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Jin sees it coming before it happens.
And if he weren’t him, he would’ve flinched.
Because this isn’t some fleeting possibility, some passing glimpse of an improbable future. No—this one is clear. Vivid. Unshakable.
Tachikawa kisses him.
Not a quick, fleeting brush, not some half-meant joke. It’s long. It’s deep. It looks like the kind of kiss that steals the breath right out of you, leaves you momentarily weightless. Jin watches himself lean in, watches the way Tachikawa’s fingers flex before gripping his wrist, watches how his own eyes slip shut in a way that almost looks—desperate.
Jin, standing in the present, feels none of it. No warmth. No pressure. No rush of heat curling low in his gut.
And that’s what unsettles him.
He’s seen hundreds, thousands of futures play out in his mind, and sure, some of them have been surprising, some interesting enough to linger on for a second longer than necessary. But this one? This one is different. This one makes him feel desire.
Which is dangerous.
Because he has a bazillion ways to avoid it.
• If he angles his body just slightly to the left, the moment never comes.
• If he throws out one of his usual offhand jokes, Tachikawa will roll his eyes and move on.
• If he sighs like he’s tired, like he’s not suddenly thinking about the way Tachikawa’s lips looked in that vision, then maybe—just maybe—this will pass.
But.
He’s a healthy 19-year-old guy.
And he wants to know.
So, for once, Jin doesn’t move. He doesn’t change course, doesn’t break the tension with an easy smile. He just watches as the vision folds into reality—Tachikawa hesitating for just a fraction of a second, Jin tilting his chin up, and then—
It’s more.
More than anything his foresight could’ve given him.
The heat of it. The weight of it. The way Tachikawa’s fingers don’t just flex but grip, anchoring them both to the moment. Jin feels the press of lips against his own, the way breath mingles in the small space between them, the near-imperceptible tremor when Tachikawa presses just a little harder, like he can’t help himself.
Jin hadn’t seen that part.
And suddenly, the vision doesn’t matter anymore.
No matter how many times he’s played out the future in his mind, nothing has shown him this.
Nothing has shown him the texture of Tachikawa’s fingers, the rough callouses earned from gripping a kendo sword since childhood, hardened further by years of wielding Kogetsu. The way those fingers trace up from his jacket’s hem, hesitant but deliberate, before skimming his jaw with a pressure that makes his breath catch.
His fingers curl into the fabric of Tachikawa’s sleeve, heartbeat steady but heavy. Huh. He exhales slowly when they finally part, light-headed in a way that has nothing to do with Side Effects.
His lips tingle. His body is warmer than it was a second ago.
He should probably say something.
But for once, Jin Yuichi is at a complete loss for words.