🎧 Hopeless Romantic Harua x Oblivious (but not really) Nicholas
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Fluff, tension, late-night walks, quiet confessions in lyrics

Nicholas doesn't think anything of it the first time.

They're walking back from rehearsal—sweaty, tired, jackets zipped up halfway against the night air.

Harua, as always, walks just a step behind. Not because he's shy. Just... watching.

The city hums around them.

Nicholas's breath fogs. He stretches, yawns.

"Want music?" Harua asks suddenly, pulling out one earbud.

Nicholas shrugs. "Sure."

The song slips in soft.

A gentle voice. Warm guitar. Lyrics about someone's eyes, and how they keep looking back even after everything.

Nicholas glances over. "This one's pretty."

Harua just smiles at the sidewalk. "Yeah. Thought you'd like it."

The second time, it's after a group dinner.

Nicholas's phone buzzes with a link.

A song. No message. No context.

He clicks anyway.

This one's slower. Sadder. But beautiful.

A line catches him halfway through brushing his teeth:

"Even if you never turn around, I'll stay where I can see you."

He stares at the mirror. The song keeps playing.
His chest feels... weird.

It becomes a thing.

Late night walks.
Quiet hangouts.
Playlist recommendations.

Some he receives over text.
Some are played while they sit beside each other on the dorm floor, both pretending they aren't too close.

And Harua never says anything.

Not about the songs, anyway.

But Nicholas isn't stupid.

He hears the words Harua doesn't say.
He reads between every line.

One night, Harua walks him home after practice.

It's late. The stars are barely there, the air too heavy with clouds. Nicholas keeps glancing sideways.

Harua's silent. Headphones hanging around his neck, like always.

"Harua," Nicholas says suddenly, "can I ask you something?"

Harua looks at him. Quiet. Calm.

"Why all the songs?"

Harua blinks. Then, gently:
"Because I don't know how to say it with just one sentence."

Nicholas's breath hitches.

Harua unhooks the headphones. Presses them into Nicholas's hands.

"One more," he says.

Nicholas takes them. Slips them on.
The music starts. He listens.

He hears it.

Not just the lyrics—but him.
All the things Harua's never said out loud.

He takes the headphones off slowly.

Looks at Harua.

"You didn't need a song," Nicholas says softly. "I already knew."

Harua stiffens. "Then why didn't you—"

"Because I wanted you to be ready," Nicholas says. "But now I'm just tired of pretending not to hear you."

He reaches for Harua's hand.

And this time, no music plays.

Just the sound of two hearts beating in time as they walk home together—closer than ever before.

Bonus:

Later that night, Nicholas texts him:

"Play me that song again tomorrow. The first one. I want to hold your hand this time."

And Harua smiles at his phone like it's the only thing lighting up the room.

"I heard it in your songs before I heard it from your mouth."

The next day, Harua brings the headphones again.

Nicholas is already waiting on the bench behind the studio—hood up, feet kicking at air, pretending not to watch the door.

Harua walks over without a word. Just hands him the headphones, like always.

Nicholas takes them. This time, their fingers brush—and stay.

The song plays again. The first one.

The one about you looked at me like the stars weren't enough.

Halfway through the chorus, Nicholas reaches out.

Not hesitantly.

Not like yesterday.

Harua blinks when Nicholas threads their fingers together, resting their hands on the space between them like it's always been theirs.

He doesn't say anything.

Neither does Nicholas.

The song says enough.

Later that night, Jo catches them curled on the dorm couch, one blanket, two heads pressed close. The headphones are between them, still playing something soft and lovesick.

Jo opens his mouth. Pauses. Reconsiders.

He walks out again.

Harua doesn't notice.

Nicholas does—and squeezes his hand under the blanket.

"Guess we're not subtle," he murmurs.

"You were never subtle," Harua replies, voice sleepy.

"I didn't hear a no."

Harua turns his head, cheek brushing Nicholas's shoulder. "It's not a no. It's a finally."

Days pass.

The playlist grows.

Nicholas adds his own songs now—chaotic, offbeat things that make Harua laugh into his sleeve.

Harua responds with his usual—soft vocals, aching lyrics, a love he still can't say plainly.

Until one day, he does.

They're walking again—through a park lit by fairy lights and warm streetlamps, the sky smeared orange.

Harua stops.

Nicholas stops too.

He's used to this now—Harua pausing like the world's turned too loud and he needs one breath, just one.

But this time Harua pulls out his phone.

Opens the playlist. Scrolls. Hands it over.

"Read the titles," he says, ears pink.

Nicholas tilts his head. "I've heard these."

"Out loud, Nico."

Nicholas humors him. Reads softly.

"'I Like the Way You Smile.' 'I Wanted to Tell You Yesterday.' 'You Make Me Brave.' ...'I Think It's Love.'"

He stops.

Harua's still looking at him, quiet but unwavering.

Nicholas closes the phone.

Looks up.

"Oh," he breathes. "You really said it."

Harua nods once.

Nicholas steps forward—grinning now, because that's who he is—and cups Harua's face with both hands.

Then, very gently, he kisses him.

It's not their first kiss.
But it feels like the first time they both said I love you out loud.

Later that night, Harua's phone buzzes.

A text from Nicholas.

"Made you a playlist. It's mostly just me humming off-key. You're welcome. 💘"

Harua laughs, the sound full and warm and real.

He presses play anyway.

And falls asleep with it playing under his pillow.

Epilogue:
A year later, Nicholas drops a surprise CD in Harua's bag labeled: "The Longest Song: Still Ours."

Harua finds it during a trip abroad.

He texts back:

"I'm listening to you in Paris. Feels like home anyway."

Nicholas replies:

"Come back soon. My favorite verse is missing."

And Harua smiles like he's sixteen again and falling in love for the very first time.

Because really?
He still is.