Arm groaned in his sleep, the sheets tangled around his legs, breath uneven. In the dream, it wasn't tangled sheets or stale dorm room air that surrounded him. It was heat.
Mix's breath ghosted across his jawline, slow and soft. They were on the floor, or maybe a couch Arm couldn't tell anymore. It didn't matter. Nothing existed but bare skin and the press of thighs, heat and rhythm, muffled sounds and the way Mix moaned his name like it meant something.
"Arm..."
It wasn't loud. Just enough to sting.
Mix's hands were in his hair, tugging, nails dragging across scalp and shoulder. Their bodies moved in sync, hips grinding slow, then faster. Mix's lips brushed the shell of his ear, breath warm and eager.
Arm gasped. In the dream, he pushed deeper, harder, into a space where nothing was confusing, where want wasn't something to be ashamed of. Where Mix held on to him like he meant it.
Their mouths met like it was habit hungry and deep. Mix clutched at his back, and his legs wrapped around Arm's waist, pulling him in, keeping him there. Anchored.
He whispered something, something Arm couldn't hear, couldn't decode. Maybe it didn't matter.
The warmth, the pressure, the friction it was all peaking, everything building toward that singular point where Arm couldn't breathe, couldn't think. He was right there.
Then Mix looked up at him, eyes glassy and dark.
"Why didn't you help me?"
Everything shattered.
Arm shot up in bed, sweating, heart pounding like a warning bell. The sheets clung to his skin, his breath ragged. He blinked, eyes adjusting to the faint light crawling in from the hallway.
The room was quiet.
His gaze shifted.
Mix was asleep, curled up on his side, one hand tucked under his cheek. His glasses lay neatly folded on the desk, his sweater half-pulled over his shoulder like he hadn't meant to fall asleep.
He looked soft. Not fragile, exactly just small. Peaceful.
Arm swallowed.
It was stupid. So stupid. But his heart ached in a way that made no sense. The dream lingered in his bones, his skin still hot with phantom touches.
Quietly, carefully, he got up.
He moved across the room, pulled the spare blanket from the edge of his own bed, and laid it over Mix. Tucked it just enough. Stood there too long.
And then, back to his bed. Face to the wall. Pillow to the face.
He didn't sleep again.
---
Morning came like a slap.
Mix was already up, dressed, hair slightly damp like he'd showered early. He didn't say a word. Didn't look Arm's way. Just collected his bag, opened his planner, and started packing with surgical precision.
Fine. Cool. Avoidance was good. Arm could play that game.
He leaned against his pillow, scrolling through his phone like the night hadn't happened. Like that blanket hadn't happened. Like the dream hadn't burned itself into his throat.
---
Arm had just finished brushing his teeth when the door flung open like it had no right to exist.
"Yo!"
Gun's voice punched through the air like a wrecking ball with dimples. Oversized jersey, one earbud in, a takeaway cup in hand. He was halfway into the room before either of them could say a thing.
"Dude, you vanished last night," Gun said to Arm. "You didn't even text back. Jack thought you died. I said, nah, you're just brooding. Typical."
Then he saw Mix.
And stopped.
The cup paused mid-air. His brows pulled together.
"...No way."
Mix froze at his desk, mid-highlight. The marker hovered just above a sentence. Arm stood by his bed, suddenly way too aware of how small the room was.
"Mix?" Gun blinked, his voice softening into something surprised but warm. "Dude... You're alive?"
There was a beat.
Then
"Gun?" Mix said. Quiet. Cautious.
Gun beamed. "Holy shit, it is you."
And just like that, he crossed the room in three strides and wrapped Mix in a one-armed hug. It wasn't returned, but it wasn't pushed away either. Which, for Mix, was a full-body yes.
Arm watched it happen. Watched Mix's spine stay stiff but his eyes flicker with something uncertain and real.
"You two know each other?" Arm asked, trying not to sound like a third wheel in his own damn room.
Gun pulled back, still grinning. "Childhood friends. We lived two doors apart back then, right?"
Mix gave a tiny nod. "You broke my GameBoy."
"And you pushed me off the swings. We're even."
Arm blinked. Childhood. Right. So much for avoiding fate.
"Wait, wait," Gun held up a finger, turning between them, "don't tell me... Room 209? You two are roommates?"
Silence.
Arm coughed. Mix went back to highlighting.
Gun smirked. "I'm sorry, this is hilarious. You two. In one room. God really said enemies to roommates."
"Who said we're enemies?" Arm tried, too casually.
Gun waved a hand. "Same difference. Anyway, breakfast. Squad's out front. Peat's already dragging chairs together like we're hosting a brunch summit. You guys coming?"
"I have class," Mix said.
"It's Sunday."
"...I still have class."
Gun turned those round puppy eyes on him. "Don't do me like this."
Mix hesitated. His gaze flicked toward Arm, who looked very interested in his socks.
Gun noticed.
Peat chose that exact moment to stick his head through the door. Soft-eyed, pastel hoodie, and carrying two more cups of coffee.
"I brought backups in case Gun loses one. Again," Peat said. His voice was a soft contrast to Gun's bassline energy.
He stepped into the room like a breeze most people didn't realize they needed. Soft pastel hoodie, eyes that seemed to notice everything and judge nothing.
He moved quietly but with the kind of ease that came from being loved out loud by Gun, of course. Everyone knew they were together.
Where Gun was fire, Peat was calm water, grounding him. The kind of boyfriend who brought you coffee without asking and somehow always knew when to speak and when to just sit with you.
His eyes swept the space, clocking Arm by the bed, Mix still half-frozen at the desk, and Gun grinning like chaos in sneakers. Gun turned immediately, grabbing Peat by the wrist like he'd just found proof of something.
"Babe this is Mix," he said, with the kind of warmth that made it feel like the sun had just risen inside the dorm. "Childhood friend. Used to live next door to me. We shared a swing set and trauma." Then he turned toward Mix with a grin, "And this is Peat my very patient boyfriend."
Peat Offered a tentative smile. "Hello," he said quietly.
Mix replied with a nod.
Gun laughed at the exchange. Not loud, but honest. "Come with us. I brought those green tea mochi things. The chewy kind."
And maybe it was that. Or maybe it was how Gun didn't push. Or maybe it was the fact that this time, for once, no one called him "Mute."
So Mix went.
---
The table outside the campus café was chaos.
Peat and Gun were curled into each other, legs tangled like nobody told them this was a public space. Bave and Jack sat across from them, mid-argument about whether ghosts could smell fear. Bave's eyeliner was flawless. Jack looked like he'd rather be a ghost.
Mix sat on the edge. Still. Observing.
Arm sat next to him, pretending not to notice the inches between their knees. Or how much he wanted to close that space.
"You're not what I expected," Peat said, offering Mix a mochi.
Mix blinked. "I'll take that as a compliment."
Peat smiled. "You should."
Gun tossed an orange wedge at Arm. "Stop brooding."
"I'm not brooding."
"You're sulking."
"I don't sulk."
"You literally sighed during the eggs."
Mix didn't laugh. But his lips tilted. Barely. It felt like a win.
Then it happened.
Bave leaned across the table. "Hey, remember that old rumor? About Mix having a crush on"
"Bave," Gun warned.
Too late.
"Arm," she finished, eyes gleaming.
The table quieted.
Arm flinched.
Mix didn't move. Didn't blink. Just set his cup down with precise, surgical calm.
"Rumors aren't facts," Mix said.
And that was it.
Conversation shifted. But the air didn't.
It held.
---
That night, the note still sat on Arm's desk. The one from Mix. Just one word.
Why?
He stared at it, tried writing a reply. Three drafts. Four. Crumpled each one. The words never came right.
He wanted to say, "Because I remembered you."
Because I hated myself for laughing.
Because I liked you, and I didn't know how to deal with it.
Instead, he went to bed with headphones on.
But sleep didn't come clean.
In the middle of the night, Mix rolled over in his bed.
And heard it.
"M-Mix..."
Arm, turned toward the wall. Eyes shut. Breathing slow.
But his voice had cracked like something real.
Mix lay still, heart pounding louder than any dream should've allowed.
He sat up. Reached for his planner. Paused.
Then looked across the room.
And for the first time in years, let himself stare.
The silence between them wasn't empty anymore.
It was a question waiting to be answered.
Did Arm just call him name out in his sleep
Mix wondered.