"How They Would React if You slept on the Couch After an Argument" //Tokyo Revengers
Charakters: Mikey, Sanzu, Mitsuya, Kokonoi, Izana, Ran, Rindou, Kazutora, Hanma, Chifuyu
Synopsis: After a heated argument with your partner, you find yourself alone — sleeping on the couch, away from the warmth of the bed. But what happens when they come to you?
CW: Angst, Emotional Abuse, Miscommunication, Hurt/Comfort, Apologies, Conflict
When he sees you sleeping on the couch, his heart sinks. He had never wanted things to go this far. The argument earlier had left a weight in the air, and even though he tried to push it out of his mind, he couldn’t ignore the discomfort gnawing at him.
He had been irritated, frustrated even, but the thought of you being upset with him—especially to the point of sleeping away from him—cuts deeper than he’d like to admit.
Standing in the doorway, Mikey watches you for a moment, the faint glow of the moonlight casting soft shadows on your face. He notices the way you're curled up, a small pillow beneath your head, but the space between you and him feels so vast. The tension in his chest grows tighter as he hesitates, unsure of how to approach.
You look so peaceful, yet so distant. He feels a strange lump in his throat, his pride making him stand frozen for longer than he wants to. Mikey isn’t great with words, especially when it comes to matters of the heart. He has a tendency to brush things off and act like everything’s fine—but not tonight.
“Y/N…” he whispers, voice barely audible, almost as though he’s testing the waters.
There’s no response. The room is quiet, save for the sound of your breathing. Mikey’s fingers twitch as if he’s about to reach out, but he holds himself back. He doesn’t want to seem like he’s rushing you, but it’s hard for him to let this go, especially when it feels like a piece of him is missing.
Sighing, Mikey takes a step closer, sitting on the edge of the couch with a soft creak. The proximity is almost overwhelming. He can smell the scent of your shampoo, the familiar comfort of being near you. He wants to be close again, but he knows he needs to be careful, to make sure this is something you’re both ready to fix.
He watches you for a moment longer, gathering his courage before his hand reaches out to gently brush a stray lock of hair away from your face. His fingers linger for a brief moment before he speaks again, this time his voice a little firmer, though still soft with sincerity.
“Hey… I didn’t mean it. The fight… I’m sorry, Y/N.”
Mikey’s words feel like they weigh a ton, each one heavier than the last. He’s not used to apologizing, not in the way he feels he should. But seeing you like this—alone on the couch, far from him—it makes something inside of him click. He doesn’t want to be the cause of your pain. Not when he knows you mean the world to him.
When you stir slightly in your sleep, Mikey’s heart skips a beat, and he freezes, not wanting to wake you if you’re still upset. But then, your eyes flutter open, and you meet his gaze with that familiar softness in your eyes. He lets out a breath, almost as if he’d been holding it in the entire time.
“I didn’t want to sleep apart,” Mikey admits quietly, his voice a little shaky but filled with vulnerability. “I just… I don’t know how to fix it.”
You sit up, the tension still lingering between you both, but Mikey’s hand is already reaching out, gently tugging at your arm, pulling you toward him. He looks up at you with those big, earnest eyes, the ones that always make you feel like the most important person in the world, even when he’s hard to read.
He doesn’t expect you to forgive him instantly, but he can’t stand the thought of you sleeping on the couch alone. He wants you back with him, back where he knows you both belong.
“Come on,” Mikey murmurs, pulling you close enough to rest your head against his shoulder. “Let’s just sleep together. I don’t want to be apart from you tonight.”
He doesn’t have the perfect words to make everything okay, but Mikey knows that, for him, actions speak louder than anything else. As he holds you, his fingers gently rubbing your back in soothing motions, it’s clear that he’s determined to make things right, one step at a time.
And for now, that’s enough.
___________________________________________________________________________
When he sees you on the couch after the fight, something shifts in him. It’s not the kind of anger or annoyance that might surface in his usual, brash way, but more like a tight knot in his chest that he doesn’t know how to loosen. His brows furrow as he stands in the doorway, looking at you curled up there, the soft light of the room highlighting your features in a way that feels far too... lonely.
He hadn't meant for things to escalate the way they did. The words they’d exchanged, harsh and sharp, still echo in his mind, but what gnaws at him the most is how your absence in the bed feels like a cold weight pressing against him. He might act indifferent, might put on his usual cocky, careless attitude, but deep down, he's bothered.
Sanzu leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms, his eyes glued to your form on the couch. He can see you’re asleep, or at least, pretending to be, trying to shut out the world and him. There’s a brief moment of hesitation as he contemplates how to approach the situation. He’s not great with emotions or apologies, but seeing you like this—alone, on the couch—pushes him to the edge of his patience.
“Oi…” He speaks low, more like a soft growl, his voice thick with frustration. “What the hell are you doing out here?”
His words aren’t cruel, but they carry a rough edge, as though he’s trying to mask the vulnerability creeping in. In his mind, he feels like he should be angry, but what he’s really angry about is himself.
He doesn’t wait for you to respond, moving toward the couch with his usual swagger. It’s a bit much for someone who’s usually so good at keeping things light, but with you, he can’t hide the tension. When he reaches you, he stands over you for a second, looking down with a mix of irritation and... something softer, hidden under layers of bravado.
“Hey,” he calls, his tone a little sharper now. “You’re not mad enough to sleep out here, are you? Come on, it’s just a damn fight.” His eyes search your face for some sign, some glimmer that you’re not as angry as he thinks.
He waits a beat, and when there’s no response, he curses under his breath, running a hand through his hair. "I’m not gonna sit here and pretend I’m fine with this." He doesn’t sit next to you just yet, but there’s an almost palpable hesitation in the way he stands, unsure of how to reach out to you.
Then, something in him cracks, and his usual, brash exterior slips for a moment. The anger, the frustration—it’s all still there, but there's also that underlying feeling of needing you close, of needing things to go back to how they were.
Without thinking much, Sanzu sits down onto the couch beside you,his face softening for the first time tonight. His hand reaches out, fingers brushing lightly against the edge of your arm. The touch is tentative, but there’s sincerity in it.
“You don’t have to pretend to sleep,” he murmurs, his voice quieter now. “I know you’re awake.”
His words have been as vulnerable as he’s willing to get for the moment, and now it’s up to you. He’s not sure what you’re thinking, but the way your silence stretches on makes his chest tighten in a mix of anticipation and uncertainty.
Then, to his surprise, you speak, your voice quiet but clear enough to cut through the air between you.
“Carry me to bed,” you say softly, your words laced with both a quiet plea and a touch of playfulness.
Sanzu’s eyes widen slightly, his eyebrows lifting in surprise. He had expected something more like a “leave me alone” or “I’m fine” response. Instead, you ask him to do something that takes him off guard—and deep down, it pulls at something in him he can’t ignore.
For a split second, he doesn’t know how to respond. His first instinct is to smirk, maybe tease you for being so direct, but he can’t find the words. It’s almost like you’ve broken through the walls he’s carefully built around himself. His heart beats a little faster, not from nervousness, but because there’s something about your vulnerability that draws him in, something that makes him feel... needed.
“You sure about that?” he asks, his voice rougher than before. “You want me to carry you like some kind of princess?”
His tone is teasing, but there’s an underlying softness in his eyes, a flicker of something real that he can’t hide. He knows this is a chance for him to make up for the tension, for the distance that had built up between you both. It’s not about his pride anymore—it’s about you, and making sure you know that he wants to make it right.
You nod, the faintest hint of a smile playing on your lips, a silent invitation for him to take the next step.
“Yeah. Please,” you add, your voice just soft enough to make it clear you’re not just joking around. You want him there, close to you again, and you want to let go of the anger, the frustration of the fight, and move past it together.
Sanzu takes a deep breath, his lips curling into a smirk now, but it’s different from his usual cocky grin. There’s something more genuine about it, almost like he’s relieved that you’re willing to let him fix this. Slowly, he stands up, his posture shifting, a bit more serious now, yet still carrying his usual edge. He holds his arms out toward you.
“Alright then,” he says, his voice a little quieter, with a touch of playfulness returning. “You better not complain when I throw you over my shoulder.”
Without another word, Sanzu scoops you up effortlessly into his arms, his hold on you secure but not rough. He doesn’t give you much time to react before he starts walking toward the bedroom, his steps confident but filled with a tenderness he doesn’t often show. He doesn’t rush—he moves slowly, allowing the moment to sink in. This simple act, of carrying you, feels like a silent apology, a way to tell you that he’s here, and he’s not going anywhere.
You rest your head against his chest, the beat of his heart steady and comforting as he walks, and you can feel the warmth of his body. It’s a quiet contrast to the chaos of the argument that had just occurred. The fight doesn’t matter now. It’s just the two of you, and as much as Sanzu’s unpredictable and chaotic, in this moment, he feels solid, protective, and strangely tender.
As he reaches the bedroom door, he kicks it open with his foot, still holding you gently. He sets you down on the bed, his hands lingering on your shoulders for a second longer than necessary. His eyes meet yours with an intensity that says everything—how much he cares, how much he’s trying to fix things, even when words are hard for him.
“Don’t sleep out there again,” he murmurs, a hint of protectiveness in his tone. “I don’t want you away from me like that.”
He sits down beside you, leaning back against the bedframe. His eyes never leave you, and in the soft light, you see the exhaustion in his features—both from the fight and from the weight of the emotions he doesn’t always know how to express.
And though Sanzu doesn’t say it aloud, you know he’s relieved, too. Relieved that you asked him to carry you, relieved that you’re giving him the chance to make things right.
In the silence that follows, as you both settle into the bed, you can feel the distance from the fight slowly melting away, the tension fading, as Sanzu’s arms wrap around you. It’s a simple act, but to him, it means everything.
And for once, you both fall asleep in each other’s arms, without a word more needed between you.
___________________________________________________________________________
Mitsuya’s heart sinks the moment he notices you curled up on the couch, clearly avoiding the bed and his side. The warmth of his feelings for you always keeps him grounded, but tonight, after the argument, there’s a knot in his stomach that just won’t loosen. He’s always tried his best to be the voice of reason in any situation, but the fight with you caught him off guard. His usual calm demeanor is still there, but the hurt is visible in his eyes.
He stands in the doorway for a moment, watching you from a distance. The soft glow of the lamp casts gentle shadows across your face, highlighting the way you're sleeping, or pretending to sleep, your body turned away from the empty side of the bed. There’s a silence in the room that’s louder than any argument they had earlier.
Mitsuya had never wanted this. He’d been too harsh, maybe too quick to snap. He wasn’t one to let his emotions get the best of him, but something about that fight made him feel frustrated and powerless in a way he wasn’t used to. The tension is still in the air, but now, it’s a different kind of tension—a quiet, unresolved one that lingers between you both.
He lets out a soft sigh and walks over to the couch, kneeling down beside you. He can’t help but let his gaze soften when he sees how small and vulnerable you look in this moment. His usual smile is nowhere to be found, replaced with a genuine concern that only he knows how to hide.
“Hey,” Mitsuya says gently, his voice barely above a whisper as he reaches out to gently brush some of your hair from your face. His touch is tender, the kind of touch that shows how much he cares and how much he’s been holding back. “You alright?”
You stir, but don’t open your eyes immediately, and Mitsuya’s heart tugs at the sight. The silence is still there, and he feels it deep in his chest. He wants to fix things—wants to make everything better—but he doesn’t know how to bridge the gap that’s formed between you two.
“I’m sorry for what I said earlier,” he continues, the sincerity in his voice cutting through the stillness. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I just... I hate seeing you upset, and I don’t know how to make things right when you’re mad at me.”
Mitsuya pauses, unsure of what to say next. His usual confidence seems to have slipped away, leaving him exposed in a way he’s not used to. His words come out quieter, more vulnerable now, filled with the honesty he’s always had but rarely shown so plainly.
"I don’t like this," he admits, his voice breaking the tension. "I don’t like the idea of you being angry with me. Or… of us being like this."
There’s a moment of silence, and Mitsuya stays still, waiting for you to respond. When you don’t, he exhales deeply, frustrated but still determined to make things right.
“Look,” he says, a hint of that familiar gentleness in his tone. “You can sleep here, if you want, but I don’t want to leave things like this. I just want to make it better.”
He stands up, giving you a bit of space as he rubs the back of his neck, looking uncertain but still committed. It’s not that Mitsuya is afraid of confrontation—he just wants peace, especially with you. His feelings for you run so deep that even a small disagreement feels bigger than it probably is.
After a beat, he sits beside you again, gently lifting your head and resting it in his lap. His touch is soft, and he brushes his fingers through your hair in the familiar, calming way he knows works best when you're upset.
“Come back to bed with me, Y/N,” he whispers, his voice laced with sincerity and a hint of pleading. “Please. I don’t want to sleep apart from you. I just want to hold you, make things right.”
There’s a vulnerability in his eyes that’s rare for him. Mitsuya isn’t the type to openly show his insecurities, but right now, the idea of you not being by his side is something he can’t quite stand. He knows that this small action might not fix everything right away, but it’s a start—a way to show you how much you mean to him and that he’ll always be there for you, no matter the situation.
You shift slightly in his lap, and for a moment, Mitsuya thinks maybe you’re still angry or hurt, but when you open your eyes, your gaze softens. It’s all he needs.
You meet his eyes, your voice barely audible as you speak, “I’m sorry too Takashi. Lets go back to bed, but carry me.”
His eyes widen slightly at the request, and a small smile tugs at the corners of his lips. He doesn’t even hesitate for a moment. He scoops you up with ease, his arms wrapping around you securely, and you rest your head against his chest. “I promise I make it up to you.” The warmth from his body is soothing, and you can feel the tension in both of you begin to melt away as he carefully carries you back to the bed.
As he sets you down gently, Mitsuya looks at you, his heart full of quiet relief and affection. “I’ll always make things right with you, no matter what,” he whispers, leaning down to kiss your forehead softly. “I just want to be with you.”
He slips into the bed beside you, pulling you close to him, his arms wrapping around you in a tight, protective embrace. And as the two of you settle into the warmth of the bed, everything feels right again. The fight, the tension, it all fades as you both find comfort in each other’s presence, knowing that no matter what happens, you’ll always find your way back to each other.
___________________________________________________________________________
Kokonoi has always been someone who prides himself on control—over his emotions, his actions, and everything around him. He’s used to being the one in charge, the one with a calculated plan for every situation. But when it comes to you, all that control seems to slip away, especially when he notices you’re not in bed with him.
The sight of you sleeping—or pretending to sleep—on the couch hits him harder than he expects. He’s still irritated by the argument, still simmering with the heat of it all, but seeing you so distant, clearly upset, pulls at something deeper inside him. It’s not just that you're physically separate from him; it’s that there’s an emotional distance between you both now, and that’s something Kokonoi isn’t used to.
Standing at the edge of the living room, he doesn’t make any noise, watching you for a moment. The couch feels so much smaller with you on it, and the space between you both feels miles apart. His sharp eyes trace the way you’re curled up, avoiding the bed you usually share, and he can’t help but feel a sinking feeling in his chest. He knows he can’t keep pretending like everything’s okay, but he’s not sure how to fix it.
Kokonoi’s mind races, his usual demeanor faltering as he lets out a sigh, pushing the frustration aside for a moment. Slowly, he walks over to you, his footsteps quiet on the hardwood floor. There’s an air of coolness about him, but it’s tempered by the vulnerability he’s unwilling to admit. As he kneels down next to the couch, his usual smirk is replaced with a rare, soft expression, though it’s still tinged with the unease he feels.
“You really think this is the solution?” Kokonoi says, his voice low but not angry. It’s more of a frustrated, almost tired tone. “Sleeping out here like this?”
You don’t look at him right away, but his words break the silence in the room. When you finally meet his gaze, it’s not with the usual sharpness or sarcasm he’s used to. There’s something different—more vulnerable—there now. He can see it, even in the way your eyes are half-closed, the signs that you’re still processing everything, still hurt.
Kokonoi leans down a little closer, eyes softer now. His pride still holds some weight, but there’s something real in his gaze that he can’t hide. It’s rare for him to let his guard down like this, but seeing you like this, distant and upset, cracks his tough exterior just enough to reveal the concern he’s been hiding.
“I’m sorry,” he says, voice quieter than usual. “I shouldn’t have said what I said.”
He pauses for a moment, trying to gather the right words. Kokonoi is never one for grand apologies, and he doesn’t expect you to forgive him immediately. But this—this silent treatment—doesn’t sit well with him. He hates the idea of you being upset with him, of there being an unresolved distance between you two. It doesn’t matter how prideful he is, how good he is at keeping his emotions in check—when it comes to you, he feels it all.
“Look…” Kokonoi hesitates, reaching out to gently touch your arm. “I didn’t mean for things to get like this. But I can’t just leave it like this, not when we’re like… this.” He gestures to the empty space between you both, his voice turning softer, more earnest. “I don’t like seeing you upset, especially when I know I’m the one who caused it.”
There’s a quiet pause. He watches you carefully, waiting for any sign of what you might need from him, any gesture that might bring you both back together. He’s never been good at comforting words, but his actions have always spoken louder than anything he says. Kokonoi knows this is one of those moments where he has to act, not just speak.
Without a word more, he stands up, gently lifting you from the couch. The gesture is smooth, effortless—just like he’s used to holding onto control, now he holds you, offering the kind of stability he doesn’t usually show anyone. He’s careful, making sure you’re comfortable in his arms, even though he knows you’re still upset.
“Come on,” he murmurs, his tone more tender than usual. “You’re coming back to bed with me.”
It’s not a demand, but a simple statement of intent. His arms hold you securely, his body close enough to yours that you can feel the warmth radiating from him. As he carries you to the bedroom, Kokonoi’s steps are slow and deliberate, as though he’s savoring this moment of closeness, trying to make it right in his own way.
Once he reaches the bed, he gently sets you down, his eyes still focused on you with an intensity that isn’t lost on either of you. Kokonoi’s hands hover near you for a moment, as if hesitating to do too much or force you into anything, but then he simply climbs into the bed next to you. He doesn’t say much after that, but his presence is clear—he’s here, with you, and he won’t leave you like this.
“I’ll fix it,” he says quietly, the words more like a promise than an apology. “But I need you to let me. I don’t want to fight anymore, Y/N.”
Kokonoi’s hand reaches out to brush yours, his fingers intertwining with yours, seeking that connection. His usual icy exterior is softened, but he still doesn’t give a full apology in the way you might expect. He doesn’t need to. You both know the unspoken understanding between you.
And as he pulls you closer, your head resting against his chest, the quiet warmth between you both fills the room. The fight is still there in the back of both your minds, but in that moment, Kokonoi has done what he knows how to do best: he’s taken the initiative to bring you back together, physically and emotionally, and as you settle into his arms, the weight of everything else fades.
You’re not alone anymore. And neither is he.
___________________________________________________________________________
Izana doesn’t like to be ignored. More than that, he doesn't like to feel the gap between you two. The argument was sharp, harsh, and now there’s a palpable distance in the air—a space that feels colder than it should be between two people who mean so much to each other. You’re on the couch, curled up, your back turned toward him. The sight of it is like a thorn in his side. It twists in his chest, something that is both irritation and a flicker of guilt. He had pushed things too far, said things he shouldn't have. But even if it’s hard for him to admit, he doesn’t like seeing you upset with him, doesn’t like feeling the weight of that silent space between you.
Izana stands in the doorway for a moment, eyes narrowing as he watches you. His mind spins with thoughts of the argument, the hurtful words exchanged. He’s used to getting his way, used to others bending to his will. But you? You’re different. You don’t give in so easily. And when you’re angry with him... it bothers him more than he’s willing to admit.
He leans against the doorframe, his usual composed and almost cold demeanor slipping just slightly. He’s not good with feelings—at least, not the way other people are. He'd never be caught dead asking for a hug or comfort. But he’s not stupid. He knows what he needs right now.
You don’t look at him when he speaks, but he doesn't expect you to. His voice, low and smooth, cuts through the silence.
“Get up,” he orders, but it’s not harsh. There’s a quiet command in his tone, but also something that almost sounds like... an invitation. “You shouldn’t be out here.”
When you don’t move, his patience wears thin. He crosses the room in a few swift steps, his presence towering over you. He stands still for a second, just watching you. Izana’s eyes soften, the cold edge gone, replaced by something deeper—something that almost seems like concern. He wants you close again, wants the distance between you two erased.
Without another word, he bends down, his hands reaching for you. The action is fluid, deliberate. Before you can even respond, he scoops you up effortlessly into his arms, his strong hands settling around your waist. The movement is swift, and suddenly you’re in his arms, your face buried into his chest as he lifts you up without hesitation.
For a moment, there’s no resistance. You relax into him, instinctively, your head resting on his shoulder. You didn’t even mean to—there’s just something about being so close to him that makes everything else seem less important. Izana’s arms are secure, and though he doesn’t show it outwardly, there’s a sense of protectiveness in the way he holds you, as if nothing could harm you while you’re in his embrace.
“You’re not sleeping out here,” Izana murmurs, his voice softening. His steps are purposeful as he carries you toward the bedroom, each movement smooth and controlled. There’s no hesitation in his actions, no second-guessing. His arms feel like a fortress around you, and even though the fight isn’t fully forgotten, the tension between you both fades the longer he holds you.
When he reaches the bed, he gently lowers you onto it, his hands lingering on your sides for just a moment. His eyes search yours, and for the first time, the hardness in his gaze softens. He’s never been good at saying sorry—never been one to beg for forgiveness—but the look in his eyes says it all. He can’t stand this distance between you two.
Izana leans down beside you, his body leaning in, his arm reaching to pull you closer again, this time with more tenderness. The soft weight of his body presses against yours, his presence swallowing any remnants of coldness from the argument.
“I hate this,” he mutters softly, his breath brushing against your skin. “Hate that you’re upset with me. I don’t like when you’re this far away.”
He pulls you to him, the tension slipping away as you settle into his embrace. His fingers gently brush through your hair, a quiet but reassuring gesture. Izana is still Izana—distant, perhaps, but his care for you is undeniable. The way he holds you is possessive, but not in a way that feels controlling. He wants you close. Needs you close.
His lips brush against your forehead as he presses you deeper into him. “You’re staying here with me. No more of this bullshit.” His voice is a low growl, the possessiveness clear, but there’s tenderness there too—almost an unspoken apology in the way he holds you.
For a few moments, there’s nothing but the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear and the gentle rhythm of his breathing. The argument feels like it happened days ago, the distance evaporating in the warmth of his embrace. Izana's arms tighten around you slightly, his grip firm and comforting, as if he's trying to make up for the harsh words and the space between you both.
“Don’t ever sleep out here again,” he whispers, his words almost a command but laced with something far softer. “I don’t want you out of my reach. I never want to feel this again.”
And with that, the night settles into an uneasy peace. No more words are needed. You drift into sleep, curled into him, and Izana follows suit, his chest rising and falling steadily with each breath. The fight may not be over entirely, but in this moment, wrapped in his arms, you both find a quiet resolution.
___________________________________________________________________________
The apartment is too quiet.
Ran leans in the doorway of your shared bedroom, one arm lazily braced against the frame, his hand wandering through his hair, while his eyes scan the dim space behind you. The couch, where you’ve chosen to sleep tonight, looks much too small for comfort — especially for someone he usually keeps wrapped in his arms all night.
He clicks his tongue, annoyed — but not at you. At himself.
He can’t even remember how the fight started exactly — something stupid, probably. Something he said with that slick tongue of his that went a little too far, hit a little too close. That was always the risk with him: Ran knew how to wound when he felt cornered. And tonight, for once, you didn’t argue back. You just walked out. Silent. Closed off.
That silence? That got to him more than anything else.
Now, watching you curled up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket like armor, Ran's usual smirk is gone. His face is unreadable, his eyes shadowed. But inside, a low churn of guilt turns over and over. You never did this before — choosing space from him. Not like this.
He sighs quietly through his nose, then steps closer. His footsteps are soft against the hardwood, careful not to wake you just yet. You’re still facing away, shoulders slightly tense even in sleep, a subtle sign you’re not fully relaxed. That hits him harder than he expects.
Ran crouches beside you, resting an arm on the cushion as he watches your sleeping face, the glow from the streetlights casting soft light across your features. His voice is low, almost too soft for anyone to hear.
“You really weren’t gonna come back to bed, huh?”
No response. Just the quiet rise and fall of your breathing.
He clicks his tongue again and lets his hand gently brush your hair away from your cheek. “Tch... stubborn little thing,” he mutters, but there’s no heat in it. Just a warm fondness buried under his tired voice.
Ran knows he messed up. He also knows you won’t let him off the hook easily — and you shouldn’t. Still, that doesn’t mean he’s letting you sleep out here, away from him. That’s not how you two fix things. Distance doesn’t heal anything. He learned that the hard way in life.
Without another word, he slips one arm under your knees and another around your back, moving slowly, carefully. As he lifts you, your body stirs slightly. Eyes flutter half-open, and your voice is groggy, confused.
He lets out a soft chuckle, but there’s no teasing in it this time — only quiet relief that you're awake, that you’re still letting him close. “Yeah, baby. Don’t freak out. Just taking you where you belong.”
You should protest, maybe. Tell him off, remind him why you were on the couch in the first place — but your body betrays you. The second your head drops against his shoulder, your arms naturally curl around his neck, instinctively seeking his warmth. Ran notices. Of course he does. And he holds you just a bit tighter.
“Still mad at me?” he murmurs, voice low and close to your ear as he walks slowly back to the bedroom.
You don’t answer right away, just bury your face into his neck. That’s all the answer he needs.
By the time he lays you down on the bed, he’s already kicking off his shirt and sliding under the covers next to you. His long arm wraps around your waist, pulling you back into him without hesitation. You let him — still silent, but not pushing him away.
He exhales, his breath brushing against the nape of your neck.
“I know I was a dick. You don’t have to forgive me now. Just… don’t freeze me out like that, alright?” he says, voice unusually vulnerable. “I can take a fight. But not that kind of silence.”
You finally shift in his arms, turning just enough to rest your forehead against his chest, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. Ran’s hand finds the back of your head, cradling it, holding you against him like you’re something breakable. He presses a kiss to your temple — not playful, not flirtatious. Just quiet and sincere.
“I’ll make it up to you tomorrow,” he whispers. “All day, if that’s what it takes.”
You hum softly in response, not quite a yes, but not a no either. It’s enough for now.
Ran closes his eyes, arms wrapped around you like a tether pulling you both back to the same place. The silence between you has shifted — no longer heavy, but healing.
And as sleep slowly returns, you both know: you’ll argue again, and maybe fight worse next time. But you’ll always end up like this — together. Closer than the pride that tries to wedge between you. Closer than the distance you sometimes try to create.
Wrapped in each other, where you both belong.
___________________________________________________________________________
The low hum of the fridge is the only sound in the apartment.
Rindou stands in the hallway, arms crossed, staring into the darkened living room like it’s the enemy. He doesn’t even need to see you—he knows you’re curled up on the couch, wrapped in that thin blanket you always use when you're upset. His jaw clenches, his chest tightens.
He messed up. He knows that much.
The fight wasn’t explosive. It was worse—quiet, tense, and full of the kind of sharp-edged words that sink in slowly and cut deeper the longer they sit. You didn’t yell. You didn’t cry. You just shut down and walked out of the bedroom.
Now you’re out there. And he’s in here. And he fucking hates it.
He rubs a hand down his face, pacing once before stopping short. “This is so stupid,” he mutters to himself. He knows how this ends. It always ends with you two finding your way back to each other. But right now, you're out there on the damn couch instead of next to him, and that fact scratches at every raw nerve in his body.
Finally, he walks into the living room.
He sees you, small under the blanket, turned away from him. The faint light from outside spills in through the curtains, casting soft shadows across your face. You look peaceful... but he knows better. You’re not asleep. Not really. You never fall asleep right after a fight. You’re just lying there, pretending you don’t care.
Rindou sighs, a soft, frustrated sound. “You really gonna sleep out here?” he asks, voice quieter than he means. He waits, but you don’t respond.
Rindou hesitates for a moment longer before kneeling next to you. He doesn’t touch you, not yet. Just watches you breathe. His eyes are tired, not from lack of sleep, but from the emotional weight pressing down on him. He’s not as slick with words as Ran. Not as confident. But what he feels? It’s real. And when it comes to you, it runs deep.
“I didn’t mean what I said,” he murmurs. “I was pissed. But I shouldn’t’ve taken it out on you.”
You still don’t move. Not a sound. Not a flinch. Rindou’s heart starts to ache in that ugly, quiet way it does when he realizes he’s really hurt you.
He leans in just a little. “C’mon, baby… You don’t belong out here.”
There’s a beat of silence—tense, uncertain—before your voice finally breaks through, soft and muffled against the cushion.
His breath catches. It's not defiance. It's not sarcasm. It's raw. Honest. A soft surrender.
Without missing a beat, Rindou leans in and gently slips his arms under you—one under your knees, the other around your shoulders. You don’t resist. In fact, you immediately melt into his chest the moment he lifts you. Your head rests against his collarbone, your arms sliding around his neck like instinct, like your body remembers something your mind is still struggling with.
Rindou swallows hard, the relief hitting him like a wave. He holds you tighter, his grip firm but gentle as he carries you back to the bedroom, steps slow, careful—as if this small moment could shatter if he moves too fast.
He lays you down softly on the bed, brushing the blanket off your body and replacing it with his warmth instead. As he slides in next to you, he immediately pulls you back into his arms, pressing your body to his like he’s afraid you’ll slip away again. His hand finds its way to the back of your head, cradling you, while the other rests protectively on your waist.
“Stay here,” he murmurs, lips brushing your forehead. “Just stay close.”
You don’t answer with words. You just bury your face into his chest and hold him tighter.
Rindou exhales, a deep breath that carries all his guilt and all his relief. He hates fighting with you. Hates feeling like he’s the reason you’re hurting. But this—this moment, where you're back in his arms, breathing in sync with him again—it soothes that storm.
“I’ll fix it,” he whispers against your hair. “Promise.”
And this time, you believe him.
__________________________________________________________________________
Kazutora notices the quiet first.
It’s the kind that creeps in after a storm — not peaceful, but tense, like something’s waiting to break. The apartment feels too still, too cold. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, fingers knotted tightly in his hair, still reeling from the argument.
The words replay over and over in his head, sharp and bitter, each one like a bruise. He didn’t mean to snap at you. He never really does — but his emotions come fast, hot, and loud. Old instincts that never really died, even though he tries so damn hard to be better now. For you. Because you’re the one person who makes him want to be someone softer.
But tonight, his temper got the better of him. Again.
And now… you’re not here.
He realizes it all at once. The absence beside him in bed. The distant creak of a blanket. The soft hum of the living room light.
Kazutora stands immediately, chest tightening. Not in anger — in panic. In guilt. In shame. You’ve never done that before. Even on your worst days, you always stayed close, even if you faced away from him. But this? This felt like distance. Real, physical proof that he pushed you too far.
He pads quietly into the living room. The sight of you curled up under a blanket, small and turned away from the world, nearly breaks him. You’re facing the back cushions, and even from the angle he can tell your eyes are shut tight — like you’re trying to disappear.
For a moment, he just watches you.
He doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t trust his voice not to crack. His fists curl at his sides, nails biting into his palms. You shouldn't have to be the one retreating. Not because of him.
So he does what he always does when words fail — he acts.
Kazutora kneels down beside you, his hand trembling slightly as he gently brushes the blanket down from your shoulders.
“…Hey,” he says softly, barely more than a whisper. “Don’t… don’t sleep out here. Please.”
You shift a little, but don’t speak. Your silence is heavy, and he feels every ounce of it like punishment.
“I was an idiot,” he continues, voice rough, strained with the weight of the evening. “I said shit I didn’t mean. I always say shit I don’t mean.”
He hesitates — then gently reaches out and touches your arm.
“I hate when we fight. But I hate this more. Not having you next to me? It makes me feel like… like I already lost.”
You finally turn your head slightly, and his heart lurches when your tired eyes meet his. You’re not angry anymore. Just hurt.
“Then… carry me back,” you whisper.
It’s so soft he almost doesn’t hear it.
But the second the words register, something in Kazutora’s chest shatters and melts all at once.
He nods, swallowing hard. “Yeah. Of course.”
Without hesitation, he leans forward and slides his arms around you, one beneath your knees, the other supporting your back. He lifts you like you weigh nothing — and maybe you do, in this moment. Maybe his need to have you close makes you feel light in his arms.
You sigh softly, tucking yourself into him, and your body relaxes for the first time all night. Your head rests against his chest, and the faint thump of his heartbeat steadies you both. You wrap your arms loosely around his neck as he carries you slowly, carefully back to the bedroom.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, forehead brushing yours as he sets you gently down on the bed. “I don’t want to hurt you. Ever. Even when I’m mad, I just… I don’t know how to handle shit sometimes.”
You reach for him instinctively, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, tugging him down beside you. Kazutora immediately follows, crawling under the covers and pulling you against him like he can’t stand even an inch of space between you. His arms wrap tightly around your waist, one hand buried in your hair, the other rubbing slow circles against your back.
“I’ll do better,” he breathes. “I have to. Because I can’t lose this. Can’t lose you.”
Your only reply is a soft hum, your nose pressed into the crook of his neck. He holds you tighter at that — as if you might vanish if he lets go.
And in the quiet that follows, you both find something like forgiveness — not in words, but in the way your bodies melt together beneath the blankets. You may not be done talking about it. The wounds are still fresh. But in his arms, you feel safe again.
And for Kazutora, having you close — after everything — feels like salvation.
__________________________________________________________________________
The apartment door creaks as Hanma kicks it shut behind him.
His boots hit the floor heavy, loud — everything he does is loud. Chaotic. Messy. Just like the fight you had earlier. He hadn’t expected you to actually leave the bedroom, though. Storm off, sure. Cuss him out, yeah. But when he didn’t hear your voice come back at him — when the silence took over instead of your fire — it left a weird hole in his chest.
Hanma doesn’t do well with silence. Never has. It reminds him of emptiness. Of nights alone and rooms too big and people who left without a word. Silence, to him, is more violent than any scream.
So when he rounds the corner into the living room and sees you curled up on the couch, blanket pulled up to your chin, back turned to him — that silence rings loud in his ears. It grates. It unsettles. But worse, it hurts.
“Seriously?” he mutters, half to himself, running a hand through his hair.
He stands there for a minute, just watching. It’s not like you’ve never had fights before. You two clash like fire and gasoline sometimes. But no matter how bad it gets, you’ve never left the bed. Never left him.
And that little shift? It hits him harder than it should.
Hanma walks over and crouches down beside the couch, resting his arms on the edge of the cushion. His expression isn't wild or smug like usual. It's tired — maybe even a little vulnerable, though he'd never admit it out loud.
“Hey,” he says, voice low and rough. “You still mad?”
He leans his cheek on the cushion, inches from your face now. “C’mon, don’t freeze me out. That shit’s worse than yelling.”
Still no answer. Just your slow breathing, steady, guarded.
His fingers twitch against the couch. “Look, I was a dick. Yeah, yeah — I know. You don’t gotta say it. I just… I guess sometimes I forget how to be with someone who actually gives a damn.”
You shift slightly under the blanket, but don’t say anything.
Hanma chuckles under his breath, but there’s no real amusement in it. “You know what’s funny? For all the hell I’ve caused, you choosing to sleep away from me — that’s what fucks me up the most.”
Finally, you murmur without turning to face him, “Then fix it.”
He blinks, then smiles — that slow, crooked, real kind of smile that you don’t get to see often. Not when he’s putting on a show for the world. This one’s just for you.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “I can do that.”
Without another word, Hanma slides his arms under you — not rough or forceful like people expect him to be, but slow, steady, like he's afraid of breaking something precious. You don’t resist. In fact, the second he lifts you, your body moves instinctively toward his — arms looping around his neck, head pressing against his collarbone, like you’d been waiting for this all night.
He carries you down the hallway, quiet, almost reverent. His heart's pounding harder than he'd admit.
“Y’know,” he murmurs, “I never thought I’d care this much about someone being in bed with me. But with you... I do. You not being there? Feels wrong.”
He nudges the bedroom door open with his shoulder and carefully lays you down on the bed. You pull him down with you, your fingers curling into his shirt like a silent truce.
Hanma slides in beside you, one arm slinging over your waist, the other slipping under your head. He presses a kiss to your temple — slow, lingering. Gentle in a way that would shock anyone who’s only seen his madness.
“I’m not good at this,” he whispers into the darkness. “But I’m not lettin’ you sleep alone again. Not if I can help it.”
You hum softly in response, snuggling in closer. And for once, the silence in the room feels calm. Like something being rebuilt, piece by piece.
___________________________________________________________________________
Chifuyu’s footsteps are hesitant, soft against the floor, as he steps out of the bedroom. The silence in the apartment is so thick he can almost hear his own heartbeat. Normally, you’d be right next to him — your familiar warmth, your breathing syncing with his, the soft weight of you curled up against him. But not tonight. Tonight, he’s alone.
The argument had been loud, far too loud for Chifuyu’s liking. He never liked yelling, never liked being at odds with you. But his emotions got the best of him. He’d snapped, said something stupid — something he regretted the second it left his mouth. And you, being who you are, shut down. Quiet. Too quiet. And when you turned away, walking out of the bedroom, he knew something was wrong. Something he couldn’t fix with an apology right away.
He stands in the hallway, hands in his pockets, staring at the living room. And there you are. Curled up on the couch, the blanket half-wrapped around you, your back to him, your form small and tense.
Chifuyu sighs, his heart sinking. This was the last thing he wanted — for you to feel like this, alone, hurt. The thought that you could feel so distant, so cold, when you should be warm with him, rips at him.
With a soft step forward, he crouches beside the couch, resting his hand gently on the armrest. He can’t bring himself to touch you just yet. He doesn’t want to invade your space if you’re not ready for him, but he also knows he can’t just let you lie here like this.
“Hey,” he says, voice low and tentative. His eyes flicker to your face, soft and peaceful in sleep, but he can tell you’re not really resting. Not fully. “I know… I know I messed up.”
You don’t respond right away, but there’s a small shift in the way you’re holding yourself — your shoulders, tense as if you’re preparing to shut him out completely.
“I shouldn’t have said that,” Chifuyu continues, a quiet ache in his voice. “I wasn’t thinking. I just… I don’t want to fight with you. I never do. You mean too much to me for me to just brush it off.”
There’s a beat of silence. You don’t speak, but your eyes flutter open slightly, just enough for him to see the flicker of emotion there.
Chifuyu takes that as a sign. His heart picks up speed as he slowly slides down to sit beside you, careful not to crowd you. He doesn’t want to rush anything. He just wants to be close. He needs to be close.
“Come on,” he whispers, reaching out to gently tug at the blanket, pulling it down so he can see your face. “Don’t shut me out like this.”
Your eyes finally meet his, and he can see the hurt there. It stabs him right in the chest. He swallows hard, trying to keep his composure, but the vulnerability in your gaze makes him want to hold you, to make everything better.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “I hate seeing you like this. It’s not okay, and I won’t let it go on. I’ll do whatever it takes to make it right. Just… come back to bed with me?”
You look at him for a long moment, uncertainty clouding your expression. Chifuyu leans in closer, just enough to close the space between you, his hand brushing against yours. He doesn’t try to force anything — just lets his touch linger, offering his warmth and sincerity.
“I’ll be here,” he adds quietly. “Whenever you’re ready.”
For a long moment, nothing changes. The silence stretches out, thick and fragile.
And then, without a word, you shift in the blanket, your body moving toward him almost instinctively. You sit up, your eyes tired but soft, and Chifuyu’s heart lifts as he watches you move. Slowly, carefully, he extends his arms, ready to help you.
You slip into them without hesitation, your arms wrapping around him, your head resting against his shoulder. Chifuyu’s arms envelop you immediately, pulling you into his warmth, his hands tracing comforting patterns on your back.
“I’m sorry for making you feel like this,” he murmurs into your hair, his voice barely above a whisper. “I never want to hurt you.”
You don’t say anything, but you don’t have to. You nuzzle closer into his chest, your body relaxing into the safety he offers.
Chifuyu exhales softly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Let’s go back to bed, yeah? I don’t like this — not having you by my side.”
He helps you up gently, holding you close as he walks you back to the bedroom. He tucks you into the sheets, settling beside you and pulling you into his arms, like he always does. Your body molds against his, and for the first time that night, you both breathe in tandem — the fight still lingering in the air but no longer between you.
“I’ll make it right, I promise,” he whispers, his hand gently stroking your hair. “I’ll always try, for you.”
As your breathing evens out and the tension in your body melts away, Chifuyu feels a quiet relief wash over him. The night might not be over, and things might take time to heal, but with you in his arms, it feels like everything will be okay. For now, that’s enough.
