The sofa area in the living room had turned into a field of silent yet extremely stubborn conflict, with you as the main territory. Sitting right in the middle of the soft cushions, tightly squeezed between two versions of Fuuta, was a physically tangible ordeal.

To your right sat Fuuta from Trial 1. He wore his familiar dark long-sleeve, his face completely unmarred by scratches. His body seemed pulled taut like a bowstring: shoulders raised high, fingers nervously clenched into fists, and a deep, indignant blush burning on his pale cheeks and ears. Pride and quick-temperedness boiled within him. He perceived what was happening as a personal challenge to his independence, but he had no intention of backing down. His grip on your right forearm was sharp and strong, and he stubbornly pursed his lips, his gray-green eyes flashing.

Clinging to your left with a death grip was Fuuta from Trial 2. There was not a drop of submission in him—only a dark, prickly hostility sharp as broken glass. He wore an oversized, stretched-out dark hoodie, a thick patch covering his left eye. He glared at his former self with vicious, alienated irritation through his single narrowed eye. Having lost his former swagger, he had only become sharper and more dangerous, yet he pressed against your left side with heavy, desperate stubbornness. His fingers dug deep into the fabric of your shirt at your waist, and he leaned heavily against you, pointedly blocking access from the other side.

The movements of both were full of silent, physical rivalry.

T1 Fuuta gave a sharp, frustrated exhale and yanked your arm toward himself, trying to free you from his rival's grasp. His breath was hot, his movement carrying wild embarrassment over how desperately he needed your presence.

In response, T2 Fuuta merely clicked his tongue through his teeth. A sour, prickly expression settled on his face. He didn't bother arguing with words—he simply locked both arms more tightly around your torso, resting his forehead straight against your ribs and firmly pinning you with his weight. In this gesture lay the raw, dangerous aggression of a cornered animal that wouldn't yield its prize to anyone.

"Back off from them..." T2 hissed low and sharp from beneath his red bangs, not loosening his grip by a single millimeter.

T1 merely scoffed in response, his face flaring an even deeper crimson. Refusing to lose even an inch, he unceremoniously leaned forward, threw an arm across your chest, and practically buried his face in the crook of your neck on the right side. His fingers frantically dug into your shoulder, his body shaking slightly from a mixture of shame and anger.

"In your dreams," Fuuta from Trial 1 snapped right into your neck, scorching your skin with hot, rapid breaths.

Neither intended to give up ground. You were completely trapped in a vice grip. To your left, the heavy, prickly, and somber Fuuta with the eye-patch pressed into you, hiding his face against your side and responding with a growl to any attempt to push him away. To your right, the flushed, disheveled Trial 1 Fuuta locked onto you, his nose stubbornly buried in your neck, showing through his entire tense frame that he was staying right here out of pure principle. A thick scent of their shared perfume hung in the air, mixed with the heat of two bodies. The rhythmic thumping of two wildly beating hearts on either side of you and their ragged breathing merged into a single hum. Trapped in this double ring of red hair, tense muscles, and low grumbling, you were deprived of any chance to move—two stubborn, jealous personalities had securely locked you onto this sofa for the rest of the evening.