jacket, fingertips grazing his skin, and Megumi shuddered, startled by how sensitive he felt. A small gasp escaped his lips, and it was in that fleeting sound that reality flickered back into place, breaking the illusion.
His eyes opened slightly, and he saw her face close to his. His chest tightened painfully, and for a moment, he felt an overwhelming guilt settle in—a heavy reminder that this wasn’t who he wanted, even if he could convince himself otherwise.
He couldn't stop, couldn't pull away. His hands tightened on her shoulders as if clinging to the moment, needing it to be something it wasn’t. He let her press closer, her lips brushing against his jaw and down his neck, each touch igniting a strange conflict inside him.
But it all shattered when he heard his name.
“Megumi?”
It pulled him out of the haze like a cold splash of water, his breath catching as he froze. He didn’t need to turn around to know who it was; the voice was unmistakable.
He released the girl, his hands falling to his sides, and took a shaky breath, trying to steady himself. His gaze flicked to the side, but he couldn’t bring himself to look back, not at Yuuji. He felt exposed, raw, as if every emotion he'd been trying to hide was laid bare in front of him.
The girl looked between them, her smile fading as she stepped back. She gave Megumi a small, confused smile, then murmured a quick goodbye, leaving Megumi and Yuuji alone.
An uncomfortable silence settled over them, and Megumi shoved his hands into his pockets, his gaze fixed on the ground, his heart still pounding painfully in his chest.
Yuuji shifted beside him. “I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he mumbled, his voice softer than usual. “But you were away so long, I started to worry that you might be puking out here.”
“Yeah, well, I’m fine. Just needed some air.”
“You mean,” Yuuji started, looking at Megumi with an expression somewhere between worry and amusement. “For some secret alone time with that girl?”
Megumi bit the inside of his cheek, resisting the urge to snap back. His heart still raced, but not for the reason Yuuji would think. There was something unbearable about having Yuuji standing there, a knowing smile tugging at his lips, making light of a moment Megumi could barely understand himself.
“Something like that,” he muttered, hoping his tone would dismiss the conversation. He didn’t need Yuuji to ask questions.
Yuuji leaned against the wall beside him, his gaze fixed in the distance. “Is she your type, then?” he asked.
The question felt like a cruel twist, a casual jab that Yuuji couldn’t possibly know was digging into something deeper, something Megumi had worked so hard to hide. He shifted his weight, his fingers curling into tight fists.
“I don’t know.”
“Man, that’s not a very convincing answer.” Yuuji’s laugh was soft, a little sceptical, as he nudged Megumi’s shoulder lightly. “You don’t really like her, do you?”
Megumi’s throat felt tight, words tangled in frustration and something close to shame. He could still feel the girl’s touch lingering on him, could still taste the faint sweetness of her lip gloss, and yet he felt hollow.
“Why do you even care?” Megumi’s voice came out sharper than he intended, his frustration spilling over. He instantly regretted it, stealing a glance at Yuuji, who seemed taken aback but tried to hide it behind a smile.
“I just,” Yuuji shrugged, a trace of something uncertain crossing his face. “I dunno. You never really go for anyone, so I thought maybe this time was different.”
Megumi let out a dry laugh, unable to hold back his bitterness. “Yeah, maybe not everyone needs to be so obvious about everything.”
“Hey, I’m not saying you have to be.” Yuuji frowned, crossing his arms. “Just thought you’d be happy for once, that’s all.”
They stood silently, broken only by the occasional laughter drifting from the bar. Megumi could feel the distance stretching, a quiet, unspoken chasm he wished desperately didn’t exist. But there was no bridge he could build without giving Yuuji a part of himself he wasn’t ready to reveal.
Yuuji cleared his throat, his tone shifting to something lighthearted, a hint of humour forced into his voice. “Well, if she’s not your type, you’re just too picky, huh?”
Megumi could only scoff, rolling his eyes to mask the relief that came from Yuuji’s attempt to diffuse the tension.
“Hey, that’s okay. Guess I’m picky too,” Yuuji continued. “Not like I’ve got a line of people waiting around.”
“Yeah, right. You could have anyone you wanted if you actually tried.”
Yuuji laughed, though he looked a little embarrassed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe. Just not my thing, I guess.” Then, he turned to head back and glanced over his shoulder, giving Megumi a small, almost reassuring smile. “Come on, let’s go. You can tell me your ‘type’ when you’re ready.”
As if.
20 November, 1998
Click. Click. Click.
The lighter flicks open and shut in Megumi’s hand, the metallic rhythm filling the quiet of the balcony. He hasn’t lit the cigarette yet. He isn’t sure if he even will. The flame hisses to life for a second, then disappears again with the snap of his thumb, leaving behind only the faint scent of lighter fluid.
Inside, the faint clatter of dishes and the low hum of Yuuji’s voice drifts out through the slightly ajar sliding door. It’s not a song, just Yuuji humming tunelessly as he moves around the kitchen. It’s comforting in a way.
Click. Click.
Megumi presses the wheel again, watching the tiny flame flare up, then closes it with a snap.
“Seriously?”
The voice startles him, though it shouldn’t have. He glances up to see Yuuji leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed, a half-damp dish towel slung over his shoulder. His hair is slightly mussed as if he ran his hand through it too many times while cleaning.
“What’s the point if you’re not even gonna light it?” Yuuji asks, raising an eyebrow.
“I don’t know,” Megumi mutters. He looks down at the unlit cigarette between his fingers and then at Yuuji. “It’s calming.”
Though, he isn’t sure if that is true.
Yuuji steps out onto the balcony, letting the door slide shut behind him. “You’re weird,” he says, but there’s no bite to it, just the usual warmth in his tone. He leans on the railing beside Megumi, close enough that their shoulders nearly touch.
“Shouldn’t you be inside?” Megumi asks, flicking the lighter open again but not sparking it.
“Shouldn’t you be inside?” Yuuji shoots back, grinning. He nudges Megumi’s arm lightly. “Come on, Ozawa’s gonna be here soon. Don’t you wanna help figure out what we’re cooking?”
“No.”
That is very much the truth. When Yuuji cornered him with the idea, Megumi’s first reaction was to laugh. Not because it was funny but because its sheer absurdity left him speechless. Dinner with Yuuji’s almost-girlfriend. As if Megumi had somehow won the lottery of feelings and woke up a different person. Someone who could stop this.
This being standing on the edge, caught between what he wants and what he’ll never have.
“I figured you’d say that.” Yuuji’s grin softens as he leans further against the railing. “But I think it’ll be fun. You and Ozawa are my two favourite people currently, so by default, you’ll love spending time with her.”
Megumi snorts, snapping the lighter shut with a sharp click. “What, is it some kind of rotating list?”
“No.” Yuuji laughs, the sound bright and familiar, like it’s absurd for Megumi even to ask. “It’s not like that.”
“Then what’s it like?” Megumi presses, flicking the lighter open again. He keeps his gaze fixed on the flame, refusing to look at Yuuji. “If you had to pick one favourite person, who would it be?”
Yuuji pauses, his grin faltering slightly as he shifts his weight against the railing. “What kind of question is that?”
“It’s a simple one,” Megumi says flatly. “You brought it up.”
Yuuji tilts his head, considering. “I guess it depends on what we’re doing.”
“That’s a cop-out,” Megumi mutters, snapping the lighter shut again and shoving it into his pocket. “Just answer the question.”
Yuuji narrows his eyes as if trying to determine if Megumi is messing with him. Unfortunately, he’s dead serious. “Fine,” Yuuji finally says. “If I had to pick, it’s you. Happy?”
The words linger between them, too sharp, too real.
Megumi swallows, a knot tightening in his chest. He wants to say something, to brush it off, but Yuuji’s gaze holds him in place, sincere and unwavering. His fingers itch for the lighter again, for something to occupy his hands, his thoughts, to burn away the implications of Yuuji’s answer. Instead, he shoves his hands deeper into his pockets.
Before the silence can stretch any longer, the doorbell rings—a sharp, intrusive sound that fractures the moment.
“That’s her,” Yuuji says, his grin returning, but it’s not as effortless as before. He straightens, giving Megumi a light pat on the shoulder. “Come on. Don’t leave me hanging.”
Megumi exhales through his nose, his jaw clenched tight. He doesn’t trust himself to speak, so he just nods and follows Yuuji inside.
The living room feels warmer than the chill of the balcony, but not by much. Yuuji bounds to the door, his energy shifting, his presence suddenly too big for the room. When he opens it, Ozawa stands there, her smile easy and bright, starkly contrasting the tightness in Megumi’s chest.
She steps inside, shaking out her coat, and behind her, another girl follows.
Short blonde hair. Big, green eyes. She’s pretty.
Megumi’s chest tightens as he takes her in. She’s unfamiliar, yet she walks in with the ease of someone who belongs. Her gaze flickers to Megumi, assessing but friendly, a quiet curiosity behind her eyes. She smiles—a slight, careful curve of her lips—and Megumi’s stomach knots tighter.
“Hey,” she says. Her voice is smooth, confident. “I’m Hana.”
“Fushiguro Megumi,” he replies, the name falling out of his mouth like a stone. He shoves his hands deeper into his pockets.
“Sorry for the surprise,” Ozawa chirps, already shrugging off her coat and tossing it onto the couch. “I figured the more, the merrier. Besides, Hana’s just visiting for the week. Thought it’d be fun.”
Megumi’s eyes dart to Yuuji, searching for any trace of foreknowledge, any hint of a plan. But Yuuji’s brow furrows slightly, his mouth open as if he wants to say something.
He didn’t know.
Megumi sighs, but the relief is fleeting. The implications hang heavy in the air. It’s probably an innocent gesture on Ozawa’s part, a suggestion that feels anything but casual. But in retrospect, it’s almost laughable—a double date.
“Yeah, of course,” Yuuji finally says, his smile returning, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. He turns to Hana. “Glad you could come.”
The room feels too full now, the boundaries pressing in on Megumi. Yuuji claps his hands together, his smile a little too bright, like he’s trying to keep the energy from slipping through his fingers.
“Alright, let’s get started on dinner!” he says. “We’ve got a lot to figure out.”
Ozawa laughs, moving towards the kitchen. “Let’s see if you know how to cook, Yuu.”
“Doubt it,” Hana says, a smirk tugging at her lips.
Megumi bites the inside of his cheek, the need to escape crawling up his spine. He doesn’t want to be here, to play along with this charade, to watch Yuuji’s easy charm spread to someone else. He shoves his hands deeper into his pockets, fingers brushing against the cold metal of the lighter.
He doesn’t light it. Just knowing it’s there is enough.
Yuuji glances at Megumi, his smile faltering for just a second. “You good?”
The words are simple but dig under Megumi’s skin, too close to everything he’s trying to hide. He forces a nod. “Yeah. Fine.”
“Great!” Yuuji says, his grin returning, though his eyes linger on Megumi a moment longer.
They move to the kitchen, the narrow space forcing them closer together. Ozawa and Hana take over the counter, chopping vegetables with the ease of familiarity. Yuuji flits between them, cracking jokes, his laughter filling the space.
Megumi hovers near the edge, feeling like an intruder in his own life. He knows Yuuji didn’t plan this. He knows Ozawa meant nothing by it. But the ache doesn’t care for logic. It settles deep, sharp and unrelenting.
Hana glances at him, her eyes narrowing slightly. “You’re quiet.”
“Not much to say.” Megumi shrugs, his voice flat.
She watches him for a beat longer, then turns back to her task. “Suit yourself.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to help?” Yuuji appears beside him, a half-smile on his face.
Megumi shakes his head, his throat tight. “I’m fine.”
But he isn’t. And the worst part is that Yuuji doesn’t see it. Or maybe he does and just doesn’t know what to do with it. The evening stretches on, the air thick with laughter and the scent of cooking. Megumi drifts through it, a ghost haunting the edges, his thoughts a tangled mess of longing and regret.
By the time they sit down to eat, his appetite is gone.
The steam curls upward, misting the windows. Megumi’s fingers tighten around his chopsticks. He focuses on the rhythm of eating: scoop, dip, chew, swallow. The heat spreads through his body but doesn’t reach the cold knot in his chest.
Yuuji laughs as he tosses a meatball into the pot, missing by an inch and splashing broth. Ozawa yelps, swatting his arm with her chopsticks. Hana laughs, a rich sound that feels too loud, too sharp against Megumi’s ears.
He nods along when expected, answers in clipped sentences when spoken to. But the weight of the evening presses down on him like wet clothes. Once the bowls are empty and the broth reduced to a salty sheen, his shoulders ache from holding himself still.
“Let’s move to the couch,” Yuuji suggests, already grabbing the dishes to clear the table. “We can relax for a bit.”
Megumi doesn’t argue. He stands, his legs stiff. The laughter and chatter blur together as he walks to the couch and sinks into the corner like he’s trying to disappear. The air is too warm, too thick. He needs space, a sharp breath of cold air to clear his head.
He stands up abruptly. “I’m going out for a smoke.”
Yuuji glances over, his brow furrowing. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” The lie tastes bitter on his tongue. He doesn’t wait for a response, he just grabs his coat and pushes the sliding door open.
The cold air hits him like a slap. It’s sharp, biting through the layers of his clothes. He breathes it in, deep and raw, as he pulls out the cigarette and lighter—the flame flickers to life.
He inhales, the smoke burning its way down his throat. The balcony is quiet, the sounds from inside muffled behind the glass. He closes his eyes and lets the chill seep into his bones.
Except, a moment later, a soft scrape of the door startles him.
He opens his eyes to see Hana stepping out, her breath visible in the cold air.
“Mind if I join you?” she asks.
Megumi lets out a little, noncommittal sound.
She takes a few steps forward, leaning against the railing beside him. “Ozawa says you’re a good guy.” Megumi doesn’t respond. He takes another drag, the cigarette ember glowing red. She shifts closer, her shoulder brushing against his. “I’m starting to think you don’t like me.”
Megumi snorts in surprise. “I don’t really know you.”
“That’s fair,” she says, her voice light. Then she hesitates, her gaze flicking down to his mouth and back up to his eyes. “But I’d like to.”
The meaning is clear—the air between them shifts.
She leans in, her hand grazing his arm, her face tilting toward his. Her breath is warm, laced with the scent of mint. Panic claws up Megumi’s throat. He doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. For a second, he considers letting it happen, letting her lips press against his, allowing himself to disappear into the moment like he did when he thought it’d change him.
But he can’t.
His free hand clenches into a fist in his pocket, the cold metal of the lighter biting into his palm. His voice is a low whisper, rough around the edges. “Don’t.”
She freezes, her eyes wide and confused. “Oh—sorry. I thought—”
“You thought wrong,” he cuts in, the words harsh, a shield to protect something too fragile to expose.
The hurt flickers across her face, but she masks it quickly. She steps back, shoving her hands into her pockets. “Right. My mistake,” she says. “See you inside.”
Megumi stays on the balcony a moment longer, the cold seeping into his bones, numbing the edges of his thoughts. The cigarette burns low between his fingers, the ember a dying glow. He flicks it over the railing, watching it fall and disappear into the night.
When he steps back inside, the warmth of the apartment wraps around him like a suffocating blanket. In the living room, Yuuji stands near the door, his hands shoved into his pockets. Ozawa is laughing softly, her voice carrying an awkward note, while Hana gives a tight, polite smile. They’re bundled in their coats, shoes already on.
“We’re gonna head out,” Ozawa says, her tone light but with a hint of forced cheerfulness. “Thanks for tonight. It was fun.”
Yuuji’s smile is strained, a crack in the usual brightness. “Thanks for coming,” he says, his voice soft. “We’ll do it again sometime.”
Ozawa nods, giving Yuuji a quick hug before turning to Megumi. “Take care, Fushiguro.”
He mutters something that could pass as a goodbye. Hana doesn’t say anything; she just follows Ozawa out the door, the faint click of the latch sealing the silence behind them. The room feels cavernous now, the absence of their voices amplifying the tension. Megumi exhales through his nose, his shoulders tight, the knot in his stomach twisting even tighter.
“Guess that didn’t go as planned,” Yuuji murmurs, his back still to Megumi as he locks the door.
Megumi doesn’t answer. He drops onto the couch, his head falling back against the cushions, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Yuuji turns, hesitates for a moment, then walks over and flops onto the couch beside him. He takes a long breath, his hands clasped loosely between his knees.
“You okay?” Yuuji asks, his voice low.
Megumi closes his eyes. The question scrapes against the raw edges of his thoughts. He doesn’t know how to answer that.
“Fine,” he mutters, the lie automatic.
“Look, if Hana was—I mean if she did something to make you uncomfortable—”
“She didn’t,” Megumi cuts in, the words sharper than he intended. He presses his palms into his eyes, trying to push down the frustration, the overwhelming sense of failure. “It’s not about her.”
Yuuji is quiet for a moment. Then, softly, “Then what is it about?”
The question hangs between them, a thread stretched so tight it’s ready to snap. Megumi’s breath catches in his throat. He wants to say it. He wants to open his mouth and spill everything—the confusion, the longing, the way his heart trips over itself every time Yuuji smiles.
Instead, he drops his hands and stares at the floor. “I don’t know,” he says. “Can we just not talk about it?”
“Well, do you want to drink about it instead?”
Megumi lifts his head, giving Yuuji a sidelong glance, trying to gauge if he’s joking. Yuuji’s lopsided grin meets him, his eyes bright with mischief but also something softer beneath the surface—a quiet kind of care Megumi doesn’t know how to handle.
“Sure,” Megumi mutters. “Why not.”
Yuuji lights up, springing to his feet. “I’ll grab the drinks.”
As he disappears into the kitchen, Megumi leans back onto the couch, exhaling slowly. The tension in his chest doesn’t ease, but the prospect of distraction feels like a lifeline. When Yuuji returns, it’s with a bottle of whiskey and two mismatched glasses.
“This is all I’ve got,” Yuuji says, plopping back down and setting the glasses on the coffee table. He pours a generous amount into each, sliding one toward Megumi. “No complaining.”
Megumi picks up the glass, the amber liquid catching the dim light. He takes a sip, the burn trailing down his throat, grounding him in a way the cold air hadn’t.
Yuuji downs half his glass in one go, wincing. “God, that’s awful.”
“Then why are you drinking it?” Megumi asks, his tone dry.
“Because you look like you need it,” Yuuji grins. “And I’m nothing if not a good friend.”
Megumi rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue. They sit silently for a moment, the whiskey warming Megumi’s insides. Yuuji refills both their glasses without asking, the liquid sloshing slightly as he pours.
The second glass goes down smoother than the first. Yuuji’s cheeks are flushed now, his grin a little looser. Megumi feels the warmth spreading through his limbs, dulling his thoughts. The tension in his shoulders begins to unknot, just a little.
They drink some more, and the room gets fuzzier around the edges. The conversation meanders, touching on old memories and half-formed jokes. Yuuji laughs more freely, his eyes crinkling in the same way Megumi’s always found unfairly charming.
Yuuji’s knee bumps against Megumi’s at some point, and neither of them moves away. The warmth of that slight touch lingers, spreading through Megumi like a slow burn.
“Hey,” Yuuji calls. He swirls the last of his drink in his glass, his gaze unfocused. “Can I ask you something?”
Megumi’s head feels heavy, his thoughts syrupy and slow. “Do I have a choice?”
Yuuji laughs. “Not really.”
Megumi gestures for him to continue, bracing himself.
“What’s it like?” Yuuji asks, his voice soft, curious. “You know, being into guys.”
Megumi’s stomach flips, the warmth of the alcohol suddenly not enough to protect him.
“What kind of question is that?”
“I’m serious,” Yuuji says, his tone earnest now. He shifts closer, his knee pressing more firmly against Megumi’s. “I mean, I get what it’s like to kiss a girl or whatever, but I don’t know. Isn’t it different? Does it feel different?”
Megumi’s stomach twists. He stares at his drink, the amber liquid swirling as he swirls the glass. “It’s not that complicated,” he says, his voice quiet. “Kissing is kissing.”
Yuuji tilts his head, considering this. “But the guy at the gay bar. The tattooed one. He kissed you, right?”
Megumi exhales, the weight of Yuuji’s question pressing against his chest. The memory of the tattooed guy flickers in his mind—a sloppy kiss, too much tongue, and hands that roamed without invitation. It wasn’t just a lousy kiss; it had felt wrong, like wearing someone else’s clothes and pretending they fit.
“He’s not my type,” Megumi says flatly, his fingers tightening around the glass. “Not even close.”
Yuuji watches him intently, his brows furrowing slightly. “Then what is your type?”
Megumi stiffens. He knew the question was coming, but hearing it aloud is like being cornered. His stomach churns, and he takes a long sip of his drink to buy himself time. The whiskey burns but is not enough to dull the rising panic.
“It doesn’t matter, is it?” Megumi asks, his tone sharper than intended. He regrets it immediately, but Yuuji doesn’t flinch. Instead, he leans closer, his expression open, curious, and far too earnest for Megumi to handle.
“Maybe it does,” Yuuji says softly, his voice barely more than a whisper. His shoulder presses into Megumi’s. “You never talk about this stuff, Megumi. And I—” He stops, swallowing thickly. “I just want to understand,” he finishes, his voice tight. “I want to understand you.”
The words echo in Megumi’s mind, a quiet plea he isn’t sure how to answer. He wants to laugh, to scoff, to say something cutting and deflective, but the vulnerability in Yuuji’s eyes stops him cold. Instead, he grips the glass in his hand tighter, the cool press of it grounding him just enough to keep him from unravelling completely.
“You don’t need to understand,” Megumi says. “It’s not important.”
Yuuji shakes his head, his gaze unwavering. “It is to me.”
The sincerity in Yuuji’s voice twists something inside Megumi, a tangle of longing. He looks away, fixing his gaze on his drink, the faint clink of the glass as he sets it down on the table.
“It’s not that different,” Megumi murmurs, his words almost swallowed by the silence. “Kissing, touching—it’s the same no matter who it’s with. It doesn’t matter.”
Yuuji shifts beside him, the couch dipping under his weight. “But it does matter,” he says, leaning closer, his voice low and insistent. “It’s not just about the kiss, is it? It’s about who you’re with. Who you want.”
Megumi’s breath catches, his hands curling into fists in his lap. The ache in his chest swells, raw and consuming. He doesn’t want to answer. Doesn’t want to give Yuuji the truth when it feels like baring himself completely.
Instead, he forces a small, bitter laugh. “You’re overthinking it. Close your eyes, and it could be anyone.”
The words taste like ash in his mouth, but he says them anyway, hoping they’ll be enough to push Yuuji away. To create a distance between them so he can survive. But Yuuji doesn’t move. If anything, he leans closer.
“Is that what you do?” he asks, his voice low and far too dangerous. “When you kiss someone, do you pretend they’re someone else?”
Megumi’s heart pounds painfully in his chest, and he clenches his jaw, refusing to meet Yuuji’s gaze. “Sometimes,” he admits, the word barely audible.
The room feels impossibly tiny. Yuuji’s hand brushes against Megumi’s, tentative and searching, and Megumi freezes, his breath hitching.
“Show me,” Yuuji whispers, the words trembling on the edge of vulnerability and something Megumi can’t name. “Show me what it feels like.”
“You don’t know what you’re asking,” Megumi whispers, desperate.
Yuuji’s eyes are wide and vulnerable. It makes Megumi’s throat tighten. “Maybe not,” Yuuji admits, his breath shaky. “But I want to.”
It’s those words that finally break Megumi. For once, he lets go. He lets himself want, lets himself take. His eyes flutter shut, and when his lips finally brush against Yuuji’s, the world stops spinning.
Megumi’s stomach twists. He’s been waiting for this. God, he’s been waiting for this since he was fifteen. Since the realisation of his feelings clawed its way into his chest, and refused to leave.
It’s tentative at first, a whisper of contact, like testing the edge of a blade. Yuuji’s lips are warm and slightly parted, his breath mingling with Megumi’s. Nothing but a press; still, it sends a bolt of electricity through Megumi’s veins. His hands tremble as they lift, hovering near Yuuji’s jaw, uncertain if he’s allowed to touch.
Is this happening? The thought flares and fades, replaced by a rush of something hotter, more desperate. He’s imagined this a thousand times, but none of those fantasies prepared him for how Yuuji feels, alive and real under his fingertips.
It’s too much and not enough, and Megumi’s chest tightens with the fear that it will disappear, that it’s a cruel trick his mind is playing on him.
His heart hammers painfully, each beat reminding him how much he’s wanted this. How many nights he spent staring at the ceiling, wondering what it would feel like to close the gap between them, to let his guard down, just once. To taste the impossible. And now, with Yuuji’s lips against his, it feels like he’s drowning in the very thing he’s spent years trying to deny.
Yuuji lets out a shaky breath, and his hand comes up, trembling slightly as it cups Megumi’s cheek. Something snaps, then. The kiss changes, turning messy and urgent. It’s clumsy, filled with too much want and not enough sense, but Megumi can’t bring himself to stop.
When Yuuji pulls back, his breath is ragged, his eyes wide and searching. “Megumi,” he starts, his voice breaking slightly. “I—I don’t—”
“You can pretend,” Megumi interrupts, his own voice shaking. “Close your eyes. Pretend I’m someone else.”
The words cut deeper than Megumi expected, leaving a hollow ache in their wake. But he doesn’t care. He can’t care, not when Yuuji looks at him like that like he’s teetering on the edge of something he can’t take back.
Yuuji swallows hard, his throat bobbing. He closes his eyes, his hands trembling as they rest on Megumi’s shoulders. “Okay,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. “Okay.”
And Megumi lets him. Lets him pretend, even as it tears him apart from the inside. Because this is all he’ll ever have—a fleeting moment wrapped in someone else’s lie.