Chapter Text
The classroom was empty when Harua arrived, as per usual. He was always the earliest. Maybe it’s because everyone else was getting caught up in conversations and get-togethers between classes. For him, it was easy enough to pack up his textbooks and homework from the library table—no people to say goodbye to or off-campus meet-up spots to journey from—and trek to the next lecture hall. He’d like to think his classes gave him enough purpose. He was here to learn after all, digging a hole of debt to attend a prestigious American university. He ought to do his best to do well.
Even if this prestigious university had him shoved into a dungeon of a classroom. The building was literally the oldest on campus—201 this year he believed—with Gothic spires and once-beautiful arching windows cut cruelly in half by additional floors added in renovations. The ancient, patchwork carpet crunched when he walked on it. He was convinced they exclusively filled it with the desks too broken for the new buildings on campus, wobbling and creaking at the slightest adjustment only when the classroom was at its quietest of course.
The first thing he had to do upon arriving was run for the windows, propping them open with battered rulers past faculty must have sacrificed once the rusted joists failed years ago. He let the crisp spring hair rush in, breathing a sigh of relief as the stifling heat of the building flushed out like a bath draining. The rumor was that the heater for the building was a hundred years old and had a mind of its own, running long past winter and far too deep into an already warm spring. An unstoppable beast from a time before them all, rattling on about its job of pumping incredibly warm air into tightly packed, brick rooms and cooking faculty and students alive like an eldritch air fryer.
This was the story for the humanities majors, though. Litigated to the spare rooms that STEM majors didn’t need. Only ever walking past the shiny new labs and sparkling glass lecture halls.
Once liberated of the very real possibility of getting heat stroke on a lovely temperate spring day, he settled into his desk, which groaned like an old boat as he pulled out his notebook and the assigned reading. He’d finished the book early, but that was often the case since reading was all he did once he finished his homework. It's what made English Lit such a good fit for him, giving purpose and goal to his ravenous appetite for stories. He knew some college students dreaded classes and assignments, but so far, there were few Harua could say he’d hated.
This class was New Voices in Contemporary East Asian Literature, and Harua was quite enjoying himself. Maybe it helped that his being born and raised in Japan gave him a unique perspective on the topic some of his peers were dying to pick his brain about, making him feel rather important and insightful. Though it did get a bit personal at times, especially any of the queer topics.
They’d just started Walking Practice by Dolki Min, and Harua had sat with a pearl of discomfort the entire read. Perhaps to some, a sex crazy crash landed alien disguising itself a human to fuck and eat people could mean anything, but to Harua, it was obvious, and he quite dreaded the discussion of homophobia in East Asia they were surely to have to touch on. He wasn’t sure how he felt defacto representing his home country in this discussion. Not when he, too, was a victim. An alien in more ways than one, perhaps.
Not alone, though, as Euijoo appeared in the doorway. Euijoo was a Senior lit major and full of endearing contradictions. Adorably round-faced and eyed in the way a doe might be, yet imposingly tall and lanky. Dressed in the baggiest shirts he could find, bordering on sloppy if not for his handsome features, whilst dating one of the most stylish, cool guys on campus. Even now, Euijoo was drowning in a sweater that threatened to slip off his shoulder any moment, yet somehow his boyfriend, Nicholas, was able to wade through the yards of wool and find the man within to hug him. Maybe the extra fabric kept Euijoo safe from Nicholas’ many piercings and bulky jewelry. He was at odds with Nicholas’ dark, alternative fashion. Where Euijoo’s shirts were large, Nicholas’ pants were baggy, hanging heavy with chains and trinkets and whatever was trendy. Yet he made it work.
Harua was pretty sure Nicholas had a popular TikTok, but he was too scared to check. He only knew about the man from what Euijoo had spilled and the times when Nicholas tagged along to their study dates—Harua wasn’t sure what Nicholas was ‘studying’ on his phone when he joined, but it involved both thumbs, earbuds, and complaining of “spawn killing.”
Honestly, if Nicholas wasn’t so clearly and sickeningly in love with Euijoo—whom he’d literally followed to their University from across the world to be with—Harua might have had a crush on him. Even then, though, someone like that would never spare Harua even a glance. Overgrown bangs covering his glasses and the same handful of hoodies in endless rotations. He never left the house and had nothing to offer. People’s eyes seemed to skip over him like a stone over water, off to somewhere greater.
He’d come to America to live someplace he could be completely liberated and find out what it means to be himself, yet it seemed like there was more to a fulfilling life than a change of scenery. Something personal and more laborious. Something he didn’t have time for.
Harua acted like he hadn’t seen them yet when Euijoo pushed his glasses into his hair so he could kiss Nicholas, wrapping his arms around the shorter man's neck. They kept it brief, luckily. Nicholas had an accounting class next door this term—a business major of all things—so he couldn’t linger. Harua learned that Nicholas always walked Euijoo to his classes when he could, having shared more than just this class with the Korean American man, and thus getting to know his doting, clingy boyfriend in the process.
Nicholas got to know him, too, somehow.
“Have a good class, babe.” Then, in startling good Japanese slang, “See ya, Harua-chan!”
Harua looked up just in time to catch Nicholas waving at him over his shoulder. He instinctively bowed his head at the retreating man, taken aback.
“Sorry.” Euijoo plopped into the chair next to Harua. “He’s been practicing his Japanese properly now that, you know, he’s decided he’s coming to work in Japan with me after graduation this summer. He still speaks so rudely, though. Our friends are a bad influence.”
“Your friends from the Japanese Student Association?” Harua heard him talk about them before, but Euijoo didn’t expand much after Harua said he didn’t have time to join any clubs. Which had been a lie when he first met Euijoo to keep him at arm's length, a bit overwhelmed and skeptical by his eagerness to be friends. Now, realizing Euijoo was nothing but a well-to-do (similarly queer) nerd, Harua regretted drawing such a clear line between classmates and friends. Euijoo was too kind to cross it again.
“Yeah. It’s how Nico learned over the years. He just absorbs from chatting. I’m not sure how he does it when I have to spend years studying to be nearly as conversational.” Harua knew Euijoo could speak Japanese to some extent, but they hadn’t ever talked in Harua’s first language before. Maybe since they met speaking English, talking about a class conducted in English, it was just the easiest way to continue. Euijoo might also understand not wanting to pressure someone to speak another language for their own gain, as he often complained about being approached to practice Korean like he was some sort of free, nothing-better-to-do language exchange partner. Sometimes it was best to just stick to neutral ground.
“He speaks like ten languages, right? For some people, it just comes naturally.” Harua shrugged, drawing an ever-expanding spiral in the corner of his notebook as they chatted.
“He’s so lucky, and he doesn’t use his powers to excel; he just has more excuses to be lazy. I can’t even be mad because he still does perfectly fine.”
“That sucks. Having a skilled, perfect boyfriend who will follow you to the ends of the earth and all that. Tough.”
Euijoo rolled his eyes at a smirking Harua. “Shut up. It’s not all rainbows and unicorns. You’re just jealous.”
“Maybe. I mean, it’s not like I’ve had anyone even ask me out here.” As soon as he said it, he regretted it, hating how whiny it came off. How pathetic it made him seem. There was a reason he’d tried avoiding talking about his love life with Euijoo for the last two classes they’d shared—he had nothing to discuss.
“What? Really?” For some reason, Euijoo was shocked. “You’re so pretty and charming, though.”
Harua ducked his head. “I don’t know. I’m not fit for the American gay man’s taste or whatever.”
“Hm I doubt that,” Euijoo hummed, lips pursed. “Can I be honest?” He asked earnestly, mood shifting to something more serious, perhaps picking up on the thread of self-pity in Harua’s voice. A dangerous territory their delicate classmate/acquaintance relationship hadn’t yet strayed. A line crossing, maybe.
“Um… sure?” Harua looked at him curiously, leg bouncing and summoning a faint squeak from the desk with each jiggle. He couldn’t stop, though. Euijoo was someone he looked up to, in some way. A gay asian man thriving in a way Harua deeply envied, maybe now bestowing him some wisdom. Opening a door, even.
Euijoo, ever thoughtful, took his time before answering. “I think, well, it’s probably more the fact you don’t put yourself out there at all.”
“Ah.” Harua picked at the corner of his notebook. It was obvious he was a loser, then.
“I know we’re not, like, that close, but when you’re in class or talking about our readings—in your element—you practically glow and you’re so cool and confident. But when we’re studying, and I try to introduce friends or invite you somewhere, you kinda shrink away or shut the idea down. I think you’re a cool, attractive person, so that’s not the issue, but I think the only way to meet people is to, well, get out of your comfort zone and meet people.” Euijoo concluded with a nod, eyes wandering back to him before startling a bit. “Ah, sorry. Was that too much? I could be wrong, that’s just kinda my impression.”
“No. No, you’re probably right,” Harua said, chuckling. He didn’t know what to say, though, conscious of the silence that stretched to awkwardness. The issues he’d thought were so deep and complex, Euijoo had exposed and put into simple words after only barely knowing him. He felt both small, yet lighter for it. “I guess I don’t really do anything besides study and read. Talking to people is hard, though,” Harua complained, trying to bring the mood back up with a playful whine.
Euijoo, kindly, laughed and patted him on the back. “You talk fine in class. What’s so hard about outside class?”
“I mean, in class we’re all equals, learning the same things and discussing as peers. Out in the wild, everyone isn’t equal. There are hierarchies and mismatches of desires and intentions. It’s messy.”
“That can be fun, though. Figuring it out. Especially if you’re flirting… I mean, you’ve flirted before, right?”
“Sort of?” Harua adjusted his glasses and continued to bend and pick at the corner of his notebook. “In Japan, it’s different. It’s not something you can do openly, really. It’s quicker and more discreet. Easier, in some way. I was young too—I’m not a virgin, if that’s what you're asking.”
“Nothing wrong with it if you were. I didn’t sleep with a man until Nico, honestly. I was very comp het before we met,” Euijoo admitted with a grin, laughing at the expense of his naive past self. “Anyway. I’m sure if you put yourself out there, people will flock to you.”
“You think?” Haura pursed his lips.
Euijoo nodded. Just then, the rest of their classmates began to trickle in, and the conversation was forced shut.
Harua spent the class day dreaming. As his peers discussed the grotesque nature of the sex and murder in the reading, the underlying themes of outsiderness and violence in conservative societies, he couldn’t help but lament his own sad sex life. He was in his last term as a freshman and hadn’t experienced any of the highs and lows he’d imagined, just a flat, grading static. America demanded him to be out and social to get laid in a way he was unused to, though he’d thought it was what he needed.
He’d decided to study here and not in Japan because the many summers he spent with his father and stepmother in America were so precious to him. In Japan, with his mother, he’d been forced to remain in the closet by the nature of their traditional, gossipy hometown, but in America, he could be himself and breathe. Maybe he’d been more eager then, when those moments only came for the summer, and gotten lazy and skittish now that the opportunities to flaunt were always, oppressively, available. There was no urgency and a more serious sense of permanence to it. He was here for four years, not a couple of months of summer.
That was scary in its own way.
Even though he did not hold back being himself, loud and proud of his sexuality, it wasn’t as liberating as he’d hoped. If anything, he felt more alone than before. He had no roadblocks at all now, yet still stalled out. No excuse to hide behind.
Maybe Euijoo was right, though, and all he had to do was take a leap of faith.
So when, at the end of class, Euijoo suddenly turned to him with a proposal, Harua swallowed his anxiety and jumped.
▴⛛▴
“What the fuck are you wearing. You look like gay Robocop.” Taki threw the door open and dropped his gym bag, startling everyone. Harua slapped his hands over his pecs like a woman hiding her cleavage, nipples visible through the sparkly mesh of the wisp of fabric that could be considered a top.
Nicholas, who apparently understood Taki’s Japanese well enough, tried to hold back his laugh from where he was spread at Harua’s desk, busy appraising the outfits he’d helped put together. He’d made himself at home, feet up on the desk and pen cap caught between his lips as he looked Harua over and nodded or shook his head seriously.
“Don’t say that! We’ve been trying to tell him it looks good for twenty minutes!” Euijoo lamented from where he was lounging on Harua’s bed, flopping back with a defeated groan.
“Hi, Harua’s friends…?” Taki raised a surprised brow, like it was hard to believe he had any. “And, sorry, it doesn’t.” Taki shrugged as he kicked off his shoes, navigating the carnage of their shared dorm room with a grimace. Like the flamboyant array of clothes strewn haphazardly about would turn him gay if he touched it. Which might do Taki some good, in Harua’s opinion. He was sick of hearing about the women way out of Taki’s league who broke his heart constantly.
“I wouldn’t expect you to know fashion if it bit you in the ass, Taki. You consider basketball shorts peak.” Harua snapped back in Japanese, getting a sneer from his best friend.
“What’s wrong with my shorts!” Taki huffed, looking down at his knee-length blue Nike shorts. “Also, I’m Taki. Nice to meet you guys.”
“You must be Harua’s ‘painfully straight’ childhood-friend-turned-roommate,” Nicholas crooned, already clocking Taki’s teasability. “Scared of man nipple?”
Taki blinked at him, stumped by his broken yet startlingly rude Japanese.
“Sorry, that’s Nicholas, you can ignore him. I’m Euijoo. We’re friends from class. Nice to meet you,” Euijoo said diplomatically in English, shooting Nicholas a scolding glare.
“Right… What’s the occasion? It must be pretty serious if Harua is finally making friends.” Taki picked up a pink baby t between two suspicious fingers from his bed that read ‘bitch’ in sequence across the front. Harua had been hoping Taki would’ve been at his DnD meet-up longer, and he wouldn’t have to justify the entire fiasco at all. Knowing the uproar it would cause.
“I, uh, got invited to a party,” Harua said quietly while clearing his throat, arms crossed tightly across his bare chest still.
Taki heard him anyway, though, wide eyes snapping to him and baby t thrown unceremoniously onto the floor. “WHAT? And you’re going?”
Nicholas and Euijoo exchanged a worried glance.
Harua, though, just rolled his eyes. “Yeah, so?”
“So? So? I’ve been trying to get you to go with me to a party all year! This is so unfair I can’t believe you ignored me completely only to go when some randos ask,” Taki whined, melting into his bed dramatically. He was completely uncaring of the strangers watching in awe, exposed to Taki’s antics for the first time. Harua was so jaded he didn’t even flinch. They’d grown up in Japan together and Taki had followed him like the codependent puppy he was to university in America with the excuse of ‘getting into the American job market’, bringing his big personality with him. “Is it because my parties aren’t gay enough?” He asked pathetically, sniffling for affect.
“You’ve invited me to your frat parties, dude.”
“I wanted you to come, though, and you always rejected me, and now you’re going out without me? Are we even friends, Harua?”
“You can come.”
Taki instantly lit up, jumping to his feet. “Really?”
“Sure,” Euijoo agreed with a thin smile, still a bit put off by the man. “It’s tomorrow at the big house on the corner of 15th and Pine Street.”
“The Quarterly Wanger? Oh yeah, I’m already invited.” Taki shrugged, dramatics all but forgotten, sated by this knowledge.
“A band of JSA guys are performing, so we’re all showing up. I thought Harua should join. Might finally get him to join the club—and get laid,” Euijoo said smugly.
“It’s about time,” Taki grumbled, but Haura had already tuned him out, fretting over his appearance.
“Ugh, he’s right. I look like a gay robot,” Harua groaned, examining himself in his armour mirror with a frown. He wasn’t sure there was much appeal to his slim, milky-white torso under the flashy mesh or the baggy bedazzled jeans hanging low on his hips, swallowing him whole. He could only assume the items came from Nicholas’ closet and not Euijoo’s (no offense). They were hot, but he wasn’t sure he was hot enough to rock them how Nicholas did. His fluffy hair and big eyes always made him look too cute for these things. Like a kid trying to play adult.
“A hot gay robot!” Nicholas encouraged. Harua had never imagined he’d be in such a situation with his classmate and said classmate's boyfriend, but once he’d taken Euijoo up on his party invite, he realized just how easy it was to make friends if he let down his walls and put some intention into it himself. He only had to ask them to help him pick an outfit and to get dinner; the rest came easy and naturally as they bounced off each other. He learned over the course of the evening spent together that Nicholas was a lot sillier than he looked, and Euijoo was surprisingly wise. All he’d had to do was ask.
“Here, try this.” Nicholas thrust a cut-up graphic tee at him. He was surprisingly passionate about playing dress up with Harua, arriving at his dorm with a huge suitcase of going out clothes and not even bothering to glance at Harua’s sad, destitute closet.
“I wanna get dolled up, too,” Taki protested from where he’d thrown himself onto his bed, watching over his phone screen with a pout.
“Not scared of looking like a gay robot, too?” Nicholas gave him a scathing look.
Taki only shrugged. “I never said there was anything wrong with looking like a gay robot…”
▴⛛▴
Harua took the bus to Nicholas and Euijoo’s apartment the next day with a rather nauseating mix of excitement and nerves brewing in his tummy. Nicholas was adamant that he meet another of their friends to “finish his transformation”, but Harua was a bit overwhelmed by how fast this was all happening. He went from planning to study and cry all over the pages of the newest Ocean Vuong book to going to a huge party and befriending more people in one day than he’d met all year, all because of one conversation.
He wouldn’t say he was shy or even introverted; it was just jarring. He only agreed by telling himself it’s just for the weekend. If he hated it, he could go back to his boring life, but dammit, he had to try it.
When he showed up at the townhouse apartment, he could hear techno music thumping through the door over muffled voices. He adjusted his tote bag, heavy with his change of clothes and pregame snacks, cleared his throat, and knocked. Before he could even take a deep breath, the door flew open, startling him.
A wolfish smile, curling in the corners and flashing the points of white, crooked canines, greeted him first and foremost. Then followed the rest of the man, leaned against the doorway while his eyes dragged from Harua’s feet to his face, taking their time on the way up. Harua stood straighter, regarding him with a similar ogling, a bit taken aback by his rather loud appearance.
His flawless, milky skin was dotted with piercings, his ears busy with rings and studs, while his nose and eyebrow sported the same silver. They weren’t distracting, but actually seemed to perfectly balance his otherwise soft, boyish features and complemented his edgy blonde-to-blue-to-black ombre hair. He wore a well-loved shirt that was far too big and ugly, ratty basketball shorts. It was all an odd clash that just radiated nonchalance and confidence. Cool.
Definitely one of Nicholas’ friends.
“You must be Harua. My fixer-upper?” His voice was instantly memorable and addictive, high and nasally. He had an air like he was up to no good, wetting his lips and revealing the flash of a tongue piercing in the process. Harua swallowed.
“Afraid so.”
“Good. I’m Yuma.” He extended a hand to Harua. “Nakakita Yuma. Anthropology Major. Sophomore. Splendid Singer. Makeover Wizard. Fantastic Lay."
Harua was so stunned by it all, but mostly by his following wink, balking, that he had to rush to take his hand.
“Shigeta Harua.” No titles for him. If any existed, he’d spontaneously forgotten them all.
Yuma snickered, squeezing his hand and suddenly tugging him closer to talk low, eyes piercing. “Relax, dear, I don’t bite.” His Japanese was thick with a Kansai accent, making the almost-threat rather lyrical and alluring.
An icy hot chill ran down Harua’s spine, both scared and intrigued.
“That’s a lie! He totally bites!” Nicholas warned as he appeared next to Yuma, clicking his tongue at the man as he reigned him in with an arm around his shoulder. “You’re scaring him, Yuma.”
“Maybe he should be. As you said, maybe I lied. Maybe I do bite,” Yuma snickered, flashing his teeth at Harua as he spun on his heels and headed back inside. Were his fangs longer than average, or was it just a trick of his anxious mind? Harua wouldn’t be surprised if someone like Yuma were supernatural, honestly. What other reason did he have for possessing so much presence? “What are you waiting for? Chop chop! Makeovers take time, and the party’s in five hours!”
Harua adjusted his bag and steeled himself, stepping into the lion's den.
Well, if the lion’s den was a very lavishly furnished, sizable townhouse. Harua knew Nicholas’ millionaire parents were paying for it (When quizzed on how he ate out so much, Euijoo had sheepishly admitted he saved a lot of money since he didn’t have to pay for rent—or well, much of anything. Not with Nicholas around). The furniture was all leather and wood mid-century modern, and the lighting was warm and low, giving the place a very laid-back vibe. Save for the oversized speakers filling the living room with Drum and Bass music.
At the marble island surrounding a spread of pizza, liquor bottles, and chips was Euijoo and two new men. One was as similarly pierced and intense looking as Yuma, and the other was incredibly out of place, clean, straight-backed, and a bit meek. Nicholas introduced them as Niki and Jo respectively.
Harua realized belatedly that these must be “JSA friends” as they slipped naturally into Japanese after hearing his accent, introducing themselves. Niki was another business major, and Jo a diligent Pre-Med student, both Japanese American. He hadn’t spoken his native tongue with anyone but Taki in months, and it was both nice and nerve-racking. For instance, they quickly figured out Niki was (somehow, despite his intimidating appearance) the youngest, and Harua breathed a sigh of relief, not wanting to have to kowtow if everyone was older. That’s the one thing about being around familiar faces again—familiar traditions. The exact ones he’d been trying to escape.
It wasn’t all that bad, though. They were clearly all friends and imbued with some American brashness, so instead of treating him with skepticism, they brought him into the fold of their easily flowing conversation. He started to relax, able to breathe a sigh of relief. Until he noticed someone was missing.
Yuma had ominously disappeared, and Harua found himself glancing over his shoulder, searching for the man. His presence seemed to linger in the space, as if he might materialize any moment and grab Harua from behind if he didn’t watch out.
As if summoned, that sweet voice called for him from deeper in the apartment. “Dear Harua~ Makeover time~”
Harua was about to follow the siren song when Euijoo grabbed his wrist.
“Hey, Yuma can be, well, a lot, but he’s harmless.”
“‘Harmless’ is doing a lot of heavy lifting,” Nicholas grumbled. Jo nodded solemnly in agreement. Euijoo shot his boyfriend a glare.
Harua hummed, more uneasy than before.
“Here.” Niki slid him a shot. “You’ll need it.”
“Guys…” Euijoo groaned, encouragement now backfiring into teasing.
“Harua!” Yuma called again.
Harua looked down the hall and back at the shot. He took it, grimacing at the tartness of the mystery alcohol and waving them off as he answered Yuma’s summons.
Waiting for him was a bathroom turned makeup studio. Yuma had put a chair in front of the mirror, straighteners and blow-dryers, and a bursting makeup bag cluttering the counter. The man himself stood, ready, with a buzz cutter in one hand and a comb in the other.
“Let’s get started.”
Admittedly, Harua was in desperate need of a haircut, and the fact became undeniable as Yuma carded his long fingers through the overgrown bowlcut. Harua sat, hands squeezed between his thighs and trying not to flinch away at the tickle of Yuma’s ghostly touches, nails scraping against his scalp and brushing over his neck.
“Did your mom cut your hair or something? What’s this fuckass shape?”
“My friend cut it.” Taki was pretty good at it, too, or so Harua had thought. It was just grown out, okay.
Yuma hummed, staring at him in the mirror as he took his hair and pulled it up and out of his face. “Such a shame. You’re covering this decent face with these long, floppy bangs.”
“Ah.” Was that a compliment or not?
Yuma’s hand came down and cupped Harua’s chin from behind, turning his head this way and that. Harua chewed on his bottom lip, finding it hard to look away from Yuma in the mirror and all his sparkling jewelry. Especially when he was touching him, fingers surprisingly soft yet firm.
Yuma hummed, appraising.
Harua worried Yuma might be able to feel his heart thundering where his pinky brushed up against his throat. Maybe he could, because Yuma’s grin grew behind him briefly before he let Harua go, placing his hands on his shoulders.
“Do you trust me?” Yuma said suddenly.
“Um… no?”
Yuma threw back his head and barked out a laugh. “Good. Good. That’s smart. Well, then, don’t trust me, just bear with me. I’m going to cut your hair how I want, but you’ll like it.”
Without any more fanfare, Yuma fired up the buzzcutter. Harua could only bite his tongue and pray he was right.
Yuma handled him roughly, but not unkindly. It was clear he had a vision to realize and worked efficiently, not tolerating any squirming or delay on Harua’s part. More than once, Yuma shoved his head forward or backward, gliding the buzzer along his scalp or clipping away. Finger tips dug into Harua’s skull, but he found he didn't mind that much. Sometimes it was nice to just be told what to do, shoved, literally, in the right direction. It took the pressure off.
Maybe someone else could fix whatever was wrong with him.
“Do you do this for a living?”
“I’d be starving to death if I did.” Yuma’s eyes never strayed from where he was working, voice quieter than earlier as he focused. His piercing-studded face was scrunched in concentration, eyebrows wrinkled, and canines hooked into his bottom lip. He’d look almost menacing if not for mouthing and bouncing along to the muffled, yet still loud, music coming from the living room. “I’m all the guys’ hairdresser, but I just get paid back through a meal or a joint, usually. I just enjoy it.”
“Is part of the deal that you just do whatever you want?”
“Sometimes.” Yuma grinned, eyes meeting his through the mirror. “I’m always right, though.”
Harua was beginning to believe him. With his confident, clean cuts whittling away at Harua’s black bowl cut into something with shape and flair. Maybe that’s why he let Yuma talk him into a box of red hair dye. It took surprisingly little convincing, but Yuma had proved himself skilled enough, and Harua began to wonder what else Yuma could talk him into. He was very persuasive.
“This is gonna look sick.” Yuma smiled to himself as he slipped on gloves and mixed the dye in a plastic cup like a witch concocting a potion. Harua watched on apprehensively.
“Are you more comfortable speaking English?” They kept slipping in and out of Japanese, and Yuma seemed to flip between them without rhyme or reason. His sentences would start in one language and turn to the other, English words thrown into Japanese sentences and vice versa. If Harua wasn’t also fluent in Japenglish from hanging out with his Japanese American friends in his youth, he’d have a headache. Harua had given up trying to match him and pressed on in Japanese.
“Depends on the situation,” Yuma said, switching back to full Japanese almost as if he’d been unaware of his flip-flopping before. “I grew up in Hyogo until I was 8, then I immigrated to Tacoma, Washington. I spoke Japanese with my family and English with everyone else. It wasn’t until I was somehow roped into JSA here that I was suddenly speaking Japanese with friends again. I feel like my Japanese is a bit rough sometimes, I guess. Is it noticeable?”
Harua scrunched his nose. “You talk like a naughty little kid.” His Japanese was perfect, but informal and slang-heavy.
“I’ve gotten that before.” Yuma snorted, vigorously mixing the dye with a spoon.
“It suits you.” Harua was compelled to tease Yuma by some unknown force. Luckily, it came extremely naturally in a way he usually only felt with Taki. Something about Yuma was so inviting.
Yuma shot him a look, a bit baffled. “You sure are brave for someone whose hair is in my hands.” He wiggled some red fingers at Harua for emphasis, Japanese giving way to English again. Something was endearing about it. Like he couldn’t keep it together when he was excited or distracted.
“I don’t think you should worry about your Japanese skills.” Harua shrugged, not wanting to brush aside the touch of self-consciousness Yuma was trying to conceal. “My English isn’t perfect, but I’m doing my best and improving so people can at least give me the mutual respect to do their best to understand me too.”
Yuma nodded thoughtfully, still mixing. “I like that way of thinking about it. Your English is great, though. Just a bit of an accent.”
“A little accent never hurt anyone. Accents are sexy.”
“That’s a stretch. Cute, maybe.” Yuma scoffed, loading the brush up with the dye. “So what’s your major, Mr. Sexy Accent?” Yuma started slathering Harua’s head in a regret-inducing deep red, oblivious to Harua’s grimace. Hopefully, Yuma was right about this.
“English Literature with a focus in Theory and Cultural Studies. Minor in Creative Writing.”
“Ew.” It was a common reaction Harua got, and these days, it only made him smile. He used to get offended, not wanting his choice of study to be belittled, but at some point, he realized it’s just not that deep. Who cares what people think of what he’s studying? All that matters is that he finds it fulfilling. To be fair, it was an incredibly nerdy major.
“I know. It’s awesome.”
“Right, you and Juju are classmates.” Yuma hummed like something finally clicked. “Isn’t it a lot of reading? He’s always got his nose in a fucking book when I come over to play Fortnite with Nico.”
“So much reading that my eyes hurt. I love it.”
Yuma’s eyes flicked to his, and he chuckled. “Juju makes sense… but I didn’t clock you as the type.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? I don’t come off as a huge nerd? Don't the glasses and bad haircut give it away? What other major could I be?” Harua grinned when he got another snort out of the man, enjoying the flash of snaggle tooth every time.
“A bad fashion sense is not specific just to ‘nerdy majors’, trust me.” Yuma huffed; the lack of fashionability on campus was a personal offense, apparently. “I just imagine lit majors being, like, shy, awkward, and emotionally constipated—like Juju. I guess you’re, well, kinda punk?”
Harua raised a brow, but Yuma refused to look at him, busy working the dye into every hair follicle. “How so?”
“You just have an aura. Like you don’t give a fuck—don’t look at me like that! It’s a compliment. I rarely give them out, so be grateful. I’ll call you a bitch instead if you like that better? I just mean you seem chill. You’re living your truth, unapologetically. I was expecting a total nerd loser, but you’re only kinda a nerd.”
It was a bit clunky, but oddly touching. That was, after all, exactly why Harua had come to America. To finally live his truth. Find himself. He thought he’d been failing so far, but maybe not entirely. He didn’t expect to feel so seen by a man he just met.
However, all he could squeak out was a snarky, “Thanks?”
Yuma took his gloves off and put his hands on his hips, glaring at Harua through the mirror. “I take it back.” Then, for good measure, “Bitch.”
Harua’s poker face cracked, and he couldn’t help smiling, finding himself incredibly charmed. Maybe this is what they meant by Yuma being ‘a lot’? A bit blunt and grating, but so tooth-achingly enjoyable.
“No! I’m sorry,” Harua was laughing, though, as Yuma rolled his eyes. “I’ve just never been called punk before. It’s not really my vibe, I guess.”
“It’s more than a look or a vibe, it’s a mindset. I sense in you a great punk mindset, so tonight, I’m going to bring her out into the light. Starting with this killer hair, which we really should wash out before it gets too crazy.”
“What, I’m not punk enough for a crazy red?”
“Not yet. Gotta ease you into it.”
After spending a back-breaking eternity with his head bent over the vanity, Yuma’s hands kneading at his scalp and the sink turning a worrying pink (“Will that come out?” “Uh, probably?”), Harua was finally able to see the final product. Yuma blow-dried it out, adding the final touches by placing this or that strand just right on his cheek with styling gel.
“Damn. You were right. Kinda… punk? I love it.”
Yuma crossed his arms and nodded, soaking it in.
It was simple but effective. Short in the back with bangs that tickled his eyelashes, shaped into attractive commas around his forehead. He’d never cut his hair so short or really ever styled it at all, but the cut was instantly elevating. You could see Harua’s face, and, for once, he didn't mind.
Harua realized Taki was absolutely horrible at cutting hair.
Without bleach, the red dye was invisible in his black hair until Harua turned his head and the light caught it, flashing maroon. Surprisingly subtle but fun. Harua had been worried he was going to go all out with the styling, but Yuma was more considerate than he appeared. Without knowing Harua, he’d somehow gauged exactly what would look good on him, in a way he’d like.
He turned in the chair to look up at Yuma, fingers busy exploring the new stubble on the back of his head. “Thank you. Seriously.”
“It’s nothing.” Yuma shrugged, lip curled in a satisfied grin. “I think a lot would look good on you. You have one of those faces.” Yuma’s eyes slid over his features, leaving Harua waiting for more.
“‘One of those faces’?” Harua baited, blinking innocently up at him. Yuma’s taunting nature just made him want to beg for compliments.
“Mm.” Yuma did not give him the satisfaction, quickly side-stepping to pack up his hair supplies. “I can show you how to do your makeup in a second, but I’m starving and my hands hurt. Let’s get out of this fucking bathroom before the dye fumes kill us both.”
Harua watched Yuma put away his things for a moment, wringing his hands and feeling like he had something to say, but he couldn’t figure out what it was—maybe just an excuse to keep Yuma to himself longer and pick his brain—so he gave up.
Harua walked into a chorus of oohs and aahs, posing this way and that so the guys could get the full effect.
“Damn. You’re kinda hot, Harua.” Nicholas looked him over from his place on the couch, tucked under Euijoo’s arm. He gave Harua an approving stink face, nodding.
“So I wasn’t before?” Yuma had primed Harua, and the frisky side that he usually reserved for Taki was slipping out. Luckily, Nicholas didn’t flinch.
“Not with your original haircut, no.”
Harua gasped, scandalized. God, was this what being around other gay people was like? It was so easy and fun.
“Ladies, ladies,” Yuma interjected, a piece of pizza in hand, flopping about as he gesticulated. “You don’t all have to jump to praise my work like this. I know, I know. I’m a miracle worker.” He wrapped an arm around Harua’s shoulders, shooting him a feline grin.
“‘Miracle?’” Harua blew some hair out of his face, crossing his arms. “I’m starting to get offended.”
“Oh, you know we’re joking, Harua.” Yuma winked at him. “Go on, get some pizza so we can finish your makeover and I can get myself ready for the big show.” Yuma smacked him on the ass, startling a yelp out of Harua, much to the amusement of everyone else. Harua cleared his throat, fighting back a blush.
He was probably just like that with everyone. No one else seemed phased, after all.
No one even blinked when, after they’d lounged about the couches, eating and taking more shots, Yuma mounted Harua. Harua might have been asking for it, though. He was a bit buzzed and had relaxed into conversing without hesitation, knowing they could all handle his bite—besides Jo, bless his heart, who Harua couldn’t even bring himself to bitch at, finding the man adorable and gentle like a newborn fawn. (How he survived this friend group was a mystery.) So when Yuma brought over his makeup bag, determined to stay on schedule, Harua did a horrible job of sitting still, laughing, and pointing, and continuously getting growls out of Yuma. Until, finally, the older man snapped.
Harua was mid-laugh, bent over as Euijoo floundered at a joke Nicholas had pulled out, when Yuma pulled him up and shoved him back with an annoyed sigh. “I said—” Harua’s shoulders hit the armrest of the couch, and he stared, wide-eyed and hands hovering as Yuma’s hands slid over his knees before he swung his legs on either side of his hips, “hold still. Please.”
“Ok,” Harua squeaked out, frozen as he tried to contain his racing heart. Yuma settled atop him, elbows propped on his chest, and leveled Harua with a glare. Yuma was heavy, but somehow fit comfortably over him, draped like a cat finally getting what it wanted and settling in for a long nap.
“Yuma, give the kid a break,” Nicholas scolded, kicking Yuma’s thigh from his place on the other end of the couch. Everyone else snickered or rolled their eyes. Somehow not shocked or appalled. Nicholas was right, Yuma does bite.
Yuma looked over his shoulder, shooting the man what Harua could only assume was a nasty look. “I won’t break him. I just need to put on his fucking eyeline,r and he wouldn’t stop squirming.” When Yuma returned his attention to Harua, it was with a devious smile, his snaggle tooth making an appearance as he leaned over him. “Relax, dear.”
Harua tried to hold still, unsure what to do with his hands, and ultimately decided to fold them on top of his stomach. He wanted to close his eyes, but Yuma instructed him to keep them open as he dragged a dark brown eyeliner pencil around the corner of them with merciful care. Harua looked down when told, but then he was just staring down Yuma’s gaping shirt, peaking the dark ink of tattoos on his slim chest, and right down to where his legs were spread over Harua’s hips, crotch snug against his own. Harua took a deep, grounding breath in through his nose and out through his mouth.
Yuma’s lip twitched up, taking his sweet time to apply the eyeliner.
The others had gone about their conversation, forgetting the two of them. Harua was thankful, though. The blazing red of his ears or the bob of his throat would be incredibly damning otherwise—if the general stiffness of his body didn’t give it away. How else was he supposed to react, though? How could he be normal? No one had ever handled him like this, and Harua was incredibly pent up and weak.
“Look up.”
Their eyes met. Harua wet his lips. After a second, Yuma grabbed his cheek and brought the pencil back to his waterline.
“Don’t get too excited,” Yuma whispered under his breath, lips parted as he focused on not stabbing Harua in the eye. “We’re not even at the party yet.”
Harua wasn’t hiding it well, then. He blushed, wanting to escape but having nowhere to go, pinned beneath the man. Yuma, unfazed, capped the pen and then began smudging the eyeliner with his thumb, finally giving Harua an excuse to close his eyes.
“Sorry,” Harua hissed, squeezing his own hand.
“Open.” Yuma hovered over him, smiling. “There we go. Perfect.”
Harua’s breath caught, but the moment had already passed. When Yuma hopped off him, he took his body warmth with him, leaving Harua cold and exposed. It took him a moment to return to himself before sitting back up and clearing his throat. Yuma shoved all his makeup in his bag, giving Harua only a second to breathe before shoving a mirror in his face.
Yuma hadn’t done much, but the effect was shocking. Just the dusting of eyeshadow and smudge of eyeliner gave his normally soft features a cat-like sharpness. He blinked at his own reflection, glasses put aside in favor of contacts for the night. The hair, the makeup, it was all things he’d have never chosen to do for himself, bringing out an edge he didn’t even know he had. He looked his age. He looked good.
Before Harua could comment, Yuma was already groaning about getting himself ready, strutting out of the room while stretching his arms over his head and yawning. He left a whirlwind in his wake, Harua trying to calm his racing heart.