Sanemi was fire, always—loud, impulsive, storming into any room like it owed him something.

Giyuu was rain—quiet, patient, always watching.

No one ever really got how they worked. Sanemi barely tolerated people, and Giyuu barely spoke to them. But somehow, they made sense. Even if they didn’t understand it themselves at first.

College was loud, chaotic, full of people they didn’t care for. But every morning, without fail, Sanemi would find Giyuu waiting under the tree outside the literature building, hoodie half-zipped, earbuds in, looking up only when Sanemi came close enough to touch.

He never said much—just handed Sanemi the extra coffee he always brought. Sanemi would grunt, take it, and they’d walk to class together.

Later, in the dorm they shared, Sanemi would throw his bag somewhere, pull off his shirt, and flop onto the bed like he hadn’t just rage-walked the whole way back.

“You’re annoying,” he’d mutter into the pillow.

Giyuu would sit down beside him, push Sanemi’s hair back from his face, and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Okay.”

Sanemi never meant it anyway.

They studied curled against each other, limbs tangled like it was second nature. Giyuu’s notes were perfect. Sanemi’s handwriting looked like a battlefield. But he’d read over every word Giyuu wrote, eyes narrowed in concentration, one hand always resting somewhere on Giyuu—his thigh, his wrist, his hoodie string.

And at night, when the world was still, Giyuu would lie awake for just a moment longer, brushing his fingers through Sanemi’s hair while he slept—mouth parted, arm thrown over Giyuu like he didn’t care how clingy he looked.

He didn’t. Not with him.

No one really understood them. They didn’t need them to.