Haru's breaths softened into the rhythm of sleep, his body curled tightly on the sofa, the blanket a fragile barrier against the weight of his new reality. The Caldwell mansion's silence was oppressive, the darkness wrapping around him like a shroud. Exhausted from the day's turmoil—his unwanted marriage, the sting of Lucien's name on his lips—he finally succumbed to a deep, restless slumber, unaware of the shadow about to cross his threshold.
Twenty minutes later, the door creaked open, and Lucien stumbled into the room, his steps faltering under the haze of whiskey. The faint glow of moonlight barely pierced the heavy curtains, casting long shadows across the bed he'd prepared for their first night as husbands.
He tossed aside the decorative pillows with a drunken flourish, expecting to find Haru nestled in the sheets. But the bed was empty, cold. Lucien frowned, confusion clouding his already muddled mind. "Haru?"
he slurred, his voice a low rumble in the dark.
He turned, his eyes catching a small figure on the sofa. Haru, curled like a wounded animal, his face softened by sleep, lashes fanning across his pale cheeks. Lucien's heart lurched, a pang of something tender and sharp twisting in his chest.
He stepped closer, his boots silent on the plush carpet, drawn to Haru's quiet vulnerability. Kneeling beside him, Lucien hesitated, his breath hitching. Haru's lips, slightly parted, were an invitation he couldn't resist.
Gently, he cupped Haru's face, his fingers trembling as they traced the soft curve of his jaw. He leaned in, pressing a tentative peck to Haru's lips, then lingered, kissing him slowly, deeply, for minutes that felt like stolen eternity. Haru stirred faintly, a small shift in his sleep, and Lucien pulled back, his face flushed with liquor and longing.
"Why are you sleeping here?"
he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "It's our wedding night, Haru. Most couples… they…" He faltered, a shy blush creeping across his cheeks. "They do that. But we're different, aren't we? It's okay. I can wait for you. Forever, if I have to." His words cracked, raw and pleading. "I'm sorry, Haru. Please… forgive me."
With a tenderness that belied his drunken state, Lucien slipped his arms beneath Haru, lifting him as if he were fragile glass. Haru's head rested against his chest, still lost in dreams, and Lucien carried him to the bed, laying him gently on the silk sheets. He tucked the blanket around Haru's small frame, his fingers lingering before he pressed a soft kiss to his forehead.
"Goodnight," he murmured, then collapsed onto the bed beside him, facing away, the distance between them a chasm filled with unspoken regrets. As sleep claimed him, Lucien's mind drifted, pulling him back to a memory that burned like a brand.
-----------flashback--------
Five years ago, Willowbrook Community College. The lecture hall was a crucible of humiliation, and Haru had just delivered his catastrophic introduction: "Crying in libraries." The room had exploded in laughter, and Haru had collapsed into his seat, praying for the floor to swallow him whole.
But Lucien's voice cut through the chaos, smooth and deliberate. "Well, Haru," he said, the smirk audible in his tone, "it's certainly a pleasure to meet you… again."
The class turned in slow-motion unison, a chorus of "Oooooooh" rising like a tidal wave. Heads swiveled, eyebrows arched, and Haru's heart plummeted into his sneakers. He was no longer just the quiet kid in the back. He was "Bus Guy's Acquaintance," a title that burned like a scarlet letter.
The semester hadn't even started, and he was already a meme, his dignity shredded before the first equation.
Haru's mind spiraled into chaos. Is there a trapdoor under this desk? Can I fake a sudden illness? But there was no escape, no ninja-level stealth to save him. Lucien's gaze pinned him in place, that infuriating half-smile mocking him from the front of the room. Haru sank deeper into his chair, his face a furnace, willing himself to become one with the chipped wood.
Then came the moment that sealed his fate. "Who can tell me the value of x in this equation?" Lucien's voice boomed, a theatrical drumroll as chalk dust swirled around him like a magician's trick. The whiteboard was a nightmare of variables and parentheses, an algebraic labyrinth that screamed doom.
Hands shot up—eager, confident, the overachievers ready to shine. Haru, though? He was frozen, his hand glued to his desk as if moving it would unleash a catastrophe. He stared at a scuff mark on his sneaker, willing himself to become invisible. Be the scuff mark. Live as the scuff mark. But the universe had other plans.
"Haru," Lucien said, his voice slicing through the air like a blade. "What do you say?"
Every eye in the room turned to him, a spotlight of judgment. Haru's heart pounded, his throat a desert. He stood slowly, his legs trembling like a fawn's. His mouth opened, but his brain screamed, Say something smart! Nothing came. The numbers on the board were hieroglyphs, mocking him with their mystery.
"I… I…" he stammered, his voice barely a whisper. "I don't know."
*The room erupted. Snickers turned to chuckles, chuckles to full-blown laughter. Someone wheezed, another snorted. Haru's face burned atomic red, his dignity crumbling like ash. This is how I die, he thought. Death by math and humiliation.'
Lucien raised a hand, his expression calm but unreadable. "Quiet down, everyone," he said, his voice dipped in authority. The laughter fizzled, but the damage was done. Haru sank back into his seat, a dying ember of himself, wishing he could vanish into the linoleum.
The rest of the class was a blur. Lucien's voice droned on, a distant hum like a radio out of tune. Haru traced spirals on his notebook, his mind replaying the moment: "I don't know." The laughter. Lucien's gaze, not mocking but not pitying either—just that half-smile, like he'd expected this.
Haru scribbled, "Haru + embarrassment = eternal doom."
The bell shrieked, a piercing cry of mercy. "We'll pick up from here next class," Lucien said, his eyes flicking to Haru one last time, a look Haru couldn't decode but felt in his bones. He didn't move until the room emptied, the silence a heavy embrace.
Then he bolted, straight to the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face like it could wash away the shame. It didn't. But it was a start.
------------------------
In the present, Lucien stirred in his sleep, a faint smile ghosting his lips. The memory was a double-edged sword—Haru's flushed cheeks, his stammered words, the spark of defiance in his eyes. Even then, Lucien had been drawn to him, a pull he hadn't understood.
Now, lying beside Haru, the weight of their past pressed against him. He didn't know how to fix what he'd broken, but as sleep tightened its grip, one thought lingered: he would try. For Haru, he would try.