Archive of Our Own

Yahaba’s neck is pretty.

Kyoutani doesn’t know when he started thinking that. He can vaguely remember how (sort of) but either way, he accepted the thought.

Truly and firmly felt that yes… Yahaba’s neck is very pretty.

Kyoutani was serving out his detention for what felt like the hundredth time that semester. That’s where he first heard it. Some girls sitting nearby, rating their classmates’ looks like they were filling out a group project.

“Who's next? Yahaba-kun?” If Kyoutani had dog ears, they would’ve twitched at the sound of the others name but otherwise he remained seemingly uninterested, his head still shoved into his elbow as he faked sleep at his desk.

“He’s kind of plain but if you took a good look at his face then he’s actually kind of… pretty?”

“Pretty?” the other girl repeated, like she couldn’t believe it.

“Yeah, pretty! like Oikawa-san is drop-dead-gorgeous but Iwaizumi-san is like-a-bag-of-takis-hot but how Hanamaki-san is evil-cute-jokester but Matsukawa-san is bad-boy-next-door.. y’know?”

Kyoutani didn’t get girls. What the hell did any of that even mean?

“Why does that make sense?” She understood?! Yeah, he really didn’t get girls. 

He stopped listening after that. Actually fell asleep for real, just to kill time.

But now, a few nights later and stretched out on his bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, he thought about that conversation.

Yahaba is pretty.

Yahaba’s hands are pretty.

But his neck is particularly pretty.

Pale, but always dusted faint pink. Different from his own natural tan. The kind of skin that looked like it blushed easily, like it held warmth. His neck was slim but defined, framed by sharp collarbones that sat neatly on narrow shoulders. There was a clean curve from his jaw to his clavicle that Kyoutani kept noticing in stupid places like at practice, in the locker room, when Yahaba tipped his head back to drink from his water bottle.

It wasn’t a weird thought. Not really.

Just… specific.

And it wouldn’t leave him alone.

He didn’t even like Yahaba.

He didn’t.

Yahaba was bossy. Uptight. Always telling him to "get it together" like he wasn’t trying. Like Kyoutani didn’t already know he was the weird, angry one. Yahaba didn’t even yell, he’d just look at him. Like he was disappointed. Like he expected better.

And then later he’d say, "Good job on that last block," all calm and composed, and Kyoutani would short-circuit. He’d grunt something back, eyes fixed anywhere but Yahaba’s neck, which was really unfairly visible when he wore the team jacket unzipped like that.

It made no sense.

Why his brain kept going back to the line of his throat. The way he’d stretch before games, arms up, jaw tilted, collar pulled wide just enough to show the soft dip between his neck and shoulder. Or how sometimes, when Yahaba got tired, his voice would drop, and the sound would settle right in that same damn spot like it had a home there.

It was annoying.

And now it was everywhere.

On the court. In the showers. Walking home. He’d catch flashes of that neck in his mind like it was burned behind his eyelids.

He tried to fixate on something else. Anyone else.

Oikawa was loud and distracting. Hanamaki was weirdly flexible. Iwaizumi had arms. Big ones. The kind that could punch someone through a wall.

And none of that mattered. Because Yahaba would use a headband and push back the fringe of his honey brown hair, exposing more of his face and the soft nape of his neck, and Kyoutani would feel something traitorous twist in his stomach.

Something warm.

Something gross.

He groaned and dragged a pillow over his face.

“You’re so stupid,” he muttered into the cotton. "It’s just a neck."

Just a neck.

But the thing is- he knew what it felt like to be looked at like you were trouble.

But Yahaba didn’t look at him like that.

Yahaba looked at him like he could do better.

And Kyoutani didn’t hate it.

He just didn’t know what the hell to do about it.

Life, unfortunately, didn’t wait for him to figure it out.

They were assigned a project.

Not a big one. Just some dumb presentation they had to do in pairs for Modern Lit.

Kyoutani would’ve preferred anyone else. Or no one. But of course- of course he ended up paired with Yahaba.

They were supposed to meet at the library, but Yahaba texted last-minute.

[come over. my place’s quieter.]

Kyoutani didn’t even know Yahaba had his number.

He showed up half an hour later with his hair still wet from practice and his notes crumpled into his jacket pocket. Yahaba’s house was nice. Too nice. Clean, quiet, respectful in that way old wooden houses always felt. When Yahaba led him up the stairs and slid open the door to his room, Kyoutani felt like he was stepping into a catalog.

Tatami mats. Books lined up on a shelf. Bed on the floor but neatly made, blanket folded over just so. Warm light. Notebooks stacked. Scented with something like cedar and soap.

It felt like Yahaba. Controlled. Soft. Quietly pretty.

Kyoutani immediately felt out of place.

“Sorry,” Yahaba said, toeing off his house slippers and motioning for Kyoutani to sit at the low table in the middle of the room. “I was gonna change out of my uniform.”

“‘S fine,” Kyoutani muttered, dropping into a cross-legged sprawl and pulling out his mess of notes.

He tried not to notice.

Tried really hard.

But Yahaba turned away and casually peeled off his button-down, revealing the smooth curve of his back and the faint dip of his spine. He didn’t rush, didn’t think twice about it. Just stretched his arms overhead as he pulled on a loose gray tee, the hem catching briefly on the slope of his shoulder, dragging up to reveal-

Kyoutani looked down so fast he almost headbutted the table.

He swallowed hard and stared at his notebook like it held the secrets of the universe. His handwriting looked like a drunk spider ran through ink. He couldn’t breathe right.

When Yahaba sat across from him, Kyoutani refused to look up.

“So, I was thinking,” Yahaba said, perfectly calm, perfectly normal, “we could split the analysis. I'll cover the author's background and theme development, and you can take the character arc.”

Kyoutani grunted.

Yahaba tapped his pen against his lips. “Unless you wanted to switch?”

Kyoutani shook his head. “Yours is fine.”

It was all fine. Everything was fine.

Except Yahaba’s shirt was a little too loose around the collar. And the warm light made the shadows along his throat dip just a little deeper. And Kyoutani’s eyes kept dragging up, flicking to the pink of skin just barely visible at the collar.

And then-

“Are you even listening?” Yahaba asked, soft but firm.

Kyoutani blinked up at him. “Huh?”

Yahaba tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “You’ve been looking at my neck for, like, five minutes.”

Kyoutani’s heart dropped straight into his stomach.

“I-” He opened his mouth. Closed it. Flushed. “I wasn’t-”

Yahaba leaned forward just a little, elbows on the table, chin in his hand.

“So?” he asked, voice low. Teasing. “Do I have something on it? Or are you just that into collarbones?”

Kyoutani wanted to die.

Absolutely perish.

He could feel the burn crawling up the back of his neck, across his ears, down his spine. He looked away fast, muttering, “Shut up,” but it came out weird and breathless.

Yahaba smiled. Small, smug, and impossibly gentle.

“Okay,” he said, flipping a page in his notebook. “You’re lucky I like being looked at.”

Kyoutani didn’t respond.

Because he couldn’t. Because he was malfunctioning. Because Yahaba was pretty. Yahaba’s neck was pretty. Yahaba’s room was pretty. And apparently Yahaba knew.

Kyoutani dropped his face into his notebook.

This project was going to kill him.

Kyoutani barely spoke for the rest of the study session.

He couldn’t.

Every time he tried to get his head back in the project, his brain short-circuited. Yahaba’s pen tapping. Yahaba’s fingers twisting through his hair while he read. Yahaba’s laugh, quiet and sudden, like a surprise gift to himself when he found a quote he liked. None of it was extraordinary. None of it should’ve mattered.

But it all did.

Because now it wasn’t just about Yahaba’s neck.

Now it was Yahaba.

All of him.

The way he furrowed his brow when he was concentrating. The way he spoke like he had something to prove, like he hated not being taken seriously. The way his room felt lived-in but peaceful, like someone actually thought about what colors looked nice together. The way he let silence settle without rushing to fill it.

Kyoutani didn’t know when that shift had happened.

But it did.

Somewhere between “your part’s fine” and “you’re lucky I like being looked at,” something had clicked inside him.

And now he couldn’t un-click it.

Couldn’t go back to seeing Yahaba as just some annoying teammate who yelled when he was late to practice like he was the coach or rolled his eyes when he missed a block. Couldn’t pretend it was just about collarbones and soft skin and delicate lines of bone.

He noticed him. Yahaba.

And the worst part?

He had no defense against him.

Kyoutani had built his whole life around bite. Around bristle and bark and bare teeth. Around keeping people back with narrowed eyes and growled answers and fists curled like threats. It worked. People didn’t get too close. Didn’t expect much from him. Gave up before it got messy.

But Yahaba didn’t flinch.

Yahaba stood his ground. He got mad, sure, but he never backed down. And he never looked afraid of Kyoutani.

He looked at him like he expected more.

Like maybe there was more.

And Kyoutani didn’t know how to snarl at that.

Didn’t want to.

He kept his head down when he left Yahaba’s house, muttered a gruff, “Later,” and shoved his hands into his pockets before Yahaba could respond.

He walked fast.

He didn’t look back.

But all the way home, his stomach churned with something sharp and unfamiliar. Something he couldn’t growl away. Something that made his chest feel too tight and his head too loud.

Yahaba is pretty.

Yahaba is smart.

Yahaba is kind in the way that wasn’t soft, but sturdy. Firm. Real.

Yahaba saw through him.

And Kyoutani didn’t want to be seen.

But more than that… he didn’t want Yahaba to stop looking.

He didn’t sleep much that night.

Not because of the project- he barely remembered half of what they’d even covered. It was the room. The light. Yahaba’s voice. That damn moment.

"You’re lucky I like being looked at."

Kyoutani turned over in bed and pressed his face into his pillow, groaning quietly. He was never gonna live that down. Yahaba hadn’t even sounded mad, he sounded amused. Like he’d won something.

And maybe he had.

By the next day, Kyoutani had almost convinced himself it wasn’t a big deal. That Yahaba wouldn’t bring it up again. Maybe they’d just message their parts to each other and call it a day.

But then his phone buzzed.

[hey. are you free tomorrow after practice? we should get the rest of the project done.]

He stared at the message for a long time.

No teasing. No follow-up. No neck references.

Just… normal. Yahaba-normal.

Which, honestly, made it worse.

He answered after fifteen minutes. Just one word.

[yeah.]

The second time he went to Yahaba’s house, it felt different.

Not just because he knew what the room looked like now, or because he brought a better copy of his notes. It felt different because he knew exactly what not to look at.

Which, of course, made it impossible not to.

Yahaba was already sitting cross-legged at the table when Kyoutani arrived, hair loose and curling a little at the ends, dressed in a thin white tee and soft blue shorts. He looked like a summer day. Easy and warm and impossible to hold.

Kyoutani dropped his bag and tried to sit like he wasn’t a live wire in a sweatshirt.

“You remembered your notes this time,” Yahaba said, smirking just a little.

“Shut up,” Kyoutani muttered automatically, but there was no bite behind it. Not even a bark.

They worked quietly for a while. Yahaba talked through his outline, pointed at his notes, scrolled through reference links on his laptop. Kyoutani nodded where he was supposed to. Wrote where he was supposed to.

He kept his eyes on the paper.

Until Yahaba shifted to grab something behind him, and the collar of his shirt dipped forward, just slightly- just enough and Kyoutani’s mouth moved before his brain could catch up.

“Your neck’s really fuckin’ distracting.”

Silence.

Then:

“…What?” Yahaba said, laughing but also clearly shocked.

Kyoutani’s eyes went wide like he’d been shot. He looked down. Then up. Then buried his face in both hands like he could smother the moment to death.

“I didn’t mean to say that out loud,” he said, voice muffled.

Yahaba just… looked at him.

Stared for a second like he was trying to decide if Kyoutani was serious.

And then something flickered in his expression. Amusement, maybe. Or something else. Something unreadable.

“Okay,” Yahaba said eventually, soft and smug. “That’s… surprisingly honest of you.”

Kyoutani didn’t move. He was one stiff gust of wind away from dying on the tatami.

Yahaba tilted his head a little. “Is it just my neck?”

Kyoutani groaned, slumping fully forward against the table. “Don’t.”

Yahaba didn’t press. Not really. Just let the silence bloom again, this time looser around the edges.

“Okay,” he said again. “We’ll pretend you didn’t say anything, if you want.”

Kyoutani didn’t answer.

But his heart was beating loud enough that Yahaba might’ve heard it.

Kyoutani didn’t text him after that.

Didn’t want to risk it.

Didn’t want to see his name light up his screen and feel that twist in his chest. He figured they’d done enough of the project anyway. Yahaba would probably polish the rest himself. He was that kind of guy. Efficient. Self-sufficient.

Beautiful.

Fuck.

The dream came two nights later.

It wasn’t vivid at first, just light and color. The golden glow of Yahaba’s room. The curve of a shoulder under soft fabric. Pale skin flushed faintly pink, like he’d just stepped out of a hot bath. Yahaba stood in the dream without a sound, wearing nothing but that loose gray shirt from that last last time, collar pulled wide, slipping off one shoulder.

His lips were parted, eyes half-lidded, glinting like wet honey.

But it was the look that undid Kyoutani. Mischief curling at the corners of his mouth, the kind of expression that said: I know what you’re thinking. I want you to think it.

Kyoutani woke up with his sheets tangled around his legs and his heart punching through his ribs.

He stared at the ceiling in the dark, breathless and wrecked.

He didn’t go back to sleep.

He avoided Yahaba at school. Didn’t look his way during practice. Stopped standing near him in water breaks, pretended not to hear when he called out rotations, focused so hard on the floor he gave himself a headache.

It didn’t help.

Because when Yahaba texted again..

[hey. last bit of the project. come by after practice?]

He couldn’t say no.

And when he got to Yahaba’s room, it was like stepping back into that dream.

Not exact. But close enough.

Yahaba’s hair was damp, loose strands clinging to his cheeks. He wore another too-big shirt, another white one, soft and slipping slightly off one shoulder, revealing a pale stretch of collarbone. His shorts were shorter this time. His bare, smooth, hairless and pale legs folded casually under him as he sat back against the wall.

“Hey,” he said easily, like everything was normal.

Kyoutani didn’t answer.

Didn’t trust himself to.

He dropped his bag and sat like he was made of stone.

Yahaba tilted his head, eyes scanning him. Calm. Observant.

And then he smiled. Not polite, not neutral, but smug. Playful. Sharp at the corners.

He knew.

“Something wrong?” he asked lightly, almost sing-song.

Kyoutani looked at him, really looked at him, and felt heat crawl up his throat.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” he muttered.

Yahaba raised an eyebrow. “Doing what?”

Kyoutani swallowed. “This.” He gestured, vague and defensive. “The shirt. The shorts. Sitting like that.”

Yahaba leaned forward, resting his chin in his hand, eyes glinting with something that made Kyoutani’s spine stiffen.

“So you were looking.”

Fuck.

Kyoutani scrubbed a hand down his face. “You’re so-”

“What?” Yahaba asked, voice low and teasing now, warm with something else beneath it.

Kyoutani didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Because Yahaba was pale and soft and blushed in places he hadn’t even touched , and he was looking at Kyoutani like he wanted to be seen. Like he’d been waiting for it.

And Kyoutani couldn’t unsee him.

Couldn’t go back.

The night after the second study session, Kyoutani dreamt of Yahaba again.

Same as last time, Yahaba wasn’t saying anything. Just sitting at the edge of his bed, bathed in moonlight, one knee tucked up to his chest, watching him. His shirt slipped off one shoulder again. Lazy and deliberate, the way it always seemed to be in Kyoutani’s head.

His eyes were heavy-lidded, lips parted.

Waiting.

When Kyoutani woke up, he was already flushed.

He didn’t look at Yahaba the next day. Not in the halls. Not in class. Not during warm-ups.

But he could feel him.

Eyes dragging across the back of his neck. A faint nudge during drills. A too-casual lean during water breaks. Yahaba wasn’t saying anything. Wasn’t doing anything, really.

But Kyoutani could feel him circling.

Like they were orbiting some invisible point between them, just waiting to see who’d fall into it first.

The day of the presentation came faster than he expected.

They didn’t rehearse. Not really. Just decided to wing it. Somehow, that worked.

Yahaba opened the talk with confidence, walking the class through their topic. His voice was steady, his phrasing sharp. He spoke like he’d rehearsed it in his sleep. Kyoutani followed up with his section. More blunt, less polished, but surprisingly focused. Yahaba glanced at him mid-sentence and gave a tiny nod, like yes, exactly that.

They didn’t touch. Didn’t even stand that close.

But something flickered between them. A rhythm. An understanding. A wire connecting them in the space between words.

When they finished, the room was quiet for a second too long.

Their teacher cleared his throat, then said, “You two work really well together. Good pacing. Balanced focus. Thoughtful insights.”

Yahaba bowed politely.

Kyoutani just grunted and looked down at his hands.

They sat back down, but the comment echoed.

You two work really well together.

Yahaba nudged his foot under the table.

Just once.

Barely noticeable.

Kyoutani didn’t move.

And yet again… that bastard life was out to get him.

It wasn’t supposed to happen.

They were supposed to be done with the project. No more meetings. No more sitting too close or watching Yahaba’s collar slip off his shoulder like it wanted to be seen.

But somehow (“somehow”) Yahaba ended up in Kyoutani’s room.

“Just for a second,” he’d said, after practice. “I forgot my umbrella and it’s gonna dump. Let me hang out ‘til it passes?”

Kyoutani could’ve said no.

Should’ve, maybe.

But he just grunted and said, “Fine,” and led the walk to his house in silence.

Kyoutani’s room was... his.

Unapologetically.

Bed never made. Blankets a tangled mass. Clothes scattered across the floor in a way that only made sense to him. His desk was a lost cause, layered with open notebooks, empty ramen cups, cracked pens, a pair of dumbbells, and an energy drink so old it had probably become a science experiment.

Posters his mom wasn’t thrilled about lined the walls. Half sports stuff, half bands with names that looked like fonts ripped from crime scenes. She especially wasn’t happy with the playboy posters behind his door. Somewhere under his bed were items that, if pulled out and examined, might spark a legal conversation.

Kyoutani didn’t usually let people in here.

Didn’t want them to see this much of him.

But Yahaba stepped in without hesitation.

No judgment. No flinch. He just kicked off his shoes, muttered a quiet, “Smells like gym socks and Axe in here,” and flopped face-first onto Kyoutani’s bed like it was his own.

Kyoutani blinked. “You can sit in the chair.”

“That chair has three hoodies and a packet of seaweed on it.”

“…Yeah.”

Yahaba rolled onto his back, arms behind his head, eyes on the ceiling. “You weren’t kidding when you said it wasn’t clean.”

Kyoutani’s throat tightened. “If you hate it, you can wait downstairs.”

“I didn’t say I hated it,” Yahaba replied, calm and casual. “It’s very you.”

That made Kyoutani pause.

Very him.

Rough around the edges. A little overwhelming. Loud. Too much.

Yahaba was still here.

Comfortable.

Like he belonged.

Kyoutani sat at the foot of the bed, careful not to jostle him. He didn’t say anything for a while. Neither of them did.

The storm outside started slow. Just a few drops against the roof, a low roll of thunder in the distance.

“You ever have a room to yourself growing up?” Yahaba asked suddenly, voice quieter now.

Kyoutani shook his head. “Not until middle school. Shared with my brother.”

“Messier than you?”

Kyoutani snorted. “He made me look organized.”

Yahaba hummed. “I didn’t share. But my mom made me keep it spotless. Said it reflected my mind.”

Kyoutani glanced over his shoulder.

Yahaba was still lying there, fingers fiddling with a fray in the blanket.

“And what does my room reflect?” he asked, trying to make it sound like a joke.

Yahaba turned his head. Their eyes met.

“I don’t know,” he said softly. “But it feels honest.”

Kyoutani’s chest ached and he didn’t know why.

He should’ve turned away, should’ve focused on his phone or the muted TV in the corner or literally anything else but Yahaba had dozed off on his bed sometime during the storm, and now he was lying there, curled slightly on his side, fingers tucked beneath his cheek like something out of a daydream Kyoutani hadn’t meant to have.

The room felt too quiet.

The kind of quiet that presses up against your ribs and makes it hard to breathe. 

Rain kept drumming against the window, and Yahaba’s hair was tousled across his face. His lashes were light and long and unmoving. There was the slow rise and fall of his chest. The occasional shift of his leg. The dip of the mattress from where his weight still lingered.

And Kyoutani just-

Couldn’t stop looking.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

He stared like he was trying to memorize something. Or maybe unlearn something. Maybe if he looked long enough, the strange feeling behind his ribs would go away. 

Maybe he’d understand why Yahaba didn’t look out of place in his mess of a room. Why Yahaba had looked at him earlier like he knew things but like he’d figured something out that Kyoutani hadn’t even admitted to himself.

Yahaba shifted in his sleep. A quiet exhale escaped his lips.

His shirt had ridden up slightly, exposing a pale strip of skin above his waistband.

Kyoutani looked away. Then looked back.

Then cursed under his breath and let his head fall back against the wall.

This was bad.

This was bad.

Because it wasn’t just Yahaba’s mouth he kept noticing. Or his collarbones. Or his goddamn laugh. It was everything now. His presence. His way of leaning close without flinching. His hands, the shape of them. The way he always seemed to know what Kyoutani meant even when he didn’t say anything at all.

And now he was sleeping here, in Kyoutani’s bed, in Kyoutani’s space, like it was nothing. Like it didn’t mean anything.

But Kyoutani was starting to think it did.

The rain didn’t let up.

Yahaba didn’t stir.

And Kyoutani, who should’ve been relieved to finally have a second alone, found himself standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, jaw tight, heart louder than he wanted to admit.

He glanced at Yahaba again. Still asleep.

Peaceful in a way Kyoutani didn’t think people could be around him. Let alone in his bed.

It made his throat tight.

So he turned away.

And picked up a hoodie off the floor.

He didn’t mean to. It wasn’t some big decision. But the hoodie went into the hamper, and then his socks. And then the wrappers by the desk. And before he could stop himself, he was stacking old textbooks, folding shirts, tossing empty cans in the trash quietly, almost reverently, as if any loud noise would break whatever fragile moment this was.

Like he was trying to make the room worthy of being shared.

At one point he found Yahaba’s jacket draped over the chair and paused, staring down at it. He picked it up carefully, fingers brushing the sleeve, and laid it neatly over the back of the desk instead. Yahaba’s scent lingered faintly. It was clean, warm, and familiar in a way Kyoutani didn’t want to name.

His chest ached worse now.

When he turned back toward the bed, the room looked… better. Not spotless, but better. Lived-in, not wrecked. And Yahaba was still there. Unmoved, soft around the edges, hair curling slightly over his temple.

He stood at the doorway for a long second, arms crossed, watching.

He didn’t understand it.

This strange sense of calm that came with Yahaba in his space.

The low hum in his bones.

The need to make room.

He didn’t know what to do with it, so he sat back down in the corner of the bed and stayed quiet. The only sounds were the occasional shift of the sheets and the whisper of rain tapping on the glass.

Between staring blankly at his wall and his internal spiral the rain had picked up. Harder now, relentless against the roof, drumming steady like a pulse.

Kyoutani grabbed his phone from the floor, thumbed through a few old playlists without thinking. His fingers hovered, then tapped on something low and rhythmic. Nothing too soft, nothing too loud. Just something with weight.

The kind of music that filled a room without needing permission.

Bass like breath.

By the second track, Yahaba stirred.

Kyoutani froze.

It started slow. Just a shift under the blankets, a quiet sigh. Then a soft rustle, the faint drag of fingers through tousled hair.

Yahaba blinked blearily up at the ceiling, lashes stuck together in the corners, lips parted with sleep.

“…You’re playing music?” he mumbled, voice rough and drowsy.

Kyoutani’s throat tightened. “Storm’s loud.”

“Mm,” Yahaba hummed, eyes falling shut again. “Thought it was in my dream.”

He didn’t move right away. Just stayed curled on his side, one leg drawn up, hair messy and shirt rumpled in a way that made Kyoutani want to walk directly into traffic.

The room was warm. Too warm.

After a moment, Yahaba stretched slowly and full-bodied, arms overhead, shirt riding up again just slightly.

Kyoutani looked away like it would save him. It wouldn’t.

“...Shit,” Yahaba muttered, reaching for his phone. He squinted at the time, then at the window. The rain had gotten worse.

“Everything okay?” Kyoutani asked, trying to sound normal.

Yahaba was already typing something out. “Just texting my parents. If I head home now, I’ll be soaked before the corner.”

Kyoutani nodded once. “You can crash here.”

Yahaba looked up. Not surprised. Not smug. Just… calm.

“You sure?”

Kyoutani shrugged. “Not kicking you out into a typhoon.”

Yahaba smiled. Just a little. That soft, closed-lip kind of smile that felt too real. “Thanks.”

There was a pause. A long one.

Then Yahaba sat up. Hair falling over his eyes, shirt askew, sleep still clinging to him in waves.

Kyoutani stood up fast, turning toward his dresser like he needed a reason to move. “You probably want to shower.”

“Wouldn’t say no.”

Kyoutani tossed him a pair of loose black sweats and a black tee, something soft and worn from years of use.

Yahaba caught them, brows lifting. “You sure these won’t swallow me?”

Kyoutani didn’t answer.

Because yes, obviously. Yahaba was smaller than him. These would hang off his shoulders, bunch at his waist, ride low on his hips-

He was going to die.

He turned sharply and muttered, “Bathroom’s across the hall.”

Yahaba disappeared for 15 minutes. Kyoutani sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clenched together so tight his knuckles cracked.

And then Yahaba came back.

And fuck.

The shirt did swallow him. The neck stretched wide enough that it slipped off one shoulder, sleeves hanging loose down his arms. The sweats pooled at his ankles. He was tugging at the waistband idly, trying to get them to sit right.

Kyoutani couldn’t look away.

“Your clothes are way too much.” Yahaba said, amused.

“Because I’m not built like a damn twig,” Kyoutani shot back.

Yahaba laughed, low and a little raspy from sleep. “You’re not built like a person. You’re built like a myth.”

Kyoutani’s ears turned red. “Shut up.”

Yahaba padded barefoot across the room and dropped onto the bed again, closer this time. Not touching. But close.

The music kept playing. The rain didn’t stop.

And Yahaba looked so good it hurt.

Too soft. Too easy. Too comfortable in Kyoutani’s space.

Kyoutani swallowed hard. “You can take the bed.”

Yahaba turned his head. “You’re acting like I’m not already on it.”

“You know what I mean.”

Yahaba smirked. “Relax. It’s big enough.”

That was debatable.

But Kyoutani didn’t argue. He slid under the blanket, heart thudding, and kept to his side.

Close.

Too close.

Yahaba didn’t push. Didn’t say anything else.

He just lay there in Kyoutani’s clothes, smelling like Kyoutani’s room, and fit like he’d been here a hundred times before.

And Kyoutani couldn’t breathe right.

They lay side by side for a long time.

Not touching. Not talking.

Just listening.

The rain pounded against the window like it had something to prove. The music drifted through the room, low and sultry, bass deep enough to feel in their chests. Somewhere in the middle of it all, Yahaba exhaled slowly and let the side of his knee brush against Kyoutani’s under the blanket.

It wasn’t on purpose.

Kyoutani told himself it wasn’t on purpose.

Yahaba didn’t move away.

And Kyoutani was losing it.

He stared at the ceiling like it might offer him a way out, jaw tight, fists clenched under the blanket. His thoughts weren’t just spiraling- they were free-falling. Crashing into every glance, every dream, every soft fucking shirt that kept sliding off Yahaba’s shoulder like it had a vendetta.

He was trying.

He really was.

But Yahaba shifted slightly, sighing again, and his thigh pressed against Kyoutani’s for half a second too long.

And it snapped.

Kyoutani’s voice came out low. Strained.

“…What are we doing?”

Yahaba turned his head. Not startled. Just quiet. “What?”

Kyoutani didn’t look at him.

“Right now. This. You-” He hesitated, ran a hand across his head. “You’re in my bed. In my clothes. We’re lying here like-”

He broke off. Bit down hard on the words.

Yahaba watched him. Eyes unreadable in the dim light.

“Like what?” he asked, soft.

Kyoutani’s jaw clenched. “Like we’re something.”

The silence stretched. Longer than before.

Yahaba didn’t answer right away. Just blinked slowly.

Then, gently: “Aren’t we?”

Kyoutani turned to him, finally, eyes sharp with something almost desperate. “I don’t know. I don’t. You’re here, and I’m trying not to say something fucking stupid and ruin it, but you keep- you’re -” He stopped. Exhaled shakily. “You look good in my clothes.”

That made Yahaba smile. Small. Real. “You just noticed?”

Kyoutani groaned and shoved his face into the pillow. “You’re the worst.”

Yahaba laughed quietly and warm, the kind of sound that settled right under Kyoutani’s heart and stayed.

He tugged the blanket higher, scooting just a little closer, until their arms brushed.

“I’m not trying to mess with you,” Yahaba said, tone softer now. “I just… wanted to see if you’d say anything first.”

Kyoutani peeked out from under the pillow. “…You’re evil.”

Yahaba smiled again. “A little.”

The rain hit hard.

The room stayed warm.

And Kyoutani… who’d spent his whole life hiding behind scowls and silence, reached across the small space between them and let the backs of his fingers brush against Yahaba’s arm.

Just once.

And Yahaba didn’t pull away.

If anything, he shifted just slightly closer than before. His shoulder pressed against Kyoutani’s now, solid and warm beneath the blanket.

Kyoutani’s fingers twitched.

He didn’t move them. Didn’t move at all.

“Is this okay?” Yahaba asked, barely above a whisper.

Kyoutani swallowed. Nodded once. “Yeah.”

Yahaba turned onto his side, facing him fully now. The room was dim but not dark, just enough golden lamplight to catch the shape of his jaw, the soft part of his lips, the fall of hair over his brow.

“Good,” he said, voice still hushed. “Because I’m tired of pretending I don’t notice when you look at me like that.”

Kyoutani froze.

“Like what,” he said, because he had to say something.

Yahaba smiled. It was small, smug, and soft. “Like you want to memorize me.”

Kyoutani’s breath caught in his throat. He didn’t deny it. Couldn’t.

Yahaba shifted again, slow and careful, and Kyoutani felt it when Yahaba’s knee bumped his thigh under the blanket.

Then his hand. Light, hesitant. Resting on Kyoutani’s stomach, just above the hem of his shirt.

“Yahaba.”

“I’m not doing anything,” Yahaba said, teasing but gentle. “Not unless you want me to.”

Kyoutani stared at him, wide-eyed. “You’re literally climbing on top of me.”

“I am not!” Yahaba started laughing until Kyoutani moved back just slightly to make space, and Yahaba, perhaps testing him, moved forward again.

There wasn’t much room. Not with the blanket half-tangled between them and Kyoutani stiff as a board, breath shallow. Yahaba shifted again, one leg sliding over Kyoutani’s, weight slowly settling against his thighs.

Then both knees on either side.

Straddling.

Lap.

“Oh my god,” Kyoutani muttered, hands gripping the blanket like it might anchor him to earth. “You are trying to kill me.”

Yahaba tilted his head, all faux-innocence and heavy-lidded eyes. “I’m just trying to get comfortable. Your bed’s kind of small.”

“It’s not that small.”

“You’re kind of big.”

“Yahaba.”

And there it was.

That shift.

The air between them got heavier. The room smaller. Yahaba was still smiling, but it wasn’t smug anymore. It was something else. Something quieter. More vulnerable.

“What are we doing, Kyoutani?” he said, voice lower now, steadier.

Kyoutani stared up at him. His hands hovered at Yahaba’s hips. Not touching. Not yet.

“I don’t know,” he said, honest to a fault. “But I don’t want it to stop.”

Yahaba’s expression softened. Like he’d been waiting for that.

And when he leaned forward, slow and deliberate, bringing their faces closer, breath warm against Kyoutani’s jaw-

He whispered, “Then don’t stop me.”

Kyoutani didn’t.

He couldn’t.

Because Yahaba was in his lap, shirt sliding off one shoulder, mouth inches from his, looking at him like he wanted to be wanted.

And Kyoutani had never wanted anything more.

The music shifted.

A low pulse of sound, slow and deliberate.

The first few notes of “Nervous” by The Neighbourhood slid into the room like a secret. It was gritty and slow and so stupidly perfect that Kyoutani almost laughed.

Almost.

But Yahaba shifted in his lap, thighs tightening around his hips slightly, and all the breath in Kyoutani’s chest left at once.

Yahaba was close. Too close. His hair was a soft halo that smelled like cedar and something expensive. His lips parted like he was about to say something but then didn’t.

Kyoutani’s hands, traitorous and slow, moved without permission.

One slid up to Yahaba’s waist, hesitant, resting just above the curve of his hip. The other hovered near his thigh, fingers flexing slightly as if afraid to settle.

“You’re shaking,” Yahaba whispered.

“I’m not,” Kyoutani lied.

Yahaba smiled. “You are.”

Kyoutani dragged his eyes up, and-

Fuck.

Yahaba looked at him like he’d never seen anything more unfairly attractive in his life.

His cheeks were flushed, eyes half-lidded, lips wet and parted like he’d been caught staring because he had been.

“God, you’re so-” Yahaba cut himself off, brow furrowed slightly, like the rest of the thought short-circuited his brain. “You don’t even know, do you?”

Kyoutani blinked. “Know what?”

Yahaba just shook his head, breath catching again as Kyoutani’s thumb brushed bare skin under the hem of the borrowed shirt.

“That you look like this. That you move like this. Touch like this.”

Kyoutani swallowed hard. “I don’t mean to.”

“I know. That’s the problem,” Yahaba said, laughing weakly, eyes dropping to Kyoutani’s mouth. “You don’t even try and I’m-”

He broke off again. Looked back at him.

Looked through him.

Kyoutani didn’t mean to move. But his hand slipped a little higher, palm resting warm over Yahaba’s side now, fingers splayed wide like he didn’t know how to hold him properly.

Yahaba’s breath hitched.

Neither of them spoke.

And then Yahaba leaned in just slightly. Their foreheads almost touching, nose brushing Kyoutani’s.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked, voice wrecked and far too gentle.

Kyoutani could only nod.

Yahaba kissed him like he meant it.

Like he’d been waiting.

Soft, slow, and devastating.

Not rushed. Not hungry. Just thorough. A press of lips that said you feel like a fever I’ve been carrying too long.

Kyoutani melted.

Hands finally gripping his waist. Lips parting. Breath catching. The song rolled on behind them, thick with bass and tension, matching the way Yahaba’s fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt, the way he tilted his head and kissed him deeper, like it was just the beginning.

And it was.

Because this wasn’t just want.

It was finally.

The kiss should’ve stopped there.

One soft press. One quiet moment.

But it didn’t.

Yahaba didn’t pull away.

Instead, he shifted. Inched closer, hips slotting more firmly into Kyoutani’s lap, his chest pressing fully against Kyoutani’s like it belonged there.

And Kyoutani…

He made a sound. Low in his throat, like something cracked open.

Yahaba kissed him again.

And again.

Slower now, but deeper. Lips parting with purpose, tongues brushing lightly, every breath a silent admission of I want this. I want you.

Kyoutani’s hands tightened at Yahaba’s waist. Then slid.

Not fast. Not rough. Just… deliberate. One hand traced the curve of Yahaba’s spine, fingers dragging up under the oversized shirt, palm flat against the warm skin of his lower back.

Yahaba shivered.

Then pushed closer.

His chest pressed fully to Kyoutani’s now, soft cotton to cotton, heat to heat. Kyoutani could feel his heart hammering against his own. Could feel the stutter in Yahaba’s breath when he let his other hand drift lower, down over the swell of his hip, thumb brushing just under the waistband of the sweatpants.

Yahaba broke the kiss with a sharp inhale. His forehead rested against Kyoutani’s now, eyes closed, lips parted.

“Fuck,” he whispered, like he couldn’t help it. “Your hands.”

“You want me to stop?” Kyoutani asked, voice hoarse, like it hurt to say the words.

Yahaba shook his head immediately. “No.”

Kyoutani’s breath caught.

Yahaba opened his eyes, just barely, lashes brushing Kyoutani’s cheeks. “Just- don’t stop unless I say so, okay?”

Kyoutani nodded once. That was all he needed.

His hands started moving again.

Wider now. Bolder. Fingers tracing the lines of Yahaba’s back, thumbs brushing along his ribs, palms mapping the shape of him like he was learning it.

Yahaba kissed him again. More desperate this time, more open. His hands felt up Kyoutani's buzzcut, scratching his fingers down the short hair, making Kyoutani groan into his mouth.

It was hot.

It was so much.

The music throbbed in the background. The storm was a blur outside.

And here, in the thick silence of Kyoutani’s room, Yahaba rolled his hips forward just slightly. Like he didn’t mean to. Like his body couldn’t help it.

Kyoutani’s breath hitched. His fingers curled into Yahaba’s sides.

“Fuck,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “You’re- this is-”

“I know,” Yahaba whispered back, pressing their foreheads tighter together. “I know.”

And then he kissed him again.

Like he meant to ruin him.

The kiss broke with a gasp.

Not from rejection. Not from fear.

Just breathlessness.

Yahaba rested his forehead against Kyoutani’s again, noses brushing, lips flushed and parted, eyes still closed. Their chests rose and fell together, synced in something that felt dangerously like longing.

Kyoutani’s hands stilled at Yahaba’s waist, gripping just enough to ground himself.

“Wait,” he whispered. “Wait- just-”

Yahaba didn’t move away. Just opened his eyes slowly, lashes still heavy.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “Yeah, okay.”

Neither of them said it out loud, but they both felt it: this was too much, too fast, too real.

Not in a bad way.

Just in a holy-shit-this-matters kind of way.

Kyoutani pulled back just slightly, only far enough to breathe again, his thumbs still brushing small circles against Yahaba’s sides like he didn’t know how to stop touching him.

Yahaba’s hands slid from Kyoutani’s hair to his shoulders, then rested lightly on his chest. His fingers curled against the worn fabric of his shirt, like he didn’t want to let go.

They stayed like that.

Close. Warm. Tangled.

Yahaba didn’t leave his lap.

And Kyoutani didn’t ask him to.

The music played on, lower now, fading into something almost ambient. The storm still hissed outside the window, but it felt quieter, distant.

Yahaba looked down at him then. Really looked.

His expression wasn’t teasing anymore.

It was soft. Honest.

A little scared.

But so sure.

And then he said something that gut-punched Kyoutani. Quietly, like a confession he’d already accepted long ago:

“It was always going to be you, Kyoutani.”

His throat went tight.

Yahaba’s fingers curled tighter against his chest.

“How could we ever be just friends?”

Kyoutani didn’t know what to say.

So he wrapped his arms around Yahaba’s waist and pulled him closer.

Not to kiss him again. Not to start anything.

Just to hold him.

Because what else do you do when someone chooses you like that?

He buried his face against Yahaba’s pretty pretty neck and breathed him in.

They stayed like that.

Curled into each other.

Wrapped in silence and stormlight, in music and skin, in the kind of closeness that didn’t need explaining.

Yahaba’s weight in his lap was grounding. Comforting. Terrifying.

Because Kyoutani knew… he knew that this wasn’t something he could pull away from now.

He was already in it.

Already ruined.

Yahaba shifted a little, tucking his head against Kyoutani’s neck like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He fit. Too well.

Kyoutani closed his eyes, let one hand settle at the small of Yahaba’s back, the other gently carding through his hair.

He felt warm. Steady.

And so, so doomed.

Because Yahaba was, objectively speaking, unfair.

Not just beautiful in the way those girls had said in detention but pretty, like a painting you shouldn’t touch.

No.

Yahaba was beautiful in the way that wrecked you.

In the way that made you forget how to guard your heart. In the way that pulled you in with soft hands and sharp words and eyes that looked like they saw every part of you and didn’t flinch.

And Kyoutani… fuck.

Kyoutani was a goner.

He held him tighter.

Buried his face in Yahaba’s hair and breathed him in.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, one final cursed thought echoed. It was quiet and honest and completely, completely unhelpful: Yahaba is really, truly pretty. And this… is not good for me.