The morning light didn't feel like forgiveness.
It slipped through the window in soft, unwanted streaks, washing over the two beds like it didn't know what happened the night before. Like it didn't care.
Arm sat up first. Hair a mess. Shirt twisted. He blinked hard at the ceiling for a moment, then turned toward the desk where Mix's side was already empty. The drawer was half-open. The candy was gone.
So was Mix.
His shoes were missing from the mat. The air still smelled faintly of his shampoo. He hadn't taken his planner.
Arm ran a hand down his face, then stood and reached for his hoodie. He didn't know what he was doing or where he was going. Just that he couldn't stay in that room, surrounded by the silence Mix left behind.
---
He found him eventually.
In the second-floor study lounge. Legs pulled up under himself, back to the window, headphones in. Books open in front of him like a barrier.
Arm didn't knock on the glass. Didn't call his name. He walked in, quiet as he could, and dropped into the seat across from him.
Mix didn't look up.
They sat like that for a full minute.
Then Arm reached out, tugged one earbud gently free.
Mix finally looked at him. His face unreadable. Pale in the soft daylight. A trace of exhaustion under his eyes.
"You left early," Arm said.
"You didn't say anything," Mix replied.
"I didn't know what to say."
Mix stared at him for a long moment, then let the silence build again before saying, "Then why are you here now?"
Arm exhaled. "Because I can't take it anymore. The walking on eggshells. The pretending."
Mix tilted his head slightly. "Pretending what?"
"That I don't care. That you're just my roommate. That what happened before didn't mean anything."
"You mean what you did before," Mix corrected, eyes sharp.
Arm looked down. He didn't argue.
Mix leaned back. "What do you want, Arm?"
"I want you to stop shutting me out."
"Funny. That's what you do."
Arm's fingers curled into his palm. "I was scared."
"Of me?"
"No," Arm whispered. "Of me. Of what it meant. Of what people would think."
Mix's jaw tensed. "You let them laugh at me."
"I didn't"
"You didn't stop them. Same thing."
The air cracked between them. The weight of what wasn't said felt unbearable.
"I was sixteen," Arm said. "And I hated myself for it every damn day."
"You think that fixes it?" Mix asked, voice breaking slightly. "You think that makes it okay?"
"No," Arm said. "But it's all I have."
They stared at each other. Nothing soft in their eyes. No gentle understanding. Just pain and old anger dressed up as quiet.
Arm reached across the table. His hand hovered for a second, unsure. Then he said, barely above a whisper, "Let me try."
Mix's voice was barely steady. "Try what?"
Arm swallowed.
"Us."
Mix blinked.
And in that momentfragile and impossiblethey both knew it was the edge of something dangerous.
"You're late," Mix said quietly.
"I know."
And then, as if the world paused to give them one chance…
Arm stood. Walked around the table. Stopped just in front of Mix.
"You should've said something sooner," Mix whispered.
"I know."
And then he leaned in.
And Mix didn't stop him.
The kiss wasn't perfect. It wasn't soft. It was desperate and raw and trembling around the edges. But it happened. After all the silence, after all the things they never said.
It happened.
---
They didn't speak for a full minute after the kiss.
Not because it didn't mean anything. But because it meant too much.
Arm's hand still hovered near Mix's cheek, fingers twitching slightly like he didn't know if he was allowed to keep touching him.
Mix pulled back first. Breath shaky. Eyes wide, but guarded.
"That doesn't fix it," he said quietly.
"I know."
"You think kissing me means I'll just let it go?"
"I don't want you to let it go," Arm said. "I want you to make me prove it."
Mix stepped back. One pace. Two. Like space would help him think. It didn't.
"You don't know what you're asking for."
"Then show me."
Mix stared at him.
Then something shifted in his voice. "You want me? Earn me."
Arm blinked.
"I'm not a prize. I'm not something you get just because you regret it now. You don't get to erase what you did. You don't get to climb into my bed and make it okay."
His voice cracked a little on the last word, but he didn't flinch.
Arm swallowed. "Then tell me what to do."
"Start by listening," Mix said. "Start by not touching me unless I say you can. Start by not looking at me like I belong to you."
"I'm not"
"You are," Mix snapped. "You want me, but you didn't see me. Not when it counted."
The silence stretched.
Then softer, quieter: "If you want me, you'll have to wait. And work for it. You'll have to earn me. On my terms."
Arm nodded slowly. "Okay."
"I mean it," Mix said.
"I know."
"Then go," Mix whispered. "I can't look at you right now."
Arm hesitated. Wanted to argue. Wanted to stay.
But he didn't.
He left.
And Mix didn't cry. Not then. Not until he was sure the door had closed.
---
Mix sat at his desk, hands trembling slightly where they gripped the edge. The candy wrapper from the night before still sat in the corner, folded once like a secret. He stared at it, unblinking.
He wasn't going to cry.
He had said what needed to be said. Clear. Direct. On his terms. No more choking on silence. No more making himself small to be safe.
Still, his chest ached.
Not because of what happened.
Because of what it could still become.
He curled his fingers into a fist and closed the drawer, forcing the candy out of sight.
That night, he didn't sleep. He lay in the dark with his eyes open, heartbeat loud in the quiet, like it was echoing back to someone who was no longer there.
---
Arm didn't sleep either. He couldn't, he wandered till he ended up in the libary
He sat in the almost empty library, hoodie pulled over his head like it could block out the guilt. His phone lay untouched beside him, notifications blinking in the dark. None of them were from Mix.
He knew he'd messed up. Twice. First years ago. Then again with silence.
This wasn't something a single kiss could fix. This wasn't about getting Mix back. This was about being the kind of person Mix could want.
So, sometime past three in the morning, he picked up a notebook.
Not his phone.
Not his laptop.
Paper. Ink. His actual handwriting. Something real.
He started writing.
Not a letter.
Just… thoughts. Truths. The kind he never said out loud.
I didn't laugh because I thought it was funny.
I laughed because I was scared and too weak to do anything else.
I didn't talk to you after because I thought I didn't deserve to.
I kept the secret version of you in my head. The version that forgave me.
But the real you… the one that looked at me like I mattered…
I lost him.
And maybe I don't deserve him now either.
But I want to learn how to.
Tell me what to do.
And I'll do it.
I won't ask to hold you again until you ask me to.
But I'll stay here.
I'll stay.
Until you believe I mean it.
He tore the page out. Folded it once. Didn't sign it.
He'd deliver it in the morning.
---
As soon as Mix woke up the next day, he looked out the window, the first light of dawn started to bleed through the blinds. He hadn't closed them all the way. Shadows stretched long across the floor.
He was still awake.
Still waiting.
For something. Anything.
And in that in-between space, he whispered to no one, "Don't give up."
Arms wasn't in the room, he didn't come back last night.
---