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The student council room was the only place in the entire school that smelled consistently of lemon pledge and expensive printer paper. To Jo, it was a sanctuary of order. To Yuma, it was a holding cell.
Jo adjusted his glasses, his eyes tracking the second hand of the wall clock. It was exactly 4:30 PM. The club activities had cleared out, the hallways were quiet, and yet, the seat opposite his desk remained empty. Right on cue, the heavy oak door swung open with an obnoxious groan. Yuma sauntered in, slouching heavily into a plastic chair that looked entirely too small for his broad shoulders. His uniform jacket was unbuttoned, his tie was missing, and his left knuckle was bleeding steadily onto the linoleum floor.
"You're half an hour late," Jo said, his voice flat as he pulled a first-aid kit from the bottom drawer of his desk.
"Traffic," Yuma replied lazily, leaning his head back against the wall and closing his eyes.
"You walk to school, Yuma."
"Foot traffic, then. The hallway ghosts were taking their sweet time."
Jo didn't smile. He clicked the plastic latches of the kit open, extracting a bottle of antiseptic and a pack of sterile gauze. He moved his chair closer, his posture perfectly straight, a stark contrast to the human disaster sitting across from him.
"Hand," Jo commanded.
Yuma hesitated for a fraction of a second before extending his left hand. The knuckles were raw and split, the unmistakable aftermath of a fist meeting a brick wall or someone's jaw. As Jo pressed an alcohol wipe against the broken skin, Yuma hissed through his teeth, his fingers flinching away.
"Hold still," Jo murmured, his touch surprisingly gentle despite his harsh tone. "If you keep getting into fights behind the old gymnasium, the school is going to suspend you before the semester ends. And as class president, I really don't want to deal with the extra paperwork."
"Then don't deal with it," Yuma muttered, staring at the way Jo’s neatly combed hair fell slightly forward as he worked. "Let 'em suspend me. It’s not like you actually care about my academic future, Prez."
"I care about order," Jo corrected, wrapping a clean white bandage around Yuma’s hand with practiced efficiency. "And I care about my secrets staying secret."
Yuma let out a low, rough chuckle, the sound vibrating in his chest. "Ah, right. The pristine, top-of-the-class Jo. The guy destined for an Ivy League future. Who would have guessed that under that perfectly ironed blazer beats the heart of a criminal?"
Jo’s hands tightened on the bandage just enough to make Yuma wince. "It's not criminal. It's street art."
"Whatever helps you sleep at night, Picasso," Yuma smirked, leaning forward into Jo's personal space. "But the principal definitely wouldn't call those elaborate neon murals you paint under the 4th Street bridge at 2:00 AM 'street art.' They'd call it a catastrophe. A destructive behavior from the golden boy."
"And the animal shelter downtown wouldn't appreciate knowing that their most dedicated weekend volunteer, who spent four hours bottle-feeding orphaned kittens last Saturday, is the same feared delinquent who supposedly broke a guy's rib over a cigarette pack," Jo shot back, his voice dropping to a sharp whisper. "Your reputation keeps the bullies away from the weaker kids, Yuma. If they knew you wept last month while cleaning kennels, your little empire would fall apart."
Yuma’s smirk vanished, replaced by a faint, irritated flush on his cheeks. He pulled his hand back, flexing his fingers against the fresh cotton wrapping. "I didn't weep. It was a sensory issue. The dogs were scared, so I was keeping them calm."
"Sure," Jo said, snapping the first-aid kit shut and standing up to return it to his desk. "The point is, we have a mutual understanding. I keep your secret, you keep mine, and I keep you patched up so the guidance counselor doesn't start asking questions about your frequent injuries."
"A business arrangement," Yuma said, watching Jo's shadow lengthen across the room as the afternoon sun began to dip below the horizon. "Cold and entirely transactional. Just how the student council likes it."
"Exactly," Jo said, turning around to face him. But as he did, he caught Yuma staring at him. Not with the usual defiance or mockery, but with a strange, heavy intensity that made the air in the room feel suddenly thick.
Yuma didn't move to leave. He just sat there, his dark eyes locked onto Jo's, the silence stretching between them until the ticking of the clock felt deafening. For a second, the boundaries they had carefully drawn felt incredibly fragile.
Jo cleared his throat, breaking the spell, and pointed toward the door. "Go home, Yuma. And try not to hit anything on the way out."
Yuma stood up, towering over Jo for a brief second before offering a mocking two-finger salute. "See you tomorrow, Prez."
— # — # — # —
Two months into their arrangement, the lines were beginning to blur. It started with the arrival of the heavy rainy season, a time when the school took on a dreary and claustrophobic air, forcing everyone indoors. The rain was pouring in relentless sheets against the high windows of the student council room, turning the world outside into a blurred gray smudge.
Jo was furiously typing out a budget report for the upcoming cultural festival, the blue light of his laptop screen reflecting sharply off his glasses. In the far corner of the room, Yuma was sprawled across a giant beanbag chair he had dragged in from the drama club storeroom without permission. He was supposedly completing his makeup history homework, but in reality, he was just throwing a crumpled piece of paper up toward the ceiling and catching it on its descent.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
"If you drop that paper one more time, I'm going to confiscate your guitar," Jo said, his voice taut, not once looking up from his screen.
"You wouldn't dare. It's a vintage Fender, and you don't have the administrative authority," Yuma replied lazily. However, he caught the paper ball on its next drop and held it still against his chest.
Yuma looked over at Jo’s desk, his sharp eyes noticing the slight, almost imperceptible tremor in the president's shoulders. Jo had been working for nearly five hours straight without a single break. He hadn't touched his tea, which sat in a ceramic mug on the corner of his desk, now completely cold with a film forming over the top.
Yuma stood up, his heavy boots clacking loudly against the linoleum floor. He walked over to the desk, picked up the cold ceramic mug without asking, and walked out of the room into the quiet hallway. Five minutes later, he returned, setting a steaming mug of fresh tea right next to Jo’s laptop.
Jo paused, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. He looked at the rising steam, then up at Yuma, who was already walking back to his beanbag, looking thoroughly annoyed with himself for caring.
"Thank you," Jo said softly, the tension in his shoulders dropping a fraction.
"Don't get used to it. The vending machine was on the way to the bathroom," Yuma grumbled, lying through his teeth since the school’s lounge kettle was in the exact opposite wing of the building.
The storm outside intensified without warning. A sudden, violent flash of lightning illuminated the dark corners of the room, followed immediately by a deafening crash of thunder that shook the windowpanes in their frames.
Yuma stiffened instantly. The casual, careless posture disappeared. His shoulders hunched forward, his jaw locking tightly as he stared rigidly at the floorboards, his knuckles turning white against his knees.
Jo noticed. He didn't make a comment, nor did he poke fun at the fearsome delinquent's sudden vulnerability. Instead, he shut his laptop slowly. He reached into his school bag, pulled out a pair of heavy, noise canceling headphones—the expensive kind his parents had bought him to study for university entrance exams—and walked over to the corner.
Without asking for permission, Jo leaned down and gently placed the headphones over Yuma’s ears. He reached out, grabbed Yuma's phone from the floor, and plugged the auxiliary cord into the jack.
Yuma looked up, startled, his dark eyes wide. Through the thick padding of the headphones, Jo’s voice was muffled, but his expression was remarkably clear. "Play your music. It's loud enough to drown out the sky."
Yuma swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. He tapped his screen, turning on a local indie rock playlist. The heavy, distorted bass of a guitar track filled his ears, instantly isolating him from the roaring thunder outside.
But it didn't isolate him from Jo. Jo didn't walk back to his desk to resume his work. Instead, he slid down the wall, sitting right on the floor next to the beanbag chair. He rested his back, close enough that their shoulders were nearly touching, sharing the cramped corner.
As the rain continued to batter the school, Yuma watched Jo pull out a small leather sketchbook from his blazer pocket, not the official student council planner, but a private one. Jo began to sketch freehand with a fine liner pen, his hand flying across the page with incredible fluidity, creating intricate, swirling patterns that looked like stormy waves crashing against a jagged shore.
Yuma watched the rhythm of Jo's hand, feeling the primal panic of the storm begin to fade. Slowly, deliberately, Yuma leaned sideways. His head tilted until it was resting lightly, hesitantly, against Jo’s shoulder.
It was a massive risk. It was an unspoken boundary crossed in a relationship that was supposed to be built entirely on blackmail and mutual convenience. Yuma half expected Jo to push him away, to stand up and make a sharp, biting comment about personal space and propriety.
But Jo didn't move. He didn't flinch. He merely adjusted his left arm slightly, shifting his posture so Yuma could lean against him more comfortably, his pen never once stopping its rhythmic scratching against the paper. The steady heat radiating from Jo’s body was incredibly grounding. A solid, unshakeable anchor in the middle of a chaotic storm.
For the first time in his life, Yuma didn't feel like he had to play the part of the dangerous guy everyone feared. He was just a boy hiding from the thunder, protected by the person he least expected to care.
— # — # — # —
The afternoon it finally happened, the sun was setting in a violent shade of crimson, casting long, bloody shadows across the student council room. The light bled through the glass, painting the neat stacks of paper on Jo's desk in shades of rust and red.
Yuma had arrived in much worse shape than usual. A rival school’s gang had cornered him near the district. He had won the fight—he always did—but his lower lip was split wide open, leaking a thin trail of crimson, and a dark, heavy bruise was already forming along his left cheekbone.
Jo’s hands were shaking as he opened the medical kit. It was a subtle, microscopic tremor, but Yuma noticed it the moment Jo reached for the cotton swabs.
"Hey," Yuma said, his voice raspy and deeper than usual. "Relax, Prez. It isn't as worse as it actually feels. Just some skin."
"You're a fool," Jo said, his voice uncharacteristically sharp. It wasn't his usual diplomatic tone. It was laced with a raw, burning anger that Yuma didn't quite understand. "You think you're invincible, Yuma. You think you can just fight your way through every conflict. One of these days, someone is going to bring something worse than knuckles. What happens to your little kingdom then?"
"Why do you care so much anyway?" Yuma challenged, leaning forward in his chair, closing the distance between them until his dark eyes flashed under the dim room lights. "If I get taken out permanently, your secret goes to the grave with me. You won't have to look at my ugly face every afternoon. You can go back to being perfect."
"Don't say that," Jo snapped, his fingers gripping a cotton swab dipped in stinging antiseptic. Without thinking, he pressed it directly to Yuma’s split lip with a bit too much force, driven by frustration.
Yuma winced at the sharp sting, his hand instinctively shooting up to grab Jo’s wrist to pull his hand away.
The contact was electric.
Jo froze instantly, his breath hitching in his throat. His gaze dropped down to Yuma’s heavily bandaged fingers tightly gripping his wrist, then rose slowly, almost fearfully, to meet Yuma’s eyes. They were breathing the same air now, the space between them down to a mere handful of inches. The scent of lemon pledge was entirely replaced by the metallic tang of blood and the sharp, clean scent of Jo's laundry detergent.
"I care," Jo whispered. The admission tore out of him like a confession he had tried desperately to bury under layers of academic achievements and responsibilities. "You think this is just about a bargain? You think I spend every single afternoon waiting in this empty room just to protect my reputation?"
"Sure, Prez. What else would it be then?" Yuma tried to be sarcastic, to masked the reality of his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. His grip on Jo's wrist loosened, but his hand didn't drop. Instead, his fingers slid down to touch the bare skin of Jo's palm.
"I can't stand seeing you walk in here broken," Jo said, his voice cracking, the pristine facade completely fracturing. "It drives me completely insane, Yuma. And I hate that I can't stop thinking about it."
The remaining distance between them dissolved in an instant. Yuma didn't know who moved first, but suddenly, his uninjured hand was behind Jo’s neck, fingers tangling into the neatly combed hair at the base of his skull, pulling him down. Jo met him halfway, his lips pressing against Yuma’s split, bleeding mouth with a desperate, clumsy intensity that blew past every rule they had ever established.
The kiss tasted of iron, copper, and the sweet, sharp sting of antiseptic. It wasn't a gentle, romantic gesture. It was a violent release of months of pent up tension, of late nights spent pretending they didn't look at each other across the classroom, of stolen glances and shared secrets. Jo’s glasses crookedly pushed against Yuma’s cheekbone, but neither of them cared enough to fix them. Jo’s hands found the rough fabric of Yuma’s unbuttoned uniform shirt, gripping the collars tightly as if he were falling off the edge of a cliff and Yuma was the only solid thing keeping him aloft.
When they finally broke apart for air, both of them were panting, their chests heaving in the quiet room. The pristine class president had completely unraveled. His lips were swollen, his hair was messy, and his eyes were wide with a sudden, overwhelming panic.
Yuma reached out again, his thumb gently trying to brush away a stray drop of blood from Jo’s chin. "Jo—"
Before he could finish the sentence, Jo stumbled backward, his knees hitting his own chair and knocking it back against the desk with a loud clatter. He gathered his school bag with trembling hands, his head down, absolutely refusing to look Yuma in the eye.
"I... I have to go. The janitor is locking the west wing early tonight," Jo stammered, his voice shaking.
"Jo, wait! Talk to me—" Yuma stood up, stretching his hand out, but the heavy oak door slammed shut before he could even take a step across the linoleum floor.
The silence that followed was heavier than any storm they had ever sat through.
— # — # — # —
They didn't speak for three agonizing weeks.
In the crowded school hallways, Jo looked right through Yuma as if he were a ghost, his expression fixed in a mask of polite indifference. The student council room remained locked after hours, the first-aid kit locked away inside. Yuma reverted to his worst habits, skipping his afternoon classes and picking reckless fights with anyone who looked at him wrong, desperately trying to feel something other than the hollow ache in his chest.
But there was no one waiting in the quiet room to patch him up afterward.
Then came prom night.
The gymnasium had been completely transformed into a sea of flickering fairy lights, silver shimmery decorations, and low hanging artificial fog. The heavy bass from the speakers vibrated through the floorboards, a slow, romantic ballad echoing through the cavernous space.
Yuma stood near the back exit, leaning heavily against a pillar. He wore a dark, tailored suit that felt incredibly restrictive and suffocating compared to his usual worn leather jacket. His eyes, dark and intense, were locked onto the center of the dance floor.
Jo was there. He looked stunning, his hair perfectly styled, wearing a crisp charcoal suit that fit him flawlessly. But he wasn't alone. A girl from the debate team, elegant in a pale blue dress, was laughing at something he said, her hand resting naturally on his shoulder as they swayed to the slow rhythm of the music. Jo smiled back at her. It was the same polite, flawless smile he gave to the school, to the cameras, to everyone who didn't actually know the boy beneath the title.
Yuma felt a physical, burning sickness rise in his throat. It was a brutal, undeniable reminder of reality. Jo belonged in that world of bright lights, perfect futures, and socially acceptable choices. Yuma was just a creature of the shadows, a shameful secret to be kept hidden in a locked room.
He didn't wait for the song to end. He turned on his heel, pushing his way through the heavy double doors of the gymnasium and ignoring the flashing cameras of the student prom committee. He walked briskly down the empty, dark corridors of the school, his dress shoes echoing like gunshots against the concrete until he reached the heavy metal door that led to the roof.
He shoved it open with his shoulder, stepping out into the cool, crisp night air. The city skyline stretched out before him, a sprawling, beautiful grid of neon lights. He leaned heavily against the chain-link fence, gripping the cold wire until his fingers went numb, letting out a breath he felt like he’d been holding for three weeks.
Click. Creak.
The metal door groaned behind him. Yuma didn't turn around. He knew the rhythm of those footsteps, even when they were hurried, uneven, and frantic. He unconsciously memorized it too well.
"The slow song is still playing," Yuma said, his voice completely flat as he stared out at the distant highway lights. "Shouldn't you be downstairs dancing with your perfect partner, Prez?"
"I don't want to dance with her." Jo’s voice came from right behind him, breathless, raw, and completely devoid of his usual composure. "I don't want to be down there at all."
Yuma turned around slowly, his jaw clenched, his hands shoved deep into his trouser pockets. "Then why were you smiling like that? Like everything is perfect? Like you didn't completely ruin me three weeks ago and then spend the last month acting like I don't exist?"
"Because I was terrified, Yuma!" Jo took a violent step forward, the moonlight catching the tears shining in his eyes. "I’ve spent my entire life following a script written by everyone else. Good grades, student council, the right image. And then you showed up, smelling like cigarettes and stray dogs, and you completely tore up the page."
"So you ran right back to it," Yuma yelled, the anger and hurt finally boiling over in his chest. "You ran back to your perfect little life because I’m a liability to your future!"
"No, I didn't!" Jo shouted back, closing the final distance between them. He reached out and grabbed the lapels of Yuma’s suit jacket, his knuckles turning white as he shook him. "I ran because I was scared of how much I wanted to throw it all away for you!”
His chest heaved before he continued. “I looked for you all night, Yuma. The second I saw you walk out those doors, I left her on the floor. I don't care about the anything anymore. I'm in love with you, you idiot."
Yuma’s breath hitched, the words hitting him with the force of a physical blow. The defense mechanisms he had built over a lifetime of being abandoned crumbled to absolute dust. He looked down at Jo’s face, seeing the raw, unshielded vulnerability there.
"You're an idiot, Prez," Yuma whispered, his voice cracking.
He reached out, tangling his fingers in Jo’s carefully styled hair and pulling him into a kiss that felt less like a panicked mistake and more like a desperate homecoming. This time, Jo didn't run away. He held on tighter, burying himself in Yuma's warmth, anchoring them both under the open sky.
When the kiss finally slowed into something tender, the heavy weight of the past three weeks melted into the cool night air as Yuma’s grip softened, his forehead resting gently against Jo's while their breathing synchronized under the moonlight. There were no more scripts to follow or transactional boundaries to maintain, and as Jo reached up with a shaky, breathless laugh to adjust his crooked glasses, Yuma smiled. A genuine, unmasked expression meant only for the boy who had looked past his scars.
Yuma's bandaged fingers were surprisingly deft as he slid the glasses completely off Jo’s face, folding the frames and slipping them into his own suit pocket to leave Jo’s wide, dark eyes looking entirely defenseless in the soft neon glow of the city skyline.
"I love you too, Jo," Yuma murmured, his voice low and devoid of his usual defensive armor, letting the confession hang in the air for just a heartbeat before he leaned back in.
He caught Jo’s lips in another kiss that was slow, deliberate, and fiercely possessive, free of the panic and blood that had marred their first. Jo melted against him, his hands anchoring themselves tightly in the fabric of Yuma’s jacket, letting the last of his carefully constructed walls crumble as they stepped together into a life they no longer had to face alone.