Work Text:
“Your boyfriend gave me more socks today,” Higuruma said with consternation befitting my secretary has picked up a weird fascination with Rasta music. He frowned at Kento’s mandolin—the most advanced cookery he was permitted—and asked, “It’s like the third pair, what’s up with that?”
Kento would like to say his initial reaction carried more befuddlement. He was dating just the one guy and that guy was currently slicing cucumbers on a mandolin. But instead, Kento’s traitorous brain recognized immediately that this wasn’t anything reasonable, it was about Gojo. “He does that because he likes you,” flopped directly out his mouth.
Higuruma snorted and gathered up his cucumber slivers, popping one in his mouth before dividing the rest into three small salad bowls, making little piles next to the tomato wedges. They had a nice routine for Sunday night dinners these days. It was a relationship stage Kento could get used to. Kento was meant to be attending to the salmon but he dawdled a moment, wiggling his toes and leaning against the opposite counter from Higuruma’s salad station. The sunset splashed cozy oranges across his back as he worked.
“It’s still a little weird,” Higuruma said after considering Kento’s scrawny explanation. “What does he want? He could just ask for it, no need for dramatics.”
“You can’t possibly think Gojo’s capable of being mundane.”
“Well, no. But usually he only involves you.”
Unease prickled Kento’s neck. He shook it off. “They’re just socks. Wait it out. He’ll move on.”
“To sweaters, to cardigans, to blankets,” Higuruma drolled, already well-versed. “Still doesn’t answer the question. Why’s he giving them to me? Shouldn’t he be giving them to you?”
“Like I don’t already have fifteen pairs of socks from him.” Better to just rip off the Band-Aid; no use pretending. Higuruma tended to speak with intention and if this was on his mind, it wasn’t going away. “Why’d you call him that?”
“Call him what?”
“My boyfriend.”
“Isn’t he?” Higuruma rolled a small radish on his cutting board. Kento’s mandolin lay abandoned to the side.
“No?”
Busy hands made for easier conversation, so Kento flicked the burner on and watched his pan heat.
The confusion furrowing Higuruma’s brows crept into an amused arch. “Oh,” Higuruma said. “I see now.”
“See what?” The rumbling in Kento’s stomach erupted. “I’m not cheating on you, I wouldn’t—”
“No, no, I know.”
“Especially not with Gojo.” The concept was, on its face, ridiculous. As if Gojo would ever permit such a thing: the dating, the cheating—any of it.
“I know—”
“That’d be insane. What in the world would make you think something like this? Did he say something to you? Because—and I cannot stress this enough—Gojo is a huge liar. Like he does it for sport.”
In an instant, Higuruma was in front of him, both hands splayed over Kento’s chest with precision gentleness, salads abandoned. “Kento, breathe.”
And it still felt so stupid every time this worked, but Kento breathed—long inhale, long exhale—and immediately felt his anxious fog clear.
“I didn’t mean it in a bad way. I just thought you two were involved. I thought we’d had this conversation already.”
“What conversation?”
“About what I was stepping into when we started seeing each other.”
Kento was, somehow, even more confused. “I was single,” he said, feeling like it somehow became untrue in retrospect. His friendship with Gojo had always been complicated, but it had also always been just that: friendship.
“But not uninvolved.”
“Gojo doesn’t even do relationships. He doesn’t enjoy them—he doesn’t like people like that. This entire scenario is impossible.”
Higuruma gently patted Kento’s chest before retracting his hands. “I know. But are you really going to tell me your relationship with him isn’t as important as a romantic one might be? I think it’s fine, by the way. I thought it was fine when we started dating. I thought…” Higuruma trailed off, looking back towards the three salad bowls and then to the three pieces of salmon waiting for Kento’s too-hot pan.
Reality as Kento knew it, bent. “Oh my god, we’re dating Gojo?” Then, it got worse. “Does Gojo know that?!”
“I thought so but that assumption is deteriorating at quite a rapid pace.”
“Oh, don’t tell him.” Kento didn’t know if he was kidding or terrified but either way… “Like he can’t know that. He’ll be insufferable.”
Higuruma only laughed. Joking it was. It was nice having someone around who could so easily parse his mood and Kento realized in another of those world-bending shifts that Gojo must feel that way about him, sometimes. Maybe he even felt that way about Higuruma, too, some days.
Kento got the fish cooking and retrieved plates from the cabinet overhead. Three, because the double-negative-boyfriend would be there any minute. They hadn’t bothered inviting him for months now; Gojo’s attendance was presumed. Kento handed the plates to Higuruma, not daring to speak on the irony.
A chime sounded from Kento’s pocket. A moment later, Gojo’s trademark raps sounded from the door.
Gojo didn’t wait to be invited in. He changed into his house shoes—another sign, Kento thought ruefully—and wandered into the kitchen with an affectionate, light-as-air kiss directed to Kento’s cheekbone. A side hug from Higuruma was graciously accepted. How had Kento never seen any of this?
The ‘told you’ so slathered all over Higuruma’s face didn’t go unnoticed by Gojo. Neither did Kento’s nonverbal ‘shut up, shut up, shut up.’
“Weird vibe in here,” Gojo said, opening the fridge and fussing around until he found a bottle of soda.“Something happen?”
Kento directed every shred of his attention on the fish and tucked the warmth blooming in his chest away, to be examined later. “Nope.”
At the other counter, Higuruma chuckled.
Kento’s relationships tended to end one of two ways. Either he got tired of his partner, or his partner got tired of Gojo.
It sounded narcissistic out of context; maybe it was, a little. But Gojo was a tougher sell most days. Add to it the perplexing borders of their friendship and Gojo tended to be the dealbreaker well before Kento’s bad habits could complete the shift from endearing to irritating.
Not so with Higuruma. Ever since the other night, Kento had felt remarkably secure with something that had always felt like a bruise. He was used to sidestepping assumptions about Gojo. Other partners didn’t like how close they were. They were bothered by the spare toothbrush in the bathroom cabinet from a sleepover ages ago, the basket of knitting next to the sofa, and sodas in the fridge even though Kento never drank them.
Chasing misunderstandings was a troublesome pastime so Kento had never bothered, but the fact of the matter was that when inevitably asked to choose, Kento would always choose Gojo. There were many reasons; none of them particularly opaque. Ultimatums made Kento uncooperative. He and Gojo had known each other since they were teenagers, had been friends for over a decade. Anyone who demanded Kento modify that relationship wasn’t worth having in his life.
The nerve to think something so precious could be easily replaced.
Kento and Gojo had to talk about it; Higuruma insisted. He’d thought everyone was on the same page and it bothered him to know otherwise.
The more Kento thought about it, the easier he could envision a set of developing foundations supporting all three of them. Weaknesses shored, burdens taken on by the group. Never having to go it alone.
All day, it churned in Kento’s stomach, a constant maelstrom. His meetings dragged, his lunch was tasteless and ashy, an anxious coil lingering in his stomach all afternoon.
When Kento’s elevator descended at six, Gojo was waiting for him in the lobby. Lucky Kento wasn’t kept later; Gojo had the patience of a gnat. He could and would retrieve Kento from Kento’s cubicle and that only led to staying longer, because there was not a soul on planet Earth that Gojo was both incapable and unwilling to charm within an inch of their lives for sport. Administrative Assistants, Janitors, Senior Partners; Gojo would strike up a conversation with any of them and Kento would inevitably wind up playing career Russian Roulette with the outcome.
No, thanks. Kento would rather the motivation to leave on time.
“I need a little treat,” Gojo said very seriously as Kento followed him through the revolving lobby door to join the throngs of Tokyo workers rushing for their trains. “Like my day was okay, I guess, but I’m covering two AP classes now and I swear to god, half these teenagers? They don’t even read the protocol.” Gojo huffed, petulantly blowing his bangs off his forehead as they rounded a corner and headed south, in the opposite direction of their usual station. “Was up until three last night reading lab reports worse than yours. Then, to top it all off, it’s Utahime’s birthday and you know what we had to celebrate? Flan.” Gojo shuddered. “Like that’s just inhumane, that should be illegal. Can Higuruma help me file charges?”
“No.”
“Too bad.” Gojo’s pout grew to comical proportions. “Not even if it was all fruit, no chocolate?”
Kento rolled his eyes and smashed the crosswalk signal with his knuckle. “Not even if it was sugar-free.”
“Bummer. Society will never advance at this rate. Anyway, we have to stop at Mister Donut for a treat, I deserve it.”
Not the ideal setting for their talk but Kento could do worse. Gojo was at least guaranteed a better mood than he would be on Kento’s sofa. “Fine, let’s go.”
A suspicious side-eye accompanied Gojo’s slightly pinched mouth. “That was easier than I expected.”
“Maybe I just think I deserve a little treat, too.”
“Liar,” Gojo said around an ear-to-ear grin. He turned to walk backwards, attention drifting between Kento and the rush-hour crowd. “But I’ll let you get away with it.”
“Sure,” Kento said. “Whatever. I’m the one getting away with it.”
Mister Donut was one of Gojo’s favorite places for snacks—a heavy in the rotation of demands for little treats carrying Christmas dinner heft in calories. They came often enough, Kento had a ‘usual’ that—hopefully—wouldn’t spiral him into diabetes later. Gojo made no such efforts, but then again, Gojo seemed to have the metabolism of a hummingbird. He flirted with the staff like a hummingbird might, too: flighty and uncommitted. Gojo loved charming strangers to within an inch of their lives and collecting phone numbers he’d never use—he’d always been like that.
Perhaps, Kento mused, watching Gojo unravel the barista with a slight lean over the counter to complement soft, fluttering eyelashes, we’ve done ourselves a disservice by never asking too many questions.
They sat at a pinprick table near the front windows, a sentinel drink standing guard in front of each of them. A small plate carrying a pink-frosted donut with sprinkles sat to Gojo’s right. To his left, a paper bag was packed with an assortment so bulky, it shouldn’t be legal for private use.
Gojo sipped from his milkshake masquerading as a frappuccino masquerading as something appropriate for a coffee shop menu. His cup had an ineffectual cardboard sleeve with the barista’s name and number on it. Gojo kept the phone number angled out of his sight and after the third time adjusting the lid, Kento knew he was doing it on purpose.
“Okay, spit it out,” Gojo said. “What’s got you so riled up? I mean don’t get me wrong, this is pretty funny, but I’m starting to feel sorry for you and it’s not an emotion I’m familiar with.”
“Yes, I’m well aware empathy is one of your hard nos.”
“Emotionally mature people call that de-flec-tion~” Gojo sang with a snotty vibrato.
“How would you know anything about what emotionally mature people do?”
Gojo’s mouth scrunched up like he’d gotten a mouthful of lemon along with his ‘coffee.’ “Hilarious. Now, you’ve had your fun. Fess up. What’s wrong?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Please. You haven’t complained about stopping here, haven’t bitched about my drink order or the dozen donuts, didn’t even shoot the cashier a dirty look for flirting back when I told her she was pretty. Who are you and what have you done with my dear friend and constant thorn? Have you been body-snatched? Lobotomized? Or have you finally reckoned with my innate majesty?”
“Oh, I don’t know how anyone could fathom the true depths of your majesty.” Kento punctuated his drawl with a long sip of his drink—a modest latte. So much more reasonable than whatever the hell Gojo had; that thing would be better eaten with a spoon than sucked through a deluxe-sized straw.
Gojo must be spending too much time with Higuruma because he did exactly what Higuruma would have in the situation: he waited.
Fuck. Kento set his drink down and considered, at length, an avoidance donut.
“Hiromi thinks we’re dating.”
“You are dating.”
Kento repressed a frustrated huff. Of course Gojo wouldn’t leap to the right conclusion. “No, not him and me. He thinks you and me are dating. Always has.”
Gojo’s laughter was both immediate and offensive.
“Be quiet, you’re making a scene.”
Gojo rolled his eyes but his laughter softened after another handful of cackles and three odd looks from passersby. “How? Like how in the world did he reach that conclusion?”
Because we hang out together all the time. Because you’re my best friend. Because you knit me two week’s worth of socks and sleep over if you’ve had a bad week. Because you keep giving me stupid cheek kisses. Because we’re each other’s emergency contact. Because we tell each other everything. Because we love each other even if it’s not romantic and that’s not as scary as it is with everyone else.
The list went on and on and the longer Kento had thought about it over the past few days, the more horrified he was to realize that Higuruma wasn’t entirely out of pocket.
In for a penny, right? “Is he wrong, though? Because the more I think about it, the less I think you and I are ‘just friends.’”
Gojo perked up by the syllable. “Aw, see, Nanamin, I told you. We’re platonic soulmates, I can’t believe you admit it. You’re never getting rid of me now.”
“You say that like I’m trying to.” But from Gojo’s perspective, maybe it seemed inevitable he would. Gojo pursued no relationships and was happier for it, but Kento had dabbled enough that it must have weighed in the back of Gojo’s mind. “Is that something you’ve worried about?”
“You know I don’t worry.”
“What I know is that you are a compulsive liar.”
Gojo took a large bite of the donut on his plate and shrugged. It answered more than he intended.
“I’ve left lovers for you, you know.” It was a somber admission—one Kento had never addressed. But it was true and maybe it was important for Gojo to know it. “Ones who didn’t approve of our friendship, or were jealous.”
Gojo spent too long chewing but by the time he was finished, he was composed as ever. “As you should, since apparently I’m your boyfriend.”
Kento could only roll his eyes and laugh.
Kento didn’t make it home until nearly eight, but he wasn’t surprised to find Higuruma sitting lengthwise on his couch with a laptop perched on his thighs and papers strewn across the coffee table. Higuruma was terrible about taking work home with him but at least he’d pack it up when prompted. Yet another thing Kento could always rely on Gojo for. If he’d come up with Kento, those papers would already be packed in Higuruma’s briefcase. A testament to his nosiness, as Gojo liked to say. Before long, he’d be calling it his and Higuruma’s thing.
Higuruma looked up from his work and watched Kento shrug out of his coat and thumb through the mail. “Everything okay?”
“Weird day.”
Higuruma checked the file folder in his lap and tapped a few keys. “So, you talked, then? Bad weird or good weird?”
Kento’s whole problem was that he didn’t know. “Not sure. What’re you working on?”
“Nothing special. Work shit.”
So, confidential. Kento shuffled through the mail once more to give Higuruma time to put everything important out of sight, then meandered to the living room.
“I probably won’t be around much the next few days, sorry.” Higuruma tucked one last page into the file folder before tucking it into his briefcase. He set his laptop on the coffee table, keeping an eye on the screen while it shut down.
“It’s fine. I’ll enjoy some time to myself.”
“Next week might be busy, too.” That one sounded more sheepish.
“You and I both know Gojo will interfere long before it becomes a problem.” Gojo had a sense for this sort of thing. The past few weeks Kento had turned over the idea of a conspiracy—suddenly it seemed much more plausible.
“Hmm, one can only hope. C’mere.” The moment Kento was close enough, Higuruma tugged him in by the back of his neck and pressed a greedy kiss to his lips, making room for Kento to sit next to him by folding his legs. “Miss you already.”
“I think you like missing me a little.” And he liked coming back, too. Liked knowing Kento had someone in his life to compensate for an absence.
“Maybe.” Another kiss—longer, searching. “You’ve never seemed to mind. Plus, you know. The whole Gojo thing.”
Which thing went unsaid, but Kento wasn’t sure it mattered. “If you thought I was involved with him, why would you get involved with me?”
Higuruma considered his laptop for a moment and closed the lid. “I don’t do well in relationships. It’s hard for me to give one hundred percent and I don’t have any interest in the typical gestures or date nights or what-have-you to make up for being inattentive. My partners usually wind up feeling ignored or abandoned and it’s not that I mean to but I just— grade on a different rubric. After my last relationship ended, I thought that was probably it for me. It’s too much failure, it’s not worth it if everyone’s just going to wind up feeling bad. But then you came along and I liked you so much. You seemed interested and I thought… maybe this is a loophole that could work for me. I’m bad at giving one hundred percent but maybe I could be really good at giving fifty.”
This, Kento could easily understand. He tended to grade on uncommon criteria, too. One of the many reasons he’d been—as Higuruma put it—so interested.
They were both like Gojo in this way. Higuruma didn’t use the same vocabulary and must have struggled to figure himself out but even Kento and Gojo were wrong-footed in this, wading through the molasses of progress, dependent on Gojo’s students to illuminate the path. Kento wouldn’t push it. Labels became comfortable before long, even misfitted ones, and Higuruma never lacked self-awareness.
“Can I ask you something?” Higuruma asked.
“Hm?”
Higuruma pressed his lips together as if forcing himself to sit with the words a moment longer. “Are you bothered by this? Knowing I was hoping for half a relationship because I don’t do well in a whole one?” He paused, mouth wrenched to the side in displeasure. “Saying it out loud really does sound so much worse.”
There was a lot here that should bother any one of them. And yet, here they were: Kento, Higuruma, and Gojo. All knitted into a relationship that somehow worked, even if two-thirds of them had been mostly oblivious.
“I guess it depends which half you were trying to take me for.”
Higuruma hummed, lips caressing Kento’s jaw and fingers plucking his shirt buttons loose. “I like celebrating your birthday, but not mine. You come to my Christmas party at work; take Gojo to yours. I’m a bad cook, but I’ll make soup when you’re too sick or tired to, and prep salads for Sunday dinner. I’ll always make sure there’s beer in the fridge.” Warm hands traced Kento’s bare sides, melting his ribs and gathering lava in his belly. “This.”
“This is nice.”
“All be told, I think ‘half’ is underselling it a bit. You get something more like three-quarters. Eighty percent. More than I expected but it’s been really nice. I’m happy.” Higuruma pulled back to look Kento in the eye. “Want to know why?”
Kento already knew but Higuruma had never said it and he didn’t know how to answer something like that yet. He pressed their mouths together rather than listen—greedy to push Higuruma up a few points.
Kento spent the first half of Higuruma’s busy week lamenting that the radical upheaval of his worldview still just did not feel radical enough. There should have been an adjustment. Gojo and Higuruma should both look different with this new perspective. And, stewing in the back of Kento’s head, woven through the disorientation of having both feet staying firmly on the ground, Kento wondered: had he somehow deprived them?
No. Kento knew this in the way he knew how many days were in a month, or his multiplication tables but had to keep reminding himself. Kept checking the math no matter how many times he reminded himself that the reason this all felt so uncanny was that he and Gojo had been shameless in filling those spaces in each other’s lives, labels be damned.
The few days of peace and contemplation sheared from Higuruma’s busy schedule helped settle Kento’s messier emotions on the matter. Take-out for one and full control over the remote could do wonders for one’s mental health, after all. And as expected, the moment he caught himself missing company for dinner, Gojo appeared demanding pizza. Kento didn’t bother fighting over anything more than his and Gojo’s eternal pepperoni versus bacon debate.
Pepperoni, this time. Gojo had let Kento win but calling him out for it would only lead to a long-winded breakdown of all the times Kento had done the same. Routine carried them to the television after dinner; this was old married couple shit. Everyone must see it, not just Higuruma. Kento didn’t know if he was relieved or mortified that none of their friends ever said a word.
An otherworldly glow danced from the television, across the shadows of Kento’s apartment. Kento kept his arms and legs tucked into a blanket, sitting with his ankles crossed in front of him while Gojo’s fingers flew across yet another pair of socks: yellowy orange with skinny, brown stripes. Yet another budding routine, this one only a couple of years old. When Gojo first flirted with this sock-making hobby, people teased, calling it the newest in a long line of avoidance tactics. Kento knew better. He understood it wasn’t just that Gojo couldn’t keep his hands still. It was that he liked his loved ones cradled in his hands.
These socks were for Higuruma, too. Pair number four. Higuruma would have a whole week’s worth in record time. Never before had one of Kento’s relationships been blessed with such staunch approval. The insecurity Kento had been wrestling with ever since Higuruma started calling spades “spades” settled.
“You really like him, huh?” The evidence was overwhelming but Kento needed to hear it. No jokes. No diversions.
“Who?” Gojo asked absently.
“Hiromi.”
Pleasure flashed across a smile Gojo couldn’t keep from the corners of his eyes. “Sure. Yeah. Best one you’ve found so far, I think you should keep him.”
Higuruma would want Kento to correct that self-depreciating remark. “We. We should keep him.”
“Whatever you’re stewing over, just spit it out.” Gojo looked up from the sock, fingers still in motion. Someday Kento would have to pick up knitting just to prove he could do it blind, too.
Kento thought of that moment in the kitchen, eyes meeting from opposite counters as they made Sunday dinner, less than an arm’s length apart. Last week on this very sofa: Higuruma in Kento’s seat and Kento in Gojo’s. A stakeholder offer on the tip of Higuruma’s tongue until Kento demanded he shove it back down for a while longer. “He loves me. Hiromi. I already knew, but lately he keeps trying to tell me, so I keep… Avoiding? Deflecting?”
Gojo snickered. “Only you could have big bad relationship drama that boils down to ‘oh no, my boyfriend accepts me for who I am and loves me back!’”
It’s funny when phrased with such catty disbelief.
“I wasn’t sure what to do about it until he brought up the thing with you.”
“Gotta tell him.” Gojo paused. A devilish smirk crossed his face, aimed at Kento. “What about me?”
What a fantastic question: what would Gojo do if Kento made it plain he intended to love him forever?
It was too comfortable flinging back a sarcastic, “Yeah, yeah. You, too.”
A couple of weeks later, Kento came home late to find Higuruma marinating his apartment in a welcoming haze of udon.
In sickness and in health, something mortifying whispered in the back of his head. But whose?
“What’s all this?” Kento asked from the kitchen doorway, watching in amusement as Higuruma turned between the counters on either side twice like he was remembering something important only to find it missing. To his left, a pot simmered away. “I thought we agreed you should only cook if I’m already dying.”
“Shh,” Higuruma said, one finger crossing his lips with a significant look towards the living room. “Not just you.”
Kento peeked in to find Gojo sprawled out on the couch, asleep. One arm cradled the remote to his chest even though the TV was silent, and the other draped overboard, limp. Even half on the couch and asleep, Gojo managed to take up half the space in Kento’s living room.
“Not sleeping again.” Kento tsked.
“Work stress?”
“Yeah. He took over a class for someone on maternity leave even though he already had an extra one, and every time I see him, he’s talking about grading and reading papers all night.”
“Well if he’s not sleeping at home, he can just sleep here.” Higuruma stirred the udon and carefully lifted a spoonful. “Taste.”
Too much salt, but Kento preferred his soup to come with a sodium warning. “Delicious.”
A pleased little smile danced on Higuruma’s mouth. Kento leaned in for a kiss, chasing that bit of happiness.
“This is sweet of you, but you know that he’s permanent, right?” It was important for Kento to settle this before digging further. “There’s no recorking the bottle. He likes you and it’s not that I think you’d toy with him, but more that if anyone does, even you, I won’t forgive it.”
“I know,” Higuruma said with an unbearably fond smile.
“And he’s a pain,” Kento said.
“A huge one.”
“Really dramatic. Really loud. Can’t take him anywhere.” Kento paused, considering. “Unless you’re looking to leave early. Then he’s pretty nice to have around.”
Kento’s lip felt nice and secure between his teeth—a bastion against his more private thoughts welling. He’d never spoken on any of this. The relationship he and Gojo built spanned a decade with complications woven into every breath. “When it matters, he’s always there. Never says ‘no’ when I need a favor. Doesn’t matter how stupid it is.”
“Won’t let you stay too long at the office. Have to say I appreciate that a lot.” Higuruma gave the soup one last stir and then started ladling it into three bowls. “We need to start dragging him out of his when he gets too deep in it like this.”
“Please, King of sleeping on the office sofa, tell me more about how to balance my work and home life.” There were at least a dozen times Gojo had bodily dragged Higuruma home at nine o’clock.
“That snark?” Higuruma asked, looking smug. “I can’t wait to find out who got that from who.”
It was probably more accurate to say resonance had elevated each of them but Kento figured he’d leave some mystery on the table. Higuruma liked solving puzzles, he’d chase this thread for ages. “I think… I like what you’ve got in mind. What we’ve had going for a while now. But you do know that if you made me choose—”
“You’d choose him. I’d have it coming for pushing, though.”
At last, Kento realized that the reason this all felt slightly off-kilter was that it was so unexpected to be seen like this and not only taken but also appreciated, as he was. “I’m glad you spoke up about this.”
“I mostly just can’t believe you didn’t.” Higuruma shooed Kento away with his soup ladle. “Can you go find something that’ll fit Satoru for pajamas? We’ll have dinner and throw him in the shower. Maybe get everyone to bed early for once instead of staying up until two. It’ll be good for us.”
Kento was already mentally combing through the dresser and closet. “Yeah, I have something that’ll work.”
The sleep pants Kento dug out from the dresser were too long and hadn’t been worn in ages because of it. Come to think of it, they might have been Gojo’s, once upon a time. He set them along with a shirt and socks on the bathroom counter, then found a clean, sky blue towel that never tended to make its way to the top of the pile in the linen closet; like it had always been set aside for Gojo.
When Kento came out of the bedroom, he peered over the back of the couch to find Gojo blinking awake, fingers buried in his shirt while a yawn cracked his jaw wide. He stared up at Kento with foggy comprehension.
“Shit, sorry,” Gojo said.
“Don’t be sorry. You want something to eat? Hiromi made udon. It’s almost ready.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
No time like the present to turn the corner on that whole speak openly and honestly thing. “After, there’s clean clothes for you in the bathroom. Wash up and spend the night? There’s plenty of room.”
It was a rarity to see Gojo nervous, but there was no other word for the look he shot Kento as he sat up.
“Stay,” Kento said again, reaching a hand out for Gojo to take.
“Okay.”
Higuruma did not tend to do things halfway. It was a personality flaw and asset in turn; a ruddy flag tinged green in certain light.
“You seem like a cuddler,” Higuruma told Gojo with the bald impatience of someone who was very much not. He stared at the futon a moment longer and declared, “Kento in the middle, then. Good luck, sweetheart,” before heading to the bathroom to brush his teeth and wash his face.
Gojo looked comically lost standing in the middle of Kento’s bedroom in borrowed pajamas. This wasn’t a unique scenario. They’d shared a bed before; it went fine. Kento hogged the covers and Gojo clung to him with tenacious arms and legs. A cuddler, indeed. Got it in one, Higuruma.
“Well,” Gojo said, too brightly for being half-asleep. He crawled into bed and arranged himself on the far left, laying on his back with a pillow behind his head. “You heard him.”
Kento in the middle. You don’t say?
Getting situated wasn’t painful but awkwardness settled in once everyone was arranged like sardines shoulder-to-shoulder, staring at the ceiling and trying not to breathe too loud.
And Gojo, who was just like the rest of them and couldn’t do something halfway to save his life, said, “Well, I’d say ‘no groping’ but honestly, I can’t make any promises.”
To Kento’s left, Higuruma snorted.
Kento woke bright and early Saturday with a face full of Gojo’s hair, somehow rearranged out of the proverbial middle. The sunrise bounded in from the window behind Kento, casting a muted glimmer across Gojo’s neck and collarbone before splashing across Higuruma wedged beneath him, one arm slung over Gojo’s back as if to keep him in place. They made for a nice picture: a sweet and satisfying view. Kento was sure if he just woke up a little more, he’d be able to pluck out the specific thread he found so pleasing about it.
Higuruma slept in on weekends and Gojo, generally, slept when he passed out, so Kento eased himself out of bed to go about his hard-earned morning routine of coffee and toast, then refilled his mug along with Higuruma’s. He took both to his bedroom, placing Higuruma’s on his nightstand before settling back into his side of the bed with a book.
Halfway through Kento’s chapter, Higuruma stirred.
“What time is it?” Higuruma mumbled. “What’s Gojo doing?”
“Sleeping.”
“He always sleep like this?”
It hit Kento like a ton of bricks. Gojo’s little snores swelled as he buried his face into the crook of Higuruma’s neck until his entire face was smashed into their shared pillow. “No, actually. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him out so hard.” Kento paused, considering the scene. Gojo, relaxed. Higuruma, amused and content. Kento felt content, too—and finally, he understood what Higuruma might have seen, getting involved in a situation he didn’t quite understand. How wonderful to know that his most important people had all this love in their lives.
“You have a weird look on your face,” Higuruma said. Gently, he asked, “What is it?”
Before, it felt glued to his tongue with indecision. Kento’s teeth caged it even as it struggled for freedom because he didn’t know where his feet were. But now? Watching dawn shimmer through Gojo’s hair stuck to Higuruma’s sweaty neck, noting Higuruma’s lazy fingers combing through it without thought, and seeing the fond peace on Gojo’s face—Kento felt nothing but confidence.
“I love you.”
And Higuruma could have said something about being surprised Kento was the one to say it. He could have teased a little and gotten away with it; could have shone a spotlight on that little bit of avoidance constantly twisting Kento’s heart in knots—but he didn’t. Instead, his smile caught the sunrise. “Oh. Yeah. Me too.”