Archive of Our Own

   On Reo's twenty-fourth birthday, he wakes up in someone else's bed.

   Reo hasn't ever woken up in anybody's bed but his own. His parents were never really the affectionate type, and for as long as he'd remembered, he would sleep in his own bedroom, never seeking comfort from anything other than the soft layers of his blankets. Then, he had grown up and moved out and made no new friends at all, so he had no reason to venture out of his lonely little apartment, which is full of things made for one. He has a perfect record for falling asleep in his own bedroom, alone. He could probably get an award for it. If life was a video game, it'd be an ongoing counter under the achievement tab. Something like, days slept in your own bed. Streak unbroken! You're on fire!!!

   But he opens his eyes early that morning, far earlier than usual, to the sound of soft snoring that certainly isn't his own. The blanket is a deep, rich purple, a far cry from his usual white sheets. He rustles around a bit, feeling his surroundings, and his right hand comes across something warm. It gives a little when he presses in—flesh. A person, in his bed. Or, he's in this person's bed, probably. It's definitely not his own.

   He keeps his breathing light and his head on the pillow, and he lets his gaze float around the room. It's still dim, but the early sunrise sneaks in through the curtains, lifting the shadowy air from black to gray. It's an unfamiliar room, too, but he inexplicably catches things he recognizes. There are old textbooks, his favorite paperweight on a dresser, tote bags from junior high. Two shirts hang next to an old, flaking door. And on the left shirt, there's the name across the back—Mikage.

   The other person in the bed shifts, and the mattress creaks. Reo goes stiff, all joints locking, all limbs straightened, as a shadow falls over his face. "Reo," comes the voice from the hazy air off to his side. "You're up?"

   Nagi, Reo reads off the second shirt. Nagi and Mikage. "Nagi," he says, and the person hums. "Um—are you?"

   "Am I what?"

   "Nagi?"

   "…What?"

   Reo puts his palms to his eyes and pushes until he thinks his eyeballs might burst. "What's going on," he mumbles. When he drops his hands and blinks away the staticky, flickering spots, he's still met by the same foreign ceiling, the same walls adorned with all his things in different shapes. "What's happening?"

   "I don't know," maybe-Nagi says. "Why are you awake so early?"

   "Why do you know my name?"

   Nagi huffs. Reo dares to glance over—pale hair, soft eyes, crinkling with the kind of affection Reo has never seen directed at himself. "Why do you know my name?" he shoots back, all gentle and playful, like he thinks Reo's making a joke.

   Reo raises one sleepy arm and waves it vaguely at the door. "Read it off the shirt."

   Nagi stares at him, then, long and hard. He worms his hand under the blankets and rests it against Reo's elbow, warm fingers pulling at his skin. "Are you okay?" Nagi asks, every word dropping slow and careful from his lips. "Are you feeling sick?"

   "No," Reo says. "Maybe. I don't know."

   Nagi sits up. The blankets slip down and pool around his waist. He reaches over, fingers outstretched, and takes Reo's face in his hands. "Reo," he sighs, and it's the fondest Reo's ever heard anyone say his name before. Then, without much warning at all, Nagi leans in and kisses him on the mouth.

   Reo's still a little too sleepy, too slow to react. His hands twitch under the covers, but before he gets the chance to react, Nagi's pulling away to press another kiss to his cheek. "Hold on," Reo says. "Wait a second—do we know each other?"

   Nagi sits back, just far enough to look Reo in the eyes, wholly unimpressed. "I'm your boyfriend," Nagi tells him, as if it's obvious.

   Reo looks him up and down. He combs through his mental cabinet of familiar faces and comes up empty. "I've never seen you before in my life," he declares.

   "Sure, you haven't."

   "I'm serious," Reo says. Nagi clicks his tongue. "Nagi. I don't even know where we are right now."

   "We're in your room," Nagi says. "Reo, are you sure you're not—"

   "I'm not sick." But the way Nagi says his name, soft and reverent, does something odd to his stomach, and Reo has to look away. He kicks the blankets off and stumbles to his feet, cold air turning his limbs numb. A quick scan of the room confirms what he'd seen from the bed—this room is full of his things, and of someone else's, too. Two phones on the nightstand, two jackets folded on the dresser, and, of course, the two shirts on the wall.

   "What's the last thing you remember?" Nagi asks. When Reo turns around, Nagi's still sprawled across the bed, arms folded over his stomach.

   "Last night," Reo says. "Nothing happened last night. I just came home from work. I live alone."

   "Where do you work?"

   "With my father."

   Nagi's expression twitches. For the briefest of moments, his eyebrows draw together, and his lips curl into a frown. "No," he says. A simple denial, as if he can speak the truth into existence. "We play football."

   Reo stares at him. In the silence, Nagi points at their shirts—their jerseys. Proof that his words are honest, and that, somehow, Reo's aren't.

   "I'm not lying," Reo says, a little helplessly. His next inhale comes in too quick, and he almost chokes on it. "I just—I don't understand."

   Nagi scoots across the bed until he's close enough to take Reo's hands in his own. "I know," Nagi says. He's still a stranger, yet something about his voice soothes Reo to his very core. "You never lie to me."

   In this world, Reo has just turned twenty-four, and that's where the similarities end. He plays football, and has since he was in high school. He has a boyfriend—Nagi—who he'd moved in with last year. The two of them are professional athletes. They'd competed in a program called Blue Lock, dedicated to finding the country's best striker. Reo remembered seeing it on the television sometimes, but he'd never really paid attention to it. Football was just something he'd picked up for a couple of months and given up on, another item to be tacked onto the endless list of his failed hobbies.

   "You always said you'd never take over your family's company," Nagi tells him over breakfast, which is a banana each for the two of them. "You said you'd rather do anything else."

   "That's how kids think," Reo says.

   "Yeah, but—" and now Nagi's eyes glaze over, as if he's reminiscing. Somehow, Reo is jealous that Nagi gets to see those memories he's never had. "We were kids back then."

   Well, Reo had thought that way when he was younger. He'd grown out of it by the time he got to university. "Did we meet in high school?" Reo asks.

   "Hakuho?"

   "Hakuho," Reo confirms. He tips his head and squints at Nagi. "I don't think I remember you."

   "We didn't have classes together," Nagi says. "We met by coincidence, actually. You wanted me to join your football team."

   "That's…" Reo trails off. He folds his banana peel in on itself. The fibers snap. "I didn't know I was like that."

   "You're confident," Nagi says. "You always were."

   "Well, that seems obnoxious, not just confident."

   Nagi cracks a smile. "You were that, too. In a good way."

   It's too hard, meeting Nagi's eyes like this. Reo drops his gaze to the table. "Thanks."

   The silence grows. Nagi shifts around in his chair, and the sound of the wood creaking fills the air between them. "So," he says, a little awkwardly. Reo gets the distinct sense that he's not used to initiating conversation. "Did you play football, then?"

   Reo takes a bite of his banana, chews, and swallows. He scans his surroundings while he cobbles together an answer. They've got a nice living room, and a big window. The sunlight is bright and warm where it washes over the furniture. The walls are covered in picture frames. It's a lot cozier than his own place, for sure. "Only for a bit," he finally says. He can't come up with a way to make it sound less disappointing. "It didn't really go anywhere. And I had to focus on school."

   "Oh," Nagi says. He does a poor job of masking his dismay. "That's nice."

   "You don't have to pretend."

   "That's awful," Nagi says immediately. Reo can't hold back a small smile. "I can't believe you would do that."

   "Is it that surprising?"

   Nagi shrugs. "For the you that I know—yes, it is."

   The you that I know. Whoever, or whichever version of Reo lives in this world, he must be a very different person. Maybe the kind of person Reo had dreamed he would grow into, back when he was young and still had enough time to do so. Perhaps he's a bit of a disappointment, the way he is now.

   "Don't be sad," Nagi says from across the table. Reo, not for the first time today, finds himself unsettled by how well Nagi can read him. Of course he can. Nagi's his boyfriend.

   "I've never kissed anyone before, by the way," Reo says absentmindedly. "Until today."

   Nagi sighs, long and loud. "I'm sorry," he says softly, sounding for all the world like he means it.

   Reo looks over to Nagi. He's got his shoulders hunched, and his head is bowed down toward the ground. He's good-looking. Reo could see them dating, maybe. "It's fine," Reo says to him. "I'm not really into romance, anyway."

   Nagi's gaze flickers up to meet Reo's, then away again. "You're so different," he says, and nothing more.

   So, Reo is disappointing like this. Not that it's a surprise—he's a bit of a bore, really, with nothing but work and sleep filling his schedule. This life he has in this timeline, with all its fame and glory and romance, is too perfect. It's the kind of thing he'd stumble upon after a million tries, living the same life over and over again until all the stars aligned. And he'd just happened to wake up in it, on his birthday of all days. Maybe it's a gift, showing him what could have been. Or it's a curse, meant to stir up misery.

   "I'm just being practical," Reo says. Even if Nagi's not wrong, he still feels the need to defend himself. "I'm fine living a solitary life. It doesn't make much of a difference to me, and I still have friends." Acquaintances, more like, but it's about the same thing.

   "That's fine," is Nagi's reply.

   Reo can't shake the feeling that Nagi's holding back. It bothers him, just a little, that Nagi seems to possess the need to coddle him. "I know it's fine," he says, irritation turning his words sharp. Maybe it's not fine. Whatever.

   Nagi's watching him again. He seems so dubious, Reo feels an itching, burning sort of self-consciousness crawling up his spine. "What am I like, then?" Reo asks him, his voice heated. He's still feeling prickly. "The version of me that you know."

   "You talk a lot," Nagi says. "You talked for me, most of the time. I'm not used to talking this much. And you're ambitious to a fault." Then, a little softer, with his gaze rolling over Reo's face: "The way you are now—you're kind of like me."

   Reo sits up. "What do you mean?"

   "When I was younger," Nagi says. The sunlight has finally reached their table. It burns a golden line into the curve of Nagi's shoulder, the slope of his cheek. "I wanted an easy job. I wanted to live a quiet life, and to live it alone."

   "What's wrong with that?" Reo says defensively.

   Nagi shrugs. "Nothing's wrong. But it's lonely. I always thought to myself that you saved me, coming into my life the way you did."

   It's a lot of responsibility, saving someone, especially a man he's never met before today. Reo doesn't know what to say, and Nagi seems to read his discomfort quickly, because he leans back in his seat the moment the words leave his mouth. He offers Reo half a smile. "We don't have practice today, so we can stay in." Then, as an afterthought, he adds, "Football practice, I mean."

   "Yeah, I know," Reo snaps. "I'm not a kid."

   He still has yet to learn the delicate nuances of Nagi's different expressions, but even he can see the hurt that flashes across the other man's face. It doesn't last for long, though, and Nagi's standing up before either of them can say anything about it. The ball's in Reo's court, now—it's the perfect time for him to call out, to say sorry, I didn't mean it, but he did mean it, so why would he lie? Besides, he doesn't owe Nagi anything. They're strangers.

   "You're not the only one who gets to be upset about this," Nagi says. Even now, his voice stays gentle. Probably because Reo's wearing his boyfriend's face.

   Nagi looks gutted, actually. As if his boyfriend has died, or something. Maybe it is something like that, and Reo is so different from the version of himself that Nagi knows that it's impossible to reconcile the two of them. Inexplicably, Reo finds himself offended—that he's so unpleasant, the way he is now, that Nagi feels the need to grieve the change like this.

   Regardless, he's in an even worse mood now. He has to swallow down the ugly words that rise to his lips. Nagi clearly takes note of it, because he steps back immediately, stretching the distance between their bodies with startling efficiency.

   "I'll leave you alone," Nagi says. Reo pities him; it's obvious he'd rather do anything else. "Happy birthday."

   And then Nagi's fleeing down the hall, back to the bedroom, and Reo's left at the kitchen table with two banana peels. The door closes with the softest of clicks, as if Nagi's still tiptoeing around him, even now. It makes Reo feel like a villain, which is unfair. He can't do anything in this situation, either.

   Reo won't throw a fit about it. He doesn't mind the solitude—he's spent his whole life in it.

   Reo's not used to these lazy mornings, honeyed golden hours with nothing to do. Time is viscous as it slips past, dragging against the walls like it's reluctant to go. He feels more at ease now, enough to think about the situation—how he ended up here, and how to get back. It's the kind of thing he'd see in sci-fi novels or movies, and they'd always get wrapped up neat and tidy without any extra fuss. Maybe he's meant to have some great revelation, or learn some extraordinary lesson, and the universe will take him home.

   Looking around the living room, Reo's not entirely sure what he's supposed to take away from all of this. He still feels a bit like he's dreaming. Everything the sun touches glows bright, including the skin on his hands. It makes it difficult for him to see it as anything more than temporary—a whispered story told in the early morning hours, meant to be forgotten in a week's time.

   There's a creaking noise from behind him. Reo whips around, hands braced against the back of the couch, and sees Nagi standing in the mouth of the corridor, hugging the wall. They watch each other for three long seconds, sizing each other up. Reo's observing him, distant, as an unfamiliar figure. He's not sure what he looks like in Nagi's eyes.

   Eventually, Nagi seems to come to terms with what he sees, because he ventures into the living room and takes a seat on the couch, a careful half meter away from Reo. He reaches for the remote and turns the television on. Channels flick across the screen one after the other, fluttering frantically as if windswept. After a while, Nagi settles on a rerun of a football game. It only takes Reo a few seconds to clock it as one of their own.

   "I thought you might want to see," Nagi says plainly.

   Reo has no interest in seeing whatsoever, but it seems like Nagi's trying to be nice to him, so he keeps quiet. A flash of violet, pixelated and tinged red, crosses the television, and it grabs his attention immediately. It's himself—crossing the grass with team colors strung proudly across his shoulders. He's never seen himself with such ferocity hardening the lines of his face. The way he's moving, aggressive and full of verve, is near unsettling. It's like watching another person puppeteering his own limbs.

   Reo stretches his legs out in front of himself and takes a quick look. He's got far more muscle in this body, far rougher skin. His knees are mottled with battle scars, from contact with the turf or with stray cleats. It's nothing like what he's used to: clean flesh, soft and unmarked, having seen nothing but the inner layer of his work slacks. It's night and day, these two versions of himself.

   On the screen, the picture of Reo scores a goal. He turns, fists raised high, running toward his team at the center of the field to celebrate. And here comes Nagi, flying into Reo's arms like the wind. They join their teammates in a victory lap near the stands, identical jerseys turned to a single-hued, single-minded entity that moves with all parts in perfect harmony. It's the kind of fairytale camaraderie that Reo used to admire, vaguely and casually and very much from afar.

   "See," Nagi says. Reo turns in his direction as an acknowledgment, but doesn't take his eyes off of the screen. "I'm not lying."

   "I never said you were," Reo says brusquely. Nagi's presence still leaves him moderately irked.

   Nagi looks away. He slouches in on himself, tucking his feet in under the couch. Reo gets the distinct impression that he's a bit of a pushover. Maybe Reo's the problem here, meeting all of Nagi's extended olive branches with irritation instead of treating his boyfriend like a boyfriend. But he's in a foul mood, and he's probably going to be in a foul mood for the foreseeable future, so there's not much that he can do otherwise.

   Nagi shuffles a little closer. Reo turns his cheek toward the window. He has to remind himself; it's completely justified, his coldness. He's not going to play house with someone he's just met this morning. It would be ridiculous, being happy in a situation like this, and it's ridiculous to try and pretend like he is.

   "Reo," Nagi says.

   "What?"

   "Can you not ignore me?"

   Reo sighs. Justified, he thinks.

   "We're on the same side here," Nagi continues. "We should be nice to each other. We should be calm."

   "I am calm," Reo says, deliberately slowly. And yeah, maybe he's not being nice, but the state of Nagi's heart is not his responsibility.

   Nagi still looks disproportionately devastated. Impatiently, Reo snaps his fingers for the remote, and Nagi hands it right over. Reo turns the volume down, muffling the roar of the crowd down to a soothing murmur. Then, he gives his attention over to the other man and asks, rather incredulously, "Why do you even care so much?"

   Wretchedly, miserably, Nagi tells him, "Because I love you."

   Reo scoffs. Nagi flinches, like the sound of it had snapped against his skin. "You don't have to worry about me," Reo tells him. "I know I look like it, but I'm not your boyfriend, okay?"

   "Yes, you are," Nagi says. He's gone back to watching the game, the coward. "Wouldn't you like all the versions of your loved ones the same?"

   It's not something he'd ever had to put much thought into. He doesn't have many loved ones in the first place to think about—just his parents, for whom loving is a given. "I wouldn't know," Reo mutters. He keeps his answer low and short, stubborn enough to try and keep it from sounding like an concession.

   "Well, I love Reo," Nagi says. "And I'd love him if he was a worm, or a bird, or a tree, or an office worker. So, I love you, too."

   The television chooses that moment to broadcast a replay of Reo's goal—the ball spinning against the net, a comet sheathed in white, and Nagi's arms winding around Reo's neck in dramatic, time-warping slow motion. Nagi, at his side, remains a steady, snowy blur in the corner of his eye. It's hard, deciding which is less excruciating to look at. In the end, Reo chooses Nagi, who says he loves him, and who a tender, unearthed part of Reo wants to believe.

   Nagi looks back the moment Reo's gaze lands on him. Every centimeter of his body folds itself into the shape of affection: crinkled eyes, flushed cheeks, a smile held short of fullness, as if he's shy. Reo finds himself pinned, trembling under the weight of a sentimentality he didn't know he possessed. Hopefully—and honestly, it's pathetic, that something like this gets him hopeful—Reo asks, "Do you really?"

   Nagi glances at the screen, then back to Reo. He nods.

   Reo's heartbeat sputters, then kicks fully to life, thrumming loud in his ears. He can't work out how to speak over it, at first. His skin has gone warm, heat pooling in the palms of his hands, at the back of his neck. "Nobody's ever told me that," Reo admits.

   Nagi tips his head. He says, "Someone in your universe is missing out, then."

   Even with the volume down low, the roar of the crowd from the television pierces the air with violence. Reo returns his attention back to the game, which has just concluded at the whistle. There's a closeup of the team, and Reo squished between two of his teammates, grinning broadly. It's his own face, alight with such joy. It's him.

   Reo hasn't smiled so hard at anything in all his twenty-four years of living. He probably won't have anything to smile that hard about in the future, either. In his own world, he'd had nothing to compare his muted happiness to. In this one, however, faced so plainly with another reality, he's forced to wonder about it all; if it's plausible, such storybook perfection, for someone like him.

   Nagi's expression has turned uneasy in the quiet. Reo figures he's probably used to a livelier, more talkative, more perfect version of himself. For the first time today, guilt sparks to life in the pit of his stomach. He offers up a grin, even if it comes out half hollow, and his heart jumps at Nagi's answering smile.

   Curiosity leads the next question out of his mouth before he can think about it. "Do I like playing football?" Reo asks. "Am I happy with it?"

   Nagi looks toward the television once again. Quietly, he says, "Of course you are. It was your dream."

   There's a cupcake in the fridge and a candle in the cabinet. Reo spots them both while he roots around in the kitchen. Nagi sees Reo make the discovery and makes no moves to defend himself. He just sighs and sinks into the couch cushions, accepting defeat in a battle Reo hasn't even started with him.

   "Is this for me?" Reo asks, before he remembers that it wouldn't really be for him, not exactly. But Nagi nods anyway, and he drags himself up from his spot on the sofa to join Reo in front of the fridge.

   "Let's just eat it now," Nagi says. He reaches past Reo and lifts the plastic container off of the shelf. It's touching, how careful he is, keeping the base flat and the frosting intact.

   "Wait," Reo protests. "I was going to make dinner."

   Nagi ignores him. He reaches for the cabinet and slips one hand in. When he draws it out, he's holding the candle and a lighter. He nudges Reo toward the head of the table with a quiet murmur—"Sit down"—and then he busies himself with turning the apartment completely dark, drawing the curtains closed, switching off all the lights. Then, once their surroundings are nothing more than muddy shapes in gray and black, he makes his way back over with the lighter flicked out in front of him.

   "Think of a wish," Nagi tells him. Reo almost wants to laugh—he hasn't made a wish on his birthday since he was twelve—but Nagi looks like he really, really means it. So Reo clasps his hands in his lap and watches Nagi set the candle into the cupcake, holding it like something delicate. The open flame from the lighter flickers, then spreads to the candle's wick. A flimsy orange bubble blooms to life atop the table, a solitary glow in an otherwise lightless room.

   Nagi sings, then. He keeps his voice low, like he's abashed, even now. The candle flickers, tugged this way and that to the rhythm of his breathing. Reo watches his mouth—chapped lips and the barest hint of teeth, all in fiery hues, shaping and reshaping themselves around a song just for him. It's raspy and off-key and he stumbles over his words near the end, but it's the first time Reo has heard this tune, with his own name, from anyone outside of his family, and he's irreversibly endeared by it.

   "I'm done," Nagi says when he finishes the song, somewhat awkwardly. He waves one shadowy hand at the candle.

   Reo blows gently. The light goes out. Nagi lets out a sigh. His hands find Reo's in the dark, then flit away again. "Sorry," he says. Then, before Reo can respond: "Do you want the lights on?"

   Reo swallows. He says, "Yeah, thanks."

   Nagi turns the kitchen lights back on. He returns to the table and slides the cupcake in Reo's direction. "I would have gotten a bigger cake, but I don't think we'd be able to finish it," Nagi says apologetically. "Since it's just the two of us here, tonight."

   Reo nods. He reaches out and brings the cupcake closer. It's all vanilla, frosting included, and the candle is a deep purple. It's the sort of thing he'd pick out for himself, if he had to. It's probably what this universe's version of himself likes, too, if Nagi had chosen it. It gives him the slightest inkling of hope, that maybe these two worlds might not be too far off from each other.

   Then again, his birthdays back home are even quieter than this year's. He hasn't had a party since he turned fourteen, and he hasn't even had a celebration since he began living alone. He wouldn't even go through the hassle of buying himself a treat. He'd go home, just like any other day, and cross the day off his calendar. It wasn't like they mattered much, anyway—he'd gotten older, once again, and that was that. There was never any need to linger on it any longer, especially not on his own.

   The scrape of wood on wood startles Reo. Nagi drags his chair closer to Reo's, looking somewhere between his chin and the top of the table. Dejectedly, he asks, "Are you disappointed?"

   Reo shakes his head. "Why would I be?" he says.

   "It's not a cake," Nagi says. "And it's not a party. It's just—it's not great, as far as birthdays go."

   It's a little pathetic, truthfully. The wax has melted, and the candle's gone crooked. The cupcake is hardly large enough to split. Nagi can barely meet his eyes. The atmosphere is anything but festive. Still, it's something, shown in the delicate cradle formed by Nagi's fingers, in the subtle lifting of his eyebrows as he fiddles with the plastic box. Even a measly party for two, a single calloused pair of hands to coax his flame to life—it's something small and precious he's never gotten to have before.

   "Sorry," Nagi says again. "Me and you—we usually celebrate our birthdays like this, just the two of us. I know it's boring."

   "It's alright," Reo says. "I don't celebrate with anyone, anyway."

   Nagi's brows furrow. "No one at all?"

   "No one."

   Reo looks away before pity can take full control of Nagi's expression. There are hands sneaking under his chin, lifting him up, and for one dizzying moment, Reo thinks Nagi might kiss him—but then there are arms wrapping around him, a body molding against his own, like they'd always been meant to fit together. And still, this body isn't his own, and Nagi isn't his, either. This life falls under his name, and that's all he gets to own of it.

   There's a curious quality to the world Reo sees over Nagi's shoulder; the surfaces gleam and the shadows are soft, like every corner is touched by candlelight. His dreams have been stolen by sleep deprivation for years now, but he imagines this is how it would be to live in one of them.

   That means he'll inevitably get to wake from this, too. He thinks he's come to terms with it all—he's borrowed this apartment for a bit, and he'll return it after he's done with it, and that'll be all.

   Somehow, that thought carves him up inside. Reo can't quite make sense of that, because it shouldn't. There isn't much in the way of joy in his own life, but the joy from this life isn't meant for him, either.

   "Reo," Nagi says, pulling away. His fingertips drag tingling tracks across Reo's skin.

   Reo looks him in the eyes. Nagi's gaze is vibrant, gray gone gold in the lighting. He wonders, is it? Is it meant for him?

   "What did you wish for?" Nagi asks.

   What did he wish for? What should he wish for? Is there even a wish that he needs to make? Each question slips away, unbidden and unanswered, visitors for the shortest of moments. Reo finds that he has no desire to hold onto them. It's simpler, not to poke any holes in the fragile fabric of his life. It's easier—easy job, easy routine, easy everything, forever and ever. He could probably die from how easy it all is, right now, and it must be a good thing.

   "You don't have to tell me, actually," Nagi says into the silence. "It won't come true otherwise."

   In this instant, Reo looks away. Easy has never felt so cowardly before.

   "Would you fall in love with me in every universe?"

   The darkness, and the lack of Nagi in Reo's field of vision, leaves him at ease, enough to ask the question. It's a kind of childish curiosity that he'd normally never indulge, but he has an itching feeling that if he doesn't do anything to quench it now, he'll never get the chance to do it in the future.

   They're lying on opposite halves of the bed, Nagi under the covers, Reo on top of them. They don't touch, but Reo can feel where the blanket rises over Nagi's hand, a gentle slope that nudges against his own fingers. It flattens back out as Nagi draws away, pulling his arms close to his own body. For a second, the sound of Nagi's breathing is his only response—then, floating into the air between them, "I think so."

   "Even all the different versions of you?"

   "Would they be that different?"

   "Then," Reo presses. "Would I fall in love with you, too?"

   It takes even longer for Nagi to answer this time. In the meantime, Reo watches the moon rise in the ebb and flow of the silvery light against the wall opposite the window, changing with the constant slide of the cloud cover across the night sky. He hasn't really done much today—hasn't even stepped foot outside the apartment—but he's dead tired, unwilling to move much more than his eyes and his fingers. Maybe it's part comfort, too, being in this bedroom, a new box full of old things.

   "I'd hope so," Nagi says, somewhat abruptly. Reo has to take a moment to recall what they'd been talking about.

   "What would you be doing, then?" Reo asks. "In a world where we haven't met. In my world."

   "I don't know," Nagi says. "Nothing exciting, probably."

   There goes the moon again, dying light tamped down by another smattering of clouds. Reo turns his head, pressing his cheek into the pillows as he looks at Nagi. There's not much to see; only gray on gray, a shadow with an invisible outline, breathing at his side.

   "Why?" asks Nagi.

   Reo returns to watching the endless ceiling above him. "Just wondering."

   Nagi responds with a gentle puff of an exhale. The walls continue to blend, going darker and darker until the corners where they meet have been scrubbed from existence. Slowly, as if done by hand, all noise fades into the night—the rumble of the washing machine, the footsteps from their upstairs neighbor, and the wind, singing into silence outside the window.

   "Are you cold?" Nagi whispers.

   "No," Reo says, but Nagi's already rearranging the sheets, dragging the blankets out from underneath Reo's body to toss them over him instead. Nagi's fingers land on Reo's arm, gently, fleetingly, before fluttering back to his own side of the bed.

   "Good night," Nagi says. Reo holds still when Nagi tugs the covers up to his chin. He's warm, but the air has gone cold and brittle. He gets the sinking feeling that this is goodbye, right now.

   Reo searches through the dark, sliding his hand over the mattress. Nagi's fingers curl around his own the moment they meet. "Nagi," Reo says, just to hear it in his own voice again. To see if he could get used to it, maybe.

   Nagi shifts his weight—no closer, no further. "Yeah?"

   "Do you think I should look for you?"

   "…If you want to."

   It's a perfect, honest, noncommittal answer. Reo thinks Nagi probably doesn't mean it so bluntly—probably intends it to be something closer to follow your heart—but it stings all the same, the lack of softness to it. He feels the hurt, first, and then the gentle shock that comes after; why, exactly, is he hurt by it?

   "Nagi," Reo says again. Nagi hums. "I think I like you."

   A floorboard creaks above their heads. Nagi brings his free hand up to tug at his hair, and it whispers all the way—against the covers, against his shirt, against his own skin. The moon makes a return, wandering back onto the wall with creeping hesitance. Reo draws another slow circle around the room with his eyes, even as his vision starts to go hazy. Sleep has him on a leash, now, and he finds himself struggling to stay awake.

   "I think, if I hadn't been playing football," Nagi says. He squeezes Reo's hand, and he waits for Reo to squeeze back before he continues. "I'd probably still be living at my old home, next to the school."

   "You think so?" Reo whispers.

   "I only moved out because of you," Nagi says. "I only did a lot of things because of you."

   Reo shuts his eyes. It feels like he has to drag his eyelids up to open them. Nagi's hand sits like a rock in his own—unmovable, unyielding. The moon goes out, and it takes the world with it, stealing all color away as it leaves. He's suddenly far too aware of the rhythm of his own breathing, and the heaping effort of drawing air into his lungs, of letting it out quiet, without stirring the bubble between them.

   "But, either way," Nagi says. "Do what you want to do. Just be happy, okay?"

   "I am happy," Reo says.

   "That's good."

   "I'm not lying, Nagi."

   "I believe you."

   This, somehow, is what gets Reo to cry. He thinks he's good at hiding it; he doesn't move, he keeps his inhales steady, and the only evidence of it is a wet track, drawn from the corner of his eye into the shell of his ear. Still, Nagi notices, and he doesn't say a word. He just tightens his grip, and he holds his breath, like he could hold Reo's for him, too.

   The walls are blank. The blankets are white. The curtains are drawn shut, so resolutely solid that it's impossible to tell if what's behind them is window or wall. Reo welcomes it all back with a weary acceptance, bound more by duty than by choice. It's halfhearted and unconditional, his love for this home.

   The clock on his nightstand tells him that he's slept through his alarm. He takes a minute to think about it, staring at the lampshade, weighing the pros and cons of rushing late to work. In the end, he lets his exhaustion take the reins, and he drags himself out of bed with no urgency at all, spurred on only by hunger that gnaws through his stomach.

   There are two unread messages on his phone, both a day old, one from each of his parents. Reo reads them as he brushes his teeth; they're reliably similar to the last year's birthday wishes. When he's done, he finds that he's not particularly hungry anymore. He's not really inclined to do anything at all, actually. He changes into a clean set of clothes, packs his things for work, and stands in the doorway, searching for an answer in the graining of the wood.

   It's nice, being home again, especially after everything that happened yesterday. It's quiet and dimly-lit, easy on the ears and eyes, and there's nothing for him to think about—a good thing, on most days. Still, after less than a minute, his skin starts to tingle. Unease takes hold of his body, pulling at his limbs, and he puts his hand on the doorknob, suddenly driven by the need to move.

   Aside from work and home, there aren't many other places he can go. There's the corner store; the park, half of which is closed off for construction; and his old high school, which he'd never moved far away from, but which he hasn't thought about for months, and hasn't returned to for years.

   School. Where they'd come so close, but never managed to meet. Reo wonders how many hallways they'd passed each other in—how many times they had drawn near, blurry in the other's periphery, and pulled apart again with nothing exchanged. Maybe it's even happened in this town of theirs, if Nagi, like Reo, had never moved away. Maybe they've crossed paths on the street, in the store, met eyes and thought nothing of each other.

   It's not as if he has anything else to do today. Reo swallows his tiny, budding speck of hope like a pill and makes his way through the front door. He brings his bag with him out of habit, and the weight of it on his shoulder soothes him. He can't remember the last time he left home without it.

   It's a twenty minute walk to the school, and Reo has never believed in fate, or soulmates, or true love—it catches him off guard, then, when he sees Nagi just halfway down the first block, barely sixty seconds from Reo's doorstep, placed like a statue in the window of the coffee shop Reo never got around to visiting. And it must be fate, because Nagi turns his head at that very moment, and through the foggy glass, it almost seems like he's looking at Reo. Like he recognizes him.

   Reo power walks across the street and into the shop. The chiming of the doorbell announces his arrival, and Nagi's still there, staring right at Reo, holding his drink over the table with both hands. It's a table for two. Fate, reaching its hand out to him, beckoning him over.

   "Nagi," Reo says, before he can really think about it. "Can I sit with you?"

   Nagi shrinks, shoulders hunching. He has longer hair than yesterday's version of himself. His eye bags are worse. There's exhaustion etched deep into every line of his face. He says, "Why do you know my name?"

   Reo falters. He drags a smile onto his face, and he sees Nagi's gaze flicker, dropping lower, lingering on the wavering curve of his mouth. "From school," Reo says awkwardly. "We went to the same school, didn't we?"

   Nagi shrugs. He's so quiet, even quieter than yesterday, and he'd already been so quiet then. Reo has to step in closer to hear him. "We never talked."

   He doesn't deny it, that they'd gone to school together. Reo asks, "So you knew me?"

   "Sit down," Nagi says, soft as ever, waving one blurry hand at the seat across from him. Then, as Reo pulls back the chair, he adds, "Everyone knew you."

  "But you never talked to me."

   "Why would we talk?"

   Reo stares at him. Nagi takes a sip of his drink. "Sorry," Reo says.

   "Why are you sorry?"

   "Well, just…"

   Nagi sets his drink down. His gaze wanders to the window. Reo sits across from him. The chatter from the other patrons in the shop makes a temporary home in the air between them. It's all a lot more familiar, a lot warmer than their own conversation has been. It leaves Reo with the slightest sense of shame, that whatever's between him and Nagi now isn't measuring up. There's not anything between them at all, really.

   "Did you want something?" Nagi asks, still looking out through the glass, at the street.

   "I don't know," Reo says.

   It's the truth. He's not entirely sure what he'd expected—maybe that they'd see each other and, in the very same instant, feel drawn to each other, immediately and irrevocably. Reo, of course, likes him, having been able to know his mirror image for all of yesterday. But now, Nagi is so passive, and Reo could probably stand up and leave right now, and they wouldn't say another word each other.

   There's a honk from the road. Reo turns his head to glance at it, and he catches his own reflection, a pale image of himself. Then, half a meter forward: Nagi, eyes half-shut, watching Reo attentively in the glass. He looks away the moment they lock eyes, his mouth curling into a frown. Then, it's Reo's turn to stare at him in the window, tallying up all the things that have stayed the same, and all the things that have changed. It's the look in his eyes, most of all, that makes him such a stranger. Reo doesn't know him well enough to read it.

   "I didn't mean it in a bad way, earlier," Nagi says, unprompted. Reo shifts his gaze from Nagi's reflection to his face. He seems apologetic, in the way his eyebrows pinch together. "When I said we wouldn't talk to each other."

   "What did you mean, then?" Reo asks.

   "I think it's true," Nagi says. He drags his cup across the tabletop, left, then right, then left again. "But I didn't mean to, um, hurt your feelings."

   "You didn't hurt my feelings," Reo says immediately. He's lying, a little bit.

   "Good," Nagi says, his voice soft.

   More silence. Nagi brings his cup to his mouth once more. Reo pretends to study the menu mounted above the counter, and he manages to get from the first line to the last with no words spoken between them.

   "Reo," Nagi finally says. Reo's pulse stutters. It's the first time Nagi's said his name. "I'm on my lunch break."

   "Okay," Reo says.

   "I have to go back to work now."

   "That's alright."

   Nagi scoots his chair back and rises to his feet. Reo nudges his cup closer to the edge of the table for him to take, and he picks it up. "It was nice to see you," Nagi says, staring at the ground.

   Reo lets out a sigh. "Yeah," he says.

   "You, um…" Nagi takes half a step in Reo's direction. He begins to raise his free hand, then seems to think better of it, dropping it back to his side. "Can I see you again?"

   It's the last thing Reo's expecting. He's ready for a cordial goodbye at best, and Nagi doesn't even bother to offer him that, either—he begins to back away, lifting his gaze to the ceiling, and Reo has to grab his hand to keep him close. Their eyes meet, and Reo's world narrows abruptly to the gentle furrow of Nagi's brow, the redness of his cheeks. "Did you want to?" Reo says, and he's painfully aware of how quickly his voice pitches up, how hopeful he sounds.

   Nagi blinks at him. He turns his head, immediately shy. "Maybe I was reading this wrong, but I thought you were—interested," Nagi mumbles. "In me."

   "I am," Reo says. Then, with embarrassment taking reflexive hold of his throat, he adds, "Or, I just wanted to get to know you better."

   "Out of nowhere?"

   Reo doesn't know what to do but smile. He pinches the inside of his cheek between his teeth. "I just…felt like it."

   "Well," Nagi says. He's blushing down to his neck, now. He still isn't looking at Reo, so Reo takes his time, watching the gradual flush rise to his skin. "You know, everyone at school liked you."

   Nagi's phone rings. Reo releases his hand like it's scalded him. Maybe it's lucky, because Reo's at a complete loss for words. Nagi's gaze finds him once more, this time apologetic, as he backs away.

   "I'll see you," Reo says, finding his voice just as Nagi drifts out of reach. "I'll come back later today."

   "Okay," Nagi says. He turns around, takes two steps, and looks back at Reo again. "Okay, I'll see you."

   Reo waves. Nagi gives him half a smile, and Reo sees it—the image of him, from yesterday, in a world where they'd known each other forever. Then, he's slipping through the door, rosy fingers tugging at his collar, bowing his head to the wind.

   Reo stares at his retreating back in the glass until he fades into the cityscape. The image of him is picturesque—a wish granted, a dream come true. Different from yesterday, in the subtlest of shades. It'd been so easy to find him, to speak with him. Like it was meant to happen, maybe.

   The wind howls. It begins to rain. Reo's heart starts up like a creature waking from hibernation, slow and aching, nearly forgotten by time.