perspective of tooru's feelings towards hajime and somehow his dad's pov

(note; don't skip this part!)

Tooru barely had the chance to steady his breathing before his father spoke again, his tone calm but firm.

“What relationship do you have with your babysitter—Hajime?”

The question hit him harder than he expected, like a punch to the gut that knocked the air out of his lungs. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

What was he supposed to say? What were they?

They had no label. No clear definition. Just stolen moments, lingering touches, and the kind of connection that didn’t need words—until now. Now, when he was forced to put it into something tangible, something real, he realized he didn’t know what to call it.

A second passed. Then another. His father was still waiting, watching him closely.

Tooru forced himself to speak, even as the words tasted wrong on his tongue.

“A friend.”

The silence that followed felt suffocating. His father let out a slow breath, unimpressed, before leaning back in his chair.

“Friends don’t look at each other like that, Tooru.” His voice was steady, cutting through the tension with ease. “They don’t freeze when mentioning each other’s names.”

Tooru gripped the fabric of his pants under the table, nails digging into the soft material. He bit the inside of his cheek, willing himself not to react.

But deep down, he knew.

His father was right.

Tooru held his breath, his fingers tightening against his lap. His father’s words settled over him like a heavy weight, pressing against his chest.

“Friends don’t look at each other like that.”

“They don’t freeze when mentioning each other’s names.”

He felt exposed—like his father had stripped him down to his very core and laid him bare. No matter how hard he tried to deny it, the truth was there, staring him right in the face.

Hajime wasn’t just a friend.

He had never been just a friend.

But what else could Tooru say? That they shared kisses filled with quiet desperation? That Hajime touched him like he was something fragile, like he was something precious? That they had spent countless nights tangled up in each other, whispering things that felt too much like love but were never named?

He could feel his father’s gaze, sharp and knowing. There was no point in lying again. But there was also no point in telling the truth—at least, not when he didn’t even know what that truth was.

So, he did what he always did when cornered.

He deflected.

Tooru forced out a laugh—soft, breathy, but utterly fake. He leaned back against his chair, tilting his head as if the whole conversation was nothing more than a mild inconvenience.

“God, Dad, you’re so dramatic.” He scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. “Why are we even talking about this?”

His father didn’t react. He simply studied Tooru for a moment before speaking again, voice calm yet firm.

“Because I want to know what kind of hold that boy has over you.”

Tooru’s smile faltered.

His father sighed, setting his coffee down.

“I’m not blind, Tooru.” His voice softened, but the weight behind his words remained. “I know you. I know when something is wrong. And right now, you look like someone who just lost something important.”

Something sharp twisted in Tooru’s chest.

Because, for the first time in a long time, his father was right.

Tooru swallowed hard, his fingers curling into the fabric of his pajama pants. He hated how easily his father could read him, how a single conversation could unravel him so effortlessly.

His father took another slow sip of his coffee before setting the mug down with a quiet clink. Then, with the same calm yet knowing tone, he asked,

“So? How have you been, Tooru?”

Tooru blinked, thrown off by the sudden shift.

“Huh?”

“You heard me.” His father leaned back in his chair. “You haven’t been causing trouble lately. No ridiculous spending sprees, no complaints from your bank about suspiciously high transactions. It’s been quiet—too quiet. Have you finally outgrown your spoiled habits?”

Tooru scoffed, rolling his eyes. “That’s so dramatic. I was never that bad.”

His father simply raised a brow. “So you’re saying the time you tried to book a private jet to Palawan because you were ‘stressed’ wasn’t bad?”

Tooru opened his mouth—only to close it again.

Okay, maybe he had been a little excessive before. But that was different. That was before—before Hajime barged into his life and started treating him like a person instead of someone who could just throw money at his problems.

Now, spending sprees didn’t seem as fun. Buying expensive things didn’t feel as fulfilling. It was a realization that sat heavy in his chest, and he hated that his father was the one pointing it out.

Tooru straightened in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. “I just don’t feel like wasting money right now. That’s all.”

His father hummed, tilting his head slightly. “And that has nothing to do with Hajime, I assume?”

Tooru stiffened.

His father’s sharp gaze didn’t miss a thing. “He changed you.”

Tooru let out a breathy, bitter laugh. “Yeah? Well, he’s gone now. So what does it matter?”

His father didn’t respond right away. He simply watched Tooru carefully, as if debating whether to push further. Then, after a long pause, he sighed.

“You tell me, Tooru.”

And Tooru didn’t have an answer.

Tooru’s father took his time observing him, his sharp eyes scanning every inch of his son’s face. He had always seen Tooru as loud, dramatic, and spoiled—an endless storm of demands, emotions, and reckless decisions. But now, sitting across from him, Tooru looked… different.

There was something in the way he sat, shoulders slightly slumped, fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns against the table. He wasn’t pouting, wasn’t whining, wasn’t making a scene like he used to when things didn’t go his way.

For the first time, Tooru looked tired.

And it was only now that his father realized—he had never really thought about his son.

Tooru had always been a handful, always demanding attention, always needing more. And instead of understanding why, he had simply dismissed it, brushed it off as another one of Tooru’s exhausting traits.

But this quiet? This unfamiliar stillness?

It unsettled him.

Because in the silence, Tooru felt like he was slipping away.

His son, the same boy who once threw tantrums over designer clothes and begged for ridiculous luxuries, was sitting in front of him, looking like he had lost something he didn’t know how to get back.

And for the first time, Tooru’s father wondered if he had ever truly known him at all.

There was a long, heavy pause between them. The weight of unspoken words settled in the air, thick and suffocating.

Then, in a voice quieter than Tooru had ever heard from him, his father said,

“I’m sorry.”

Tooru blinked.

At first, he wasn’t sure if he had heard it right. His father—his father—was apologizing? It didn’t make sense. His father never apologized. Not for missing his art exhibits, not for brushing off his emotions, not for treating him like an afterthought his entire life.

Tooru let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Hah? What did you just say?”

His father met his gaze, expression unreadable. “I said I’m sorry, Tooru.”

Tooru stared, waiting for some kind of punchline, waiting for the inevitable but that always came after serious conversations. But it never came.

Instead, his father sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “I… I never really thought about how you felt. I just assumed you’d always be the same. That you’d always be loud and impossible and—” He hesitated, shaking his head. “I never stopped to think that maybe there was a reason behind all of that.”

Tooru gripped the hem of his shirt, heart pounding against his ribs. “Why are you telling me this now?”

His father exhaled, long and slow, like he was carefully choosing his next words. “Because for the first time, I feel like I’m losing you.”

And Tooru felt like the air had been knocked out of his lungs.

He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know how to respond. For so long, he had wanted his father to see him, to acknowledge him, to understand that he wasn’t just some spoiled, needy kid who threw money at his problems.

And now that it was finally happening…

It hurt more than he expected.

Tooru swallowed, his throat tight. He wanted to scoff, to brush it off, to throw a sarcastic remark like he always did—because wasn’t that easier? Pretending none of this mattered?

But it did.

It mattered so much that his hands trembled under the table.

He clenched them into fists. “You’re only saying that because I changed.” His voice was quieter now, but there was an edge to it. “If I were still the same, you wouldn’t even care.”

His father flinched—actually flinched.

Tooru almost wanted to take the words back, but it was the truth, wasn’t it?

His father had never cared when he was loud. He had never cared when Tooru acted out, when he tried so hard to get his attention in all the wrong ways. But now, when he was quiet, when he was slipping away, that’s when he started to care?

That realization stung in ways Tooru wasn’t prepared for.

His father exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. “You’re right.”

Tooru blinked, caught off guard.

His father let out a humorless chuckle, shaking his head. “You’re right, Tooru. I never cared before. I thought as long as you had everything you wanted, you’d be fine.” His hands clenched into fists. “But I was wrong. And I—” He took a breath, as if steadying himself. “I regret it.”

Tooru’s breath hitched.

He had spent years convincing himself that he didn’t need his father’s approval. That he didn’t need his attention, his love, his regret—because how could you long for something you never truly had?

But hearing it now, seeing the regret etched into his father’s face…

It hurt.

Because this was the apology he never thought he’d get.

Tooru sucked in a shaky breath, gripping the edge of the table like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. “You were never there,” he whispered, and it felt like a confession.

His father’s face twisted in something unreadable. “I know.”

Silence stretched between them, fragile and uncertain.

Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, his father said, “I don’t know how to fix this, Tooru. But I want to try.”

And just like that, something inside Tooru cracked.


Tooru had never been one to hesitate. He always knew what to say, always had a response ready—sarcastic, dramatic, or annoyingly playful. But this time, at his father’s simple yet earth-shattering question, he found himself at a complete loss.

“Do you love him?”

The words settled between them, suffocating, inescapable.

Tooru’s breath hitched, his fingers curling against his palm as if bracing himself. And just like that, everything came rushing in at once.



The first time he met Hajime, he had been expecting someone completely different. A babysitter. Someone boring, someone who would treat him like a child. But instead, he got him.

Sharp eyes, strong arms, a firm voice that refused to coddle him. Someone who didn’t immediately bend to his whims, who didn’t look at him like he was something fragile. Instead, Hajime challenged him, teased him, put him in his place—but never made him feel like less.

That night, when Tooru had collapsed onto his bed, annoyed but intrigued, he never could have predicted that this man—this babysitter—would become his entire world.



He saw Hajime carrying him effortlessly, like he weighed nothing, like he was something precious but not breakable. He remembered the way Hajime’s arms felt around him—secure, strong, like he would never let him fall.



The first time they kissed was messy, unexpected. It wasn’t something planned or poetic—it was a collision.

Hajime had been frustrated with him, muttering something about how insufferable he was, how he always got under his skin. And then, before either of them could think, their lips were on each other.

And it didn’t stop there.

It never stopped.

Because Tooru always wanted more.



The province.

That memory burned behind his eyelids. The soft crash of the waves, the salty breeze, the distant laughter of people celebrating the night. Hajime had dragged him to the shore, hand in hand, as if he had been dying to show Tooru something.

And when they reached the water, Hajime had turned to him—smiling, glowing under the moonlight. God, Tooru had never seen anyone look like that before.

So unguarded. So breathtakingly real.

“You like it here?” Hajime had asked.

And Tooru, with his heart swelling in his chest, had only been able to nod.

Because wherever Hajime was, that’s where he wanted to be.



The nights spent tangled up in each other.

Their bodies pressed close, their breaths mixing in the dark, fingers tracing invisible lines against skin. Tooru remembered the heat of Hajime’s touch, the way his fingertips lingered as if trying to memorize every inch of him.

They never said much during those nights.

But the silence between them wasn’t empty.

It was full—so damn full of everything they were too scared to put into words.



And then, the little things.

The way Hajime tucked stray hairs behind his ear when he thought Tooru wasn’t paying attention.

The way he cursed every time Tooru spent recklessly, but still gave him his jacket when he complained about the cold.

The way he always pulled Tooru into his arms, no matter how much they fought, no matter how frustrated they were with each other.

Hajime had always been there.

And Tooru—Tooru had been too blind to realize how much that meant.


His father was still looking at him, waiting.

Tooru swallowed thickly, his chest tight with emotions he couldn’t name.

And he didn’t have to answer.

Because as he let out a shaky breath, his father’s gaze softened.

“That’s enough of an answer.”

Tooru didn’t know how long he sat there, drowning in the weight of his own emotions. His father’s words still lingered in the air—that’s enough of an answer.

Enough.

But was it really?

Because if it was enough, then why did Tooru feel like he was too late?

He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as he lowered his gaze to the polished wooden table between them. It was strange. All his life, he had lived exactly how he wanted—no restraints, no real consequences, no deep attachments.

And yet, here he was, sitting in the same house he had always lived in, feeling like a stranger in his own home.

Feeling like a part of him was missing.

Hajime.

God, just the thought of his name sent a sharp ache through his chest.

He had always taken things lightly—love, relationships, even friendships. It was easier that way. If things got too complicated, he could always just leave, brush it off, distract himself with something new.

But Hajime… Hajime wasn’t something he could just brush off.

Hajime was the first thing in his life that felt real. Solid. Unshakable.

And now, he was gone.

His father sighed, setting down his coffee. “You know, Tooru…”

Tooru barely lifted his gaze, but he could feel the weight of his father’s stare.

“I may not have been the best father,” his father admitted, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant. “I made mistakes. I… wasn’t around as much as I should have been.”

Tooru’s fingers twitched. His father had never admitted that before. Not once.

“I always thought you were happy,” his father continued. “You had everything. The best clothes, the best schools, the best parties—whatever you wanted, you had it.”

Tooru’s chest tightened. But did I really have everything?

“I thought I was doing what was best for you. That as long as I provided, you’d be fine.” His father exhaled, staring down at his coffee like it held all the answers. “But looking at you now…” His gaze flickered back to Tooru, soft yet knowing. “You look different, son.”

Tooru didn’t know what to say to that.

Not because it wasn’t true—because it was.

He had changed. Hajime changed him.

His father leaned forward slightly, studying him. “You don’t spend like you used to. You don’t throw tantrums over the smallest things. You don’t act like the world owes you something.” A pause. “And for the first time, I see you actually wanting something that money can’t buy.”

That hit him deep.

His throat tightened, and he swallowed the lump that had formed there.

“You love him, don’t you?”

There it was again. That damn question.

Tooru’s lips parted, but no words came out.

Because what was the point of admitting it now?

Hajime was gone.

He had let him go.

What good would saying it out loud even do?

But then his father sighed, shaking his head slightly. “If you’re hesitating, then let me tell you this—you’ll regret it.”

Tooru blinked.

His father’s expression was unreadable, but his voice held a weight of experience. “You think the hardest part of love is admitting it. But it’s not, Tooru.” His gaze was firm now, unwavering. “It’s living with the regret of never saying it when you had the chance.”

Tooru felt like he couldn’t breathe.

Because suddenly, he saw it.

The what-ifs. The endless possibilities of a life without Hajime—walking around this house knowing Hajime wouldn’t be here anymore. Seeing that stupid empty couch where Hajime always sat, his scowl softening whenever Tooru would dramatically throw himself beside him.

Waking up every morning without him.

Would he really be able to live like that?

Would he really be able to let Hajime go so easily?

No.

No, he couldn’t.

And he wouldn’t.

Before he even realized what he was doing, Tooru was already pushing his chair back, his heart hammering against his ribcage as he stood up.

His father raised a brow. “Where are you going?”

Tooru barely heard him.

Because all he could think about—all he could feel—was Hajime.

And he needed to see him. Now.