Fuma realized two things at once.
One: the livestream ended thirty minutes ago.
Two: Nakajima Kento was about to walk through the door wearing that outfit.
He stared at his phone like it had personally betrayed him.
“Why,” Fuma muttered, dropping the device onto the couch, “does the universe hate me?”
He stood, paced once, twice, then gave up and flopped face-first onto the couch instead, grabbing the nearest pillow and hugging it tight. This was a defense mechanism. A necessary one.
Because Kento in all black wasn’t just attractive.
It was lethal.
The soft click of the door unlocking echoed through the apartment.
“I’m home,” Kento called out, light and warm, like he hadn’t just committed a crime against Fuma’s sanity.
Fuma buried his face deeper into the pillow.
Footsteps. Shoes being kicked off. The familiar rhythm of Kento moving around the entryway, humming softly to himself, probably replaying parts of the livestream in his head, checking if he’d said something strange, something off.
“…Kikuchi?” Kento’s voice came closer. “Why are you… not breathing?”
“I am breathing,” Fuma said into the pillow. “I’m just choosing violence against upholstery.”
There was a pause.
Then a soft, uncertain laugh coming from Kento. “Did I do something?”
That was the problem. Kento never knew.
Fuma cracked one eye open.
And there he was.
Black turtleneck, fitted just enough to outline Kento’s slim torso without trying too hard. Long sleeves hugging his arms, fabric smooth and neat like it belonged there. Black pants falling perfectly along his long legs. The whole look was clean, elegant, and devastatingly simple.
And Kento himself, black hair down, soft, slightly tousled from the wind and nervous habit of running his fingers through it. He looked tired in the gentlest way, eyes warm, cheeks faintly pink from the cold outside.
He looked like he didn’t realize what he was doing to Fuma at all.
Fuma shut his eyes again and groaned.
Kento crouched beside the couch immediately. “You’re really tired, huh?” he asked, genuinely concerned. “Did work go badly today?”
“…Nakajima,” Fuma said weakly, “why are you dressed like that?”
Kento blinked. “Like what?”
“That.”
Kento glanced down at himself, fingers lightly pinching the edge of his sweater as if he’d suddenly become self-conscious. “It’s just black,” he said. “The stylist said it looks clean on camera.”
Fuma made a strangled sound.
“Is it… weird?” Kento asked hesitantly. “I can change.”
“No,” Fuma said too fast. Then, quieter, “Don’t.”
Kento’s brows knit together. He looked genuinely lost. “Then… what’s wrong?”
Fuma rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling like it might offer mercy.
“You came home,” he said slowly, “looking like that. And now I can’t think.”
“Oh.” Kento nodded, as if that explained nothing. “…Is that bad?”
Fuma turned his head to look at him.
Kento was still crouched there, hands folded awkwardly on his knees, posture careful and polite even in his own home. His ears were faintly red now, like he sensed the intensity of Fuma’s gaze but didn’t understand it.
“You really don’t know, do you?” Fuma murmured.
“Know what?”
Fuma reached out and gently tugged Kento closer by the sleeve. “Come here.”
Kento hesitated for half a second before obeying, sitting carefully on the edge of the couch. He kept a respectful distance, back straight, hands folded in his lap like he was waiting to be scolded.
Fuma laughed softly. “Why are you sitting like that?”
“Because you called me,” Kento said earnestly. “Did I sit wrong?”
“No,” Fuma said, heart melting. “You’re fine.”
Kento relaxed—just a little.
Fuma reached up and brushed his fingers through Kento’s hair. It was exactly as it looked: impossibly soft, slipping through his fingers like silk. Kento froze.
“…Kikuchi,” he said quietly, voice barely above a whisper.
“Hm?”
“You’re touching my hair.”
“Yes.”
“…Why?”
Fuma smiled. “Because I like it.”
Kento’s cheeks flushed immediately. “O–oh.”
Fuma let his hand linger, thumb grazing Kento’s temple. “And this outfit,” he continued, “is dangerous.”
Kento blinked again. “Dangerous?”
“To me.”
Silence stretched between them.
Then Kento asked, very carefully, “Is it… embarrassing?”
“No.”
“Too much?”
“No.”
“Then—”
Fuma finally sat up and leaned in close, their faces inches apart. Kento instinctively leaned back a fraction, eyes wide, breath hitching.
“You make it really hard for me,” Fuma said softly, “when you look like this and act like you don’t know.”
Kento stared at him, processing slowly. His gaze flicked down, to Fuma’s lips, then back up again, flustered.
“…Hard?” he echoed.
Fuma sighed. “Nakajima.”
“Yes?”
“I’m completely in love with you.”
Kento’s face went red instantly. “Y–you don’t have to say it like that!”
“I do,” Fuma said, smiling. “Because you forget.”
“I don’t forget,” Kento protested weakly. “I just… don’t think I’m doing anything special.”
“That’s exactly it.”
Kento looked down at his hands, fiddling with his fingers. “I was nervous during the livestream,” he admitted quietly. “So I wore something simple. I didn’t want to stand out.”
Fuma’s chest tightened.
“You stood out,” he said gently. “To me.”
Kento swallowed. “…Is that okay?”
Fuma leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to Kento’s forehead. “It’s more than okay.”
Kento’s shoulders finally relaxed. He leaned in, resting his head against Fuma’s shoulder, tentative at first, then more confidently when Fuma wrapped an arm around him.
“I didn’t know you were biting the pillow because of me,” Kento murmured, embarrassed.
Fuma laughed quietly. “I was fighting for my life.”
Kento hesitated, then shyly tugged at the collar of his turtleneck. “Should I… wear this again?”
Fuma smiled into his hair. “Only if you’re prepared for the consequences.”
Kento tilted his head, still confused, but smiling. “I trust you.”
And Fuma thought, helplessly, that’s my real weakness.
He held Kento a little closer, black fabric warm beneath his hands, and decided—very seriously—that he never wanted a cure.
They stayed like that for a while.
Kento’s head rested against Fuma’s shoulder, light as if he were afraid of being too heavy, too much. One hand clutched the fabric of Fuma’s shirt near his waist, fingers curling and uncurling unconsciously. Fuma could feel the warmth of him through the thin layer of black knit, steady and real.
“You’re very quiet,” Kento murmured.
Fuma huffed softly. “Because if I move wrong, you’ll realize what you’re doing and panic.”
“I won’t panic,” Kento said quickly, then paused. “…Probably.”
Fuma smiled against his hair. “See?”
Kento shifted a little, then a little more, clearly uncomfortable but determined not to pull away. “Is this… okay?” he asked, voice small. “I mean—am I in your way?”
“You’re exactly where you should be,” Fuma replied without hesitation.
Kento froze.
“…Oh.”
The single syllable came out shy, breathy, like it settled somewhere deep in his chest. Slowly, carefully, he relaxed fully against Fuma, his weight sinking in just enough to be felt.
Fuma’s arm tightened around him instinctively, hand resting at the small of Kento’s back. The fitted sweater made it impossible not to notice how slim he was, how perfectly he fit there, like the space had always been meant for him.
Kento let out a quiet sigh.
“You’re warm,” he said, almost surprised.
“You just noticed?” Fuma teased gently.
Kento nodded against his shoulder. “I thought… I’m usually the warm one.”
Fuma laughed under his breath. “You are. That’s why you’re being used as a personal heater.”
“Oh.” Kento seemed to think about this. Then, shyly, he slid his arm around Fuma’s waist in return. The movement was slow, careful, like he was checking for permission even after all this time.
Fuma’s heart softened painfully.
“Better?” Fuma asked.
“…Yes.”
They fell quiet again, the room filled only with the faint hum of the heater and the sound of Kento’s breathing. His hair brushed against Fuma’s jaw every time he shifted, soft enough to make Fuma close his eyes.
After a moment, Kento spoke again, hesitant. “Kikuchi.”
“Hm?”
“If I wear black again…” He paused, cheeks surely red by now. “…will you still cuddle me?”
Fuma opened one eye and looked down at him.
“Nakajima,” he said seriously, “that’s not conditional.”
Kento’s grip tightened slightly. “…Good.”
He shifted closer, tucking himself more securely against Fuma’s chest now, cheek resting right over Fuma’s heart. He listened for a second, then smiled faintly.
“It’s loud,” he whispered.
“My heart?”
“Yes.” Kento hesitated. “Is that… my fault?”
Fuma pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “Always.”
Kento made a small, flustered sound but didn’t pull away. Instead, he nestled deeper, the sweater creasing softly under Fuma’s hand.
“I’m glad I’m home,” Kento said quietly.
“So am I.”
They stayed curled together on the couch, black fabric and familiar warmth, nothing urgent, nothing l
oud. Just the quiet comfort of being exactly where they belonged. Kento was shy and unaware of how loved he was, and Fuma held him like he was the most precious thing in the world.
And for once, Fuma didn’t bite the pillow.
He didn’t need to.
the end.