It felt like a different life, not just a year ago. Now, alone in his apartment, with the ghost of an unread message on his screen, it felt like a universe away.
The beginning of the fall semester had been a blur of new codes, new algorithms. Kakeru had buried himself in them, a familiar escape. His desktop, a Frankenstein’s monster of scavenged parts, hummed a constant, slightly off-key lullaby. His fingers, calloused at the tips, moved with an almost preternatural speed across the worn keyboard, the keys themselves shiny with oil and use. He was deep in the labyrinthine backend of the university’s internal network, not for any grand purpose, just… exploring. He liked to see how things were built, where the seams were. His knee bounced a steady rhythm against the underside of his cheap desk, a habit he couldn’t quite break, especially when his brain raced ahead of his fingers.
Then Asahi had materialized. Not quite literally, but that's how it always felt. One moment, Kakeru was alone, wrestling a particularly stubborn firewall, the next, a shadow fell across his monitor. Not an intimidating shadow, more like a shift in ambient light, a sudden cool breeze. Asahi, leaning against the doorframe, a textbook on 'Introduction to Public Policy' balanced casually in one hand, his posture relaxed, almost languid. He always looked like he’d just stepped out of a high-end catalogue, even in a slightly rumpled polo shirt and faded jeans. Kakeru, meanwhile, probably looked like he’d just wrestled a bear and lost, his hair a tangled mess, eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep.
“Still trying to communicate with the mothership, Kakeru?” Asahi’s voice was low, a steady murmur that somehow cut through the hum of the computer fans and Kakeru’s own internal noise. It had a quality that always made Kakeru's jaw loosen, just a fraction. He didn’t look up, not immediately. He couldn't. His cheeks, which felt perpetually warm around Asahi, were already prickling.
“Just… poking around,” Kakeru mumbled, his own voice a raspy whisper that always sounded too high, too insecure next to Asahi’s. He felt Asahi’s gaze, a palpable weight on his neck, even without making eye contact. It was the kind of attention that made Kakeru's shoulders tense, then inexplicably, relax. The air in the small dorm room thickened, not with humidity, but with an unspoken current, the kind you felt just before a lightning strike, or just after you brushed someone’s hand by accident.
Asahi pushed off the doorframe, a movement so fluid it barely disturbed the dust motes dancing in the weak afternoon light. He walked over, slowly, until he was standing directly behind Kakeru’s chair. Kakeru felt the heat of his presence, a subtle radiating warmth that seeped through the back of his hoodie. He could smell a faint scent of something clean, maybe a little citrus, mixed with old paper from the textbook. It was maddeningly distracting. Kakeru’s fingers faltered for a second on the keys, a critical line of code momentarily forgotten.
“What is that?” Asahi asked, his voice closer now, a soft rumble right next to Kakeru’s ear. Kakeru swallowed, the sound loud in his own ears. He could feel Asahi’s breath, just the slightest puff of warm air, ghosting across his earlobe. His heart decided, quite unhelpfully, to start doing an impression of a trapped bird. He couldn’t articulate why this proximity felt so overwhelming. It just… did.
Kakeru pointed a shaky finger at the screen, a jumble of spreadsheets and cryptic entries. “The university’s ‘extracurricular fund.’ I was… curious how they allocate money for, you know, the Chess Club, the Debate Team. All the deeply thrilling student activities.” He tried for a sardonic tone, but it probably came out as more of a squeak. His chest felt tight, a nervous energy coiling in his stomach. He wasn't sure if it was the data or Asahi's closeness.
Asahi leaned over further, his arm brushing Kakeru’s shoulder, a static shock without the actual spark, but all the internal fizz. Kakeru flinched, a small, involuntary twitch. Asahi didn't seem to notice, or if he did, he didn't comment. His eyes, sharp and intelligent, scanned the columns of numbers. Kakeru watched his reflection in the screen, Asahi’s face intent, a slight frown creasing his brow. There was a faint mole just under Asahi’s left eye that Kakeru had never really noticed before, and for some reason, it suddenly felt incredibly significant.
“Hmm,” Asahi murmured. “Interesting. The ‘Annual Collegiate Gala for Donor Relations’ has a line item for a rather exorbitant sum… for ‘catering.’ And another for ‘entertainment.’ But the guest list seems surprisingly short for the budget implied.” He tapped a finger against the screen, not quite touching it, but close enough for Kakeru to feel the subtle tremor in the air. Asahi's finger was long, slender, well-kept, a stark contrast to Kakeru's own blunt, nail-bitten digits.
“And look at this,” Kakeru managed, finally finding his voice, albeit still a bit breathy. He scrolled rapidly, pointing to another section. “The ‘Philosophy Department’s Field Trip to the Existential Abyss’ fund. It got a quarter of what the ‘Gala’ did. But the Philosophy club has fifty active members. The Gala has… ten, maybe fifteen donors who actually show up to eat lukewarm shrimp cocktails and listen to Mr. Halloran drone on about ‘synergistic partnerships.’” He paused, realizing he was rambling, a tell-tale sign of his nerves around Asahi.
Asahi straightened up slowly, and Kakeru felt a sudden, inexplicable sense of loss as the warmth behind him receded. He risked a glance up, catching Asahi’s eye. There was a glint there, a spark of something Kakeru couldn’t quite name. Amusement, perhaps? Or something deeper, more calculating. “Mr. Halloran,” Asahi repeated, a slight curl to his lip. “The man who can’t string together a coherent sentence without consulting his cue cards. And he’s managing these funds?” A tiny, almost imperceptible scoff escaped Asahi.
“Apparently,” Kakeru said, feeling a surge of something akin to indignation. “It’s ridiculous. This is clearly… suspicious. There’s a lot of money going to vague events, and very little to actual student activities. It’s not even trying to be subtle. Like he assumes no one would ever look.” His chest still felt tight, but now it was a different kind of tightness, a righteous anger brewing.
Asahi’s gaze, which had been on Kakeru, shifted back to the screen, then to the wall, as if visualizing something. “Or he knows someone *might* look, but they won’t have the wherewithal to do anything about it. Institutional inertia, Kakeru. Most people just accept what’s presented to them.” He turned his head then, looking at Kakeru again, and this time, there was no mistaking the intensity. It felt like a physical connection, a pull.
“But we can,” Kakeru blurted out, the words escaping before he could properly filter them. He felt a blush creeping up his neck. “We… I mean, I can look. And you… you understand what it means. All this. The patterns.” He gestured vaguely at the screen. His fingers were itching, a sudden nervous energy making him want to get back to the code, to dig deeper, to validate his nascent suspicion.
Asahi just watched him, his expression unreadable, but his eyes were alive. A slow, almost imperceptible smile began to form on Asahi’s lips, a tiny, subtle shift that somehow completely captivated Kakeru. It wasn't a wide grin, just a slight upturn, but it transformed his face, making him seem both sharper and softer at the same time. Kakeru’s breath hitched. He felt like he’d just stumbled into a sudden, unexpected patch of sunlight after days in the dark.
“We could, couldn’t we?” Asahi said, his voice barely above a whisper. He stepped closer again, this time placing a hand lightly on Kakeru’s shoulder. It wasn't a comforting gesture, or a guiding one. It was possessive, a silent claim. Kakeru felt the warmth of Asahi’s palm through his hoodie, a sudden, searing heat that spread down his arm, making his muscles twitch. He found himself unable to move, unable to breathe properly. He just stared at Asahi, whose eyes were fixed on his.
“Expose them,” Asahi continued, the smile deepening, a hint of genuine excitement in his voice now, a crack in his usual composure. This was the 'Gap Moe' Kakeru would come to understand – the unexpected vulnerability, the raw enthusiasm Asahi reserved just for *this*, just for *him*. “Not just this. Everything else they’re hiding. The little indignities, the petty tyrannies. It’s all connected.” He squeezed Kakeru’s shoulder, a firm, grounding pressure.
Kakeru felt a giddy lightness in his chest, a strange mix of fear and exhilaration. It was stupid, he knew. This was just a university, not some global conspiracy. And yet, with Asahi looking at him like that, with that quiet intensity, it felt like the most important mission in the world. He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “An anonymous student news site,” Kakeru proposed, the idea bubbling up from somewhere deep inside him, a flash of inspiration that felt born of Asahi’s gaze. “We could build it. You could write the stories. I could… make sure no one finds us.”
Asahi’s eyes widened slightly, a genuine surprise flickering across his features before settling back into that familiar, enigmatic intensity. “Anonymous,” he repeated, testing the word. “I like it. A digital whisper campaign. Undermining the establishment, one poorly accounted-for shrimp cocktail at a time.” He paused, then leaned even closer, his face mere inches from Kakeru’s. Kakeru could feel his own pulse hammering against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the stillness between them. “A secret project,” Asahi murmured, his voice a low, thrilling hum, like a distant generator coming to life.
The thrill of it, raw and exhilarating, surged through Kakeru. It wasn’t just the idea of exposing corruption; it was the idea of *doing it with Asahi*. The shared purpose, the illicit nature of it all. It felt like they were the only two people in the world who understood the true stakes, the hidden dance of power. Kakeru felt a sudden, almost desperate need to impress Asahi, to prove he was worthy of this shared conspiracy. He nodded, once, sharply.
“Yes,” Kakeru said, his voice surprisingly steady now, buoyed by the force of Asahi’s presence. “A secret project. We’ll call it… The Northwood Exposé.” He looked at Asahi, and for the first time, he saw not just Asahi’s intelligence or his casual charisma, but a deep, focused determination that mirrored his own. There was a silent agreement that passed between them, a binding pact. It felt like destiny, like the universe had orchestrated this meeting of minds, this clash of code and strategy, to uncover the secrets of a petty university administrator.
They spent the next few weeks in a blur. Late nights melted into early mornings, fueled by questionable instant noodles and an abundance of bad coffee. Kakeru worked tirelessly on the framework of the site, a ghost in the machine, ensuring every line of code was untraceable, every server rerouted through enough proxies to make the NSA dizzy. He meticulously designed the backend, a fortress of anonymity, a digital cloak that would protect them. The satisfaction of watching his complex code flawlessly execute, of seeing the layers of protection click into place, was a profound, almost spiritual experience.
Asahi, meanwhile, was a whirlwind of research. He delved into university records, financial statements, meeting minutes. He interviewed disgruntled faculty and gossipy administrative assistants, always with a disarming smile and a plausible excuse. He wrote the initial articles, sharp and witty, imbued with a satirical bite that perfectly skewered the self-important rhetoric of the administration, particularly Mr. Halloran. He had a way of dissecting the absurdity of institutional doublespeak, turning bureaucratic jargon into a punchline.
They were a perfect machine. Kakeru, hunched over his glowing screens, a blur of focused intensity, living in the zeroes and ones. Asahi, pacing the small dorm room, dictating snippets of articles, outlining strategic moves, his phone always close for a quick, coded message. Sometimes, Asahi would sit beside Kakeru, his elbow brushing Kakeru’s, sharing a pair of earbuds to listen to some obscure lo-fi playlist. Kakeru would feel a tremor run through him at the shared intimacy, the quiet understanding in the small space.
One evening, as Kakeru finalized the last encryption protocols, the scent of burning copper faintly tickling his nose from his overworked CPU, Asahi leaned over, his chin resting on Kakeru’s shoulder. Kakeru froze, every muscle in his body rigid. Asahi's breath was soft against his cheek. “You’re smiling, Kakeru,” Asahi whispered, his voice warm, close, a secret shared only between them. Kakeru hadn’t even realized he was. But the corners of his mouth felt strangely stretched, a quiet joy blooming in his chest. It was the thrill of the project, yes, but more than that, it was the undeniable, overwhelming presence of Asahi, right there, trusting him, sharing this forbidden endeavor.
The site went live at precisely 3:00 AM on a Tuesday, a ghost in the digital ether. Kakeru watched the first few anonymous clicks register, a silent, triumphant surge. Asahi was beside him, his hand resting on the back of Kakeru’s chair, his fingers idly tracing the worn fabric. There was a quiet thrill in the room, an electric hum that transcended the whir of the computer. They had done it. They had built their fortress, launched their weapon. And in that moment, in the hushed glow of the monitor, Kakeru felt an undeniable sense of belonging, a profound connection that anchored him completely to Asahi, to this shared, dangerous secret. They were at their peak, invincible, intertwined by ambition and the intoxicating rush of their clandestine mission, believing nothing could ever touch them, or the truth they sought to unleash.