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The apartament was quiet - too quiet for this hour. The kind of quiet that didn't soothe, only made the space feel heavier. Aoi dropped his jacket somewhere near the couch, missing the hanger entirely, and sank into the nearest chair. His fingers twitched for a cigarette, then stopped halfway, as if he didn't have strength to go through the motion.
Uruha was somewhere in the background — maybe in the kitchen, maybe just pretending to busy himself with nothing. The air between them was thick with unspoken words, the kind that burn in your throat when you try to swallow them down.
„Rough night," Aoi muttered, forcing out a small, humorless laugh. Uruha only hummed in response - low, unreadable.
It should've been nothing. Just another night after practice, another silence they both pretended not to notice.
But something in Aoi's chest wouldn't stop trembling. He got up abruptly, mumbling something about needing a shower, before Uruha could even look at him.
The door to the bathroom clicked shut, sealing him off from the world.
Only then did his breath catch — sharp, uneven. The mirror didn't lie. His eyes were red, his face pale, the weight of everything pressing down all at once.
Aoi leaned over the sink, palms pressed flat against the cold porcelain. The fluorescent light above flickered once, weak and tired, casting faint shadows across his face. For a long moment, he just stared at his reflection — hollow eyes, the faint tremor his jaw, the ghost of something he couldn't quite name staring back at him.
His chest rose and fell, unevenly. One breath. Then another. The silence of the bathroom pressed against his ears until it was almost deafening.
And then it happened - not a sob, not even a sound. Just a single tear, cutting a slow, thin path down his cheek. Then another. He didn't bother wiping them away. There was no point.
He blinked once, twice, and for a moment, the image in the mirror blurred — as if even the reflection couldn't bear to watch him anymore.
He gripped the edge of the sink tighter, knuckles white. His reflection swayed, just slightly — or maybe it was him. His throat burned, breath catching somewhere between a sob and silence.
It wasn't supposed to hurt like this. Not after all this time.
Another tear slid down, hitting the porcelain. His chest tightened, pulling everything inward until there was nothing to hold onto.
His fingers slipped.
The sound of impact was small, almost lost in the hum of the light — a dull thud, the kind that echoes more in the chest than in the room.
For a moment, everything went still. The only thing that moved was the faint tremor in his breath, shallow and unsteady, as if his body hadn't yet realized it could stop pretending to be strong.
He sat where he'd fallen, back pressed against the cold side of bathtub. His legs felt heavy, pulled close to his chest like it was the only way to keep himself together. The tiles beneath him were freezing, grounding — too real compared to the chaos inside his head.
His breath came in uneven gasps, half-choked, half-silent. Every inhale scraped his throat raw. The mint of his cologne and the faint scent of cigarette smoke still clung to his clothes, mixing with something bitter — like regret turned tangible.
The world around him felt muted. Just the soft hum of the bathroom light, the quiet drip from the faucet, and the dull thud of his heartbeat somewhere deep in his chest.
He pressed the back of his hand against his mouth, as if to stop the sound before it could escape — the sob that had been building for too long.
It wasn't anger that filled him — just that quiet, aching kind of sadness that doesn't make a sound but still takes up all the space inside. Every breath felt heavier than the last. Every heartbeat, slower.
He'd told himself it didn't matter. That maybe Uruha didn't owe him anything — not words, warmth, not even the smallest sign that he still cared. But it did matter. It always had.
He let out a shaky laugh that sounded nothing like him. His fingers brushed over his face, catching the tears before they fell. The effort felt pointless — like trying to hide something that was already carved too deep to cover.
He didn't even hear the door at first — just the faint shift of light against the floor, the creak of the hinges swallowed by the hum of the bathroom fan.
„Aoi..."
The voice. Soft, unsure — like it wasn't supposed to be there.
Aoi froze. For a heartbeat, he thought about pretending he hadn't heard. Maybe if he stayed quiet, Uruha would leave — and he could keep falling apart alone. But then there was the sound of footsteps, slow, careful, as if Uruha was afraid the air itself might break if he moved too fast.
When Aoi finally lifted his head, Uruha was already crouched in front of him. His expression wasn't pity — it was something gentler, something the hurt even more because it didn't ask for forgiveness, just understanding.
Uruha hesitated, fingers twitching like he wasn't sure whether to reach out or stay still.
„...Why didn't you tell me?" he asked quietly, voice barely holding together.
Aoi shook his head, swallowing hard, trying to form words but finding only silence. "...It's nothing," he muttered, voice cracking despite himself.
Uruha didn't press. He just stayed there, kneeling in front of him, letting the quiet fill the space between them. His gaze softened, gentle but insistent, as if silently saying: I'm not leaving. Not now.
Aoi's hands twitched, gripping the edge of the bathtub. He wanted to push Uruha away, to pretend he could handle it alone — but the weight of his own despair pressed down too heavily. His shoulders shook slightly, and a strangled breath escaped him.
"...Aoi," Uruha whispered again, leaning just a fraction closer, careful not to overwhelm. "You don't have to—"
But Aoi couldn't stop it anymore. Tears fell freely now, hot and unforgiving, and his body shivered from the mixture of relief and pain. He let himself slump further against the bathtub, curling in on himself.
Uruha's hands finally moved, hesitant but firm, one slipping around Aoi's trembling shoulder, the other resting lightly against his arm. "...You don't have to be strong all the time," he murmured, voice breaking slightly. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
carried.
Uruha sank to the floor beside him, careful not to crowd the small space. His presence was steady, grounding. "Aoi..." he murmured softly, letting the word hang between them.
Aoi flinched slightly at the sound of his voice, but didn't pull away. He kept his gaze fixed on the tiles, fingers fidgeting against his knees. "I... I can't... I just feel like I'm not enough," he admitted, voice cracking, each word heavy. "Like nothing I do reaches you... like I fail you every time."
Uruha's hand hovered for a moment before brushing lightly against Aoi's arm, hesitant but deliberate. "...You're not failing me," he said quietly. "I... I've just... I'm bad at showing it. I make mistakes too. You know that."
Aoi's chest tightened. "...But it feels like I can't... get through to you. Like I'm invisible sometimes."
Uruha shifted closer, careful not to startle him, and placed a hand gently over Aoi's, thumb brushing along the back. "You're not invisible," he whispered, his voice trembling with the honesty he rarely allowed himself. "You matter to me. More than I can even say. I just... don't always know how to show it. But I'm here. Always."
Aoi let out a shaky breath, finally meeting his gaze. Tears glistened in his eyes, but the weight of them seemed a little lighter with Uruha so near. "...I just... I don't want to keep feeling like I'm failing you," he murmured.
"You could never fail me, Aoi," Uruha replied, his hand tightening slightly around his own for a moment before moving to gently squeeze Aoi's. "Never. Not in a million lifetimes."
Aoi didn't answer at first. His breath came shallow, almost soundless, like the air itself had turned too heavy to draw in. The words Uruha had just said still hung between them — soft, fragile, and somehow unbearable.
For a second, it seemed like he might speak. His lips parted, then closed again, trembling. His hands, still resting on his knees, curled slightly — as if he needed something to hold on to but couldn't find it.
Then his gaze went distant. Empty in a way that made Uruha's chest tighten.
"...You say that," Aoi whispered finally, voice hoarse, "but you don't see me. You never do." His voice broke on the last word. "You say I matter, but it never feels real."
Uruha opened his mouth, but no words came.
Aoi let out a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a sob — quiet, cracked open. "I keep trying. Every damn time, I try to reach you, and it's like..." He stopped, pressing the heel of his hand against his eyes. "It's like screaming into a wall that doesn't care if I disappear."
The silence that followed was unbearable. Uruha could hear every uneven breath, every quiet, shaky exhale that sounded too much like defeat.
Aoi's shoulders trembled once — twice — and then he just went still. His head dropped forward, his body sagging against the bathtub, all tension gone. Not like sleep. Like something had given up.
"Aoi?"
Uruha's voice was soft, then firmer. He reached out — hesitated — then placed a hand against Aoi's cheek. Cold. Too still.
The fear that gripped him came fast, sharp. "Aoi, hey—" His voice cracked as he moved closer, his other hand finding Aoi's shoulder, shaking gently. "Look at me. Please."
It took a moment — too long — but Aoi blinked, his eyes unfocused, glassy.
Uruha exhaled shakily, the sound breaking. Relief hit him hard enough to make his hands tremble. "Don't do that," he whispered, pressing his forehead against Aoi's. "Don't go somewhere I can't follow."
Aoi's breath hitched, and he finally moved — barely, but enough to rest his head against Uruha's shoulder. The exhaustion in him was so raw it hurt to look at.
"I'm just... tired," Aoi murmured. The words came out slurred, heavy with everything he hadn't said. "I don't know how to keep going like this."
Uruha's hand found the back of his neck, fingers trembling, voice barely more than a whisper. "Then don't do it alone," he said. "Not anymore."
For the first time, Aoi didn't pull away. His breathing steadied, slow and uneven against Uruha's chest. The hum of the bathroom light faded into nothing — just their breaths, close, uneven, real.
Uruha held him there, quiet and unflinching, like he finally understood what it meant to stay.
Uruha stayed silent for a long time, his hand still resting against Aoi's neck — like if he moved, the fragile thing holding them together would shatter. He swallowed hard, searching for words that had been locked behind his ribs for too long.
"...You're right," he said finally, voice low and rough. "I didn't see you. Or maybe I did — and that's what scared me."
Aoi's eyes flickered upward, glassy and uncertain, but Uruha kept going, words spilling like he couldn't stop even if he wanted to.
"I thought if I kept my distance, it'd be easier," he whispered. "Easier to pretend I didn't need you as much as I do. Because every time I look at you, I feel—" He broke off, breath catching, eyes closing for a second. "—I feel everything I've spent years trying not to."
He laughed under his breath — a quiet, broken sound. "You think I don't care, but that's the problem. I care so much it fucking hurts. And instead of saying that, I shut you out. Because I didn't know how to want you without ruining everything."
Aoi stared at him, the tears still clinging to his lashes, not sure whether to believe or break again.
Uruha leaned in closer, his voice trembling now. "You were never invisible to me, Aoi. I saw every damn thing — every look, every word you didn't say. I just... didn't think I deserved any of it. You kept reaching for me, and I kept pulling away, because I didn't know how to let someone love me without falling apart."
He paused, breath shuddering as his hand cupped Aoi's jaw, thumb brushing lightly over the corner of his mouth — a gesture both apology and confession.
"I was wrong," he whispered. "I pushed you away because I thought it'd hurt less than losing you. But it only made me lose you faster."
"Now you say that?" he whispered, voice raw, cracking in the middle. "After all this time, after everything— you decide now?"
Uruha opened his mouth, but Aoi cut him off — the words tumbling out before he could stop them.
"You think you can just show up and say that you care, and it's supposed to fix everything?" His voice rose, quiet but trembling with anger that came from exhaustion. "You don't get to do that, Uruha. You don't get to decide when I'm worth loving."
He swallowed hard, eyes glassy, his hand curling into a fist against his leg. "You left me wondering what I did wrong. Every day. Every fucking day. I thought if I tried harder— if I was quieter, calmer, if I stopped asking for too much— maybe you'd see me."
A breath hitched in his throat, sharp and uneven. "But you didn't. You just watched me fall apart and said nothing."
The silence after his words hit like a pulse — heavy, ragged, alive. Uruha's face crumpled slightly, his hand twitching as if to reach out, but Aoi flinched away before he could touch him.
Aoi shook his head slowly, breath trembling. "You can't just say you were scared. We're all scared. But you didn't just hurt me, you made me believe that I wasn't enough to be loved by you."
His voice broke completely at the end, the last few words barely more than a whisper. He blinked rapidly, tears slipping down despite his attempt to hold them back.
And then — the silence again. Only their breathing filled the space between them, uneven and aching.
Uruha looked at him like he'd been punched, guilt and something softer flickering behind his eyes.
Uruha didn't speak at first.
The silence stretched — fragile, painful, like it might snap if either of them breathed too loud.
His throat worked, but no words came out. He looked at Aoi — really looked — and for the first time, it wasn't through the haze of pride or fear. It was through something raw, stripped bare, that left him trembling.
Then he moved — slow, almost uncertain — and reached out.
Aoi flinched again, a small, instinctive recoil, but Uruha didn't pull back. He just let his fingers hover, barely touching, giving him space to turn away if he wanted.
When Aoi didn't, Uruha's hand found his — not to hold, not to trap, but simply to be there. His thumb brushed over the back of Aoi's knuckles, trembling slightly.
"I know," he said finally, voice rough and low. "You're right."
Aoi blinked, confused for a second — not expecting those words.
"I did that," Uruha continued, eyes downcast. "I made you think you weren't enough. I thought if I kept my distance, it would be safer. For you. For me. For everything." He exhaled shakily. "But I was wrong. All I did was make you believe you didn't matter."
He looked up again — and his eyes were wet, glimmering faintly under the dim bathroom light.
"I didn't say anything because I was afraid," he admitted, the words trembling on his tongue. "Because if I did... if I said what I really felt, I wouldn't be able to take it back. And I thought I'd lose you for good."
He laughed softly, bitterly. "But I think I already did, didn't I?"
Aoi's breath caught — the kind of quiet inhale that sounded almost like pain. His gaze flickered between Uruha's face and their joined hands, torn between wanting to pull away and not wanting to lose that warmth.
Uruha's fingers tightened, just slightly. "I don't know how to fix what I broke. I just... don't want to keep pretending I don't care."
The air between them was trembling — fragile and full of something neither of them could quite name.
And then, quieter — almost like he didn't mean to say it aloud — Uruha whispered,
"I love you, Aoi."
Not dramatic. Not desperate. Just true.
He let the words hang there, terrified of what would follow.
Aoi didn't react at first.
Not because he didn't hear it — but because it didn't sound real.
Those words had lived in his head for so long, twisted, replayed, hoped for — that when they finally reached him, they felt like a cruel echo.
He let out a shaky breath that almost turned into a laugh — quiet, hollow. "Don't..." he whispered, voice raw. "Don't say that just because I'm falling apart."
Uruha's face crumpled, but he didn't move closer, didn't try to touch him again. "I'm not," he said, steady despite the tremor in his throat. "I should've said it before you had to break for me to mean it."
Aoi's hands tightened around his knees. His chest ached in that unbearable way — half grief, half disbelief. He stared down at the floor, the tiles swimming in his vision.
"Do you even know what that does to me?" he asked, his voice low, trembling. "You... you say it now, when I've spent months trying to convince myself you didn't care. When I already stopped asking for it."
"I know." Uruha's voice cracked on the word. "I know, and I hate myself for it."
Aoi looked up then — finally. His eyes were wet, but sharp, like glass ready to shatter. "You don't get to fix this with words, Uruha."
"I'm not trying to fix it," Uruha whispered. "I just— I couldn't let you keep believing you were nothing to me."
Aoi swallowed hard. He wanted to yell, or cry, or run — but all that came out was a quiet, broken:
"I wanted you to care before it was too late."
And for a second, neither of them moved. The silence stretched thin, all edges and ache.
Then Uruha exhaled shakily and reached out again, this time not to hold him, but to touch his face — slow, careful, like asking for permission.
Aoi didn't pull away.
The touch was trembling, almost reverent, as Uruha's thumb brushed away a tear that had no right to still be there.
Aoi closed his eyes, the smallest sound escaping his throat — not a sob, not relief, something between both.
Uruha leaned in, forehead resting gently against his. His breath was warm, unsteady.
"I know I don't deserve it," he murmured. "But if there's still anything left to hold onto... please, let me stay."
And Aoi — exhausted, fragile, but no longer fighting — didn't answer in words.
He just let himself lean forward, closing the last bit of distance between them.
Their lips met — soft, hesitant, full of everything that came too late and everything that still wanted to be saved.
Uruha froze for a moment — the kind of stillness that happens when the world suddenly tilts and you're not sure whether to breathe or break.
The kiss wasn't desperate, it wasn't perfect — it was trembling, raw, full of everything that neither of them had been brave enough to say out loud.
For a heartbeat, he didn't move. Shock rippled through him, sharp and disorienting. But then Aoi's breath ghosted against his skin — warm, real — and something inside him just gave.
Slowly, Uruha's eyes fluttered shut, the tension in his body melting away. His hand slid up, finding the side of Aoi's neck, fingers brushing lightly against his skin as he leaned in — not to take control, but to meet him halfway.
The kiss deepened only slightly — not out of hunger, but out of need. A quiet need to say I'm still here, even if words failed them both.
And that was when he felt it — the sting behind his eyelids, the warmth that wasn't from touch but from everything he'd kept buried.
A single tear escaped, tracing a slow path down his cheek before it touched the corner of their joined lips.
Aoi felt it too — the salt, the tremor — and something inside him ached in recognition. Neither of them pulled away.
The world stayed small — just their uneven breaths, their shaking hands, and the quiet promise that maybe, somehow, they weren't entirely lost yet.
When they finally broke apart, their foreheads stayed pressed together.
Neither of them spoke.
But for the first time in too long, silence didn't hurt.
Uruha still held Aoi close, their breaths mingling in a single rhythm. His hand remained at the back of Aoi’s neck, fingers gently moving through his hair, as if trying to memorize every detail of the moment. Uruha wrapped an arm around Aoi softly, not gripping, just keeping him near. His forehead rested lightly against Aoi’s temple, his breath flowing calmly in sync with his own. He said nothing. He didn’t need to.
In that silence, Aoi felt something he hadn’t experienced in a long time — that someone was truly there, watching over him. Slowly, his trembling eased, his shoulders relaxed, and his hands fell to his knees.
Uruha’s hand moved along his back, lightly, almost tentatively, as if making sure Aoi was really there, that he wasn’t going anywhere. Tears welled up in his eyes — not from anger or pain, but from relief and care, and Aoi felt it throughout his entire body.
Aoi rested his hands on Uruha’s chest, seeking stability and safety. He could feel the tension in him slowly loosening, as if every touch from Uruha was lifting the weight of loneliness he had carried for so long.
“I… didn’t know…” Aoi whispered, voice broken, almost lost.
“You don’t need to say anything,” Uruha replied softly, his cheek brushing a hair’s breadth from Aoi’s. “It’s enough that you’re here.”
For a moment, words weren’t necessary. Their bodies synchronized with each other’s breathing, and their hands and touches spoke more than any words ever could. Every movement, every small contact was filled with care and shy attachment.
Aoi felt his tears finally stop burning his cheeks, turning into something lighter — relief, though still saturated with emotion.
Uruha wrapped him lightly at the waist, drawing him closer, letting him feel his presence. There was no rush, no expectation — only the moment, allowing them to be together and breathe as one, so close that the world beyond the bathroom seemed to cease existing.
Aoi closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to Uruha’s chest, finally allowing himself to rest.
Every breath became calmer, less broken by trembling, his heart beating slower, in a rhythm that suddenly felt bearable.
Uruha gently traced his hand down Aoi’s back, firmer this time, yet still careful, as if afraid to disturb the fragile balance they had found.
“I’m here,” he whispered, his voice soft enough to barely carry, yet Aoi felt its weight through his whole body. “I won’t leave.”
Aoi shivered slightly, not from fear but from relief, letting himself believe those words were real.
Pressing his chin against Uruha’s shoulder, he murmured quietly:
“Thank you… for being here.”
No words were needed in response. Uruha held him closer, feeling the warmth of his body, hearing the uneven breaths, letting the moment stretch.
Their presence said everything: care, attachment, love, which they had long been unable to express except through touch and closeness.
Finally, Aoi opened his eyes and looked at Uruha — eyes wet with tears, yet for the first time in a long while, filled with a sense of safety.
Uruha met his gaze, fingers brushing gently through his hair, sliding along the nape of his neck.
“I don’t ever want to lose this,” Aoi whispered.
Uruha gave a faint smile, but his eyes were sincere beyond measure:
“We won’t. Not now. Not ever again.”
For a while, they simply sat together, their bodies synchronized in quiet harmony.
Breaths, touches, closeness — all became a silent ritual, saying: we are here for each other, even if the world outside ceases to exist.
Aoi tilted his head back, resting his cheek on Uruha’s shoulder, allowing tears to fall freely without restraint.
He didn’t need to speak. He didn’t need to pretend.
For the first time in a very long time, he felt truly seen — and that he didn’t have to bear the weight of the world alone.
Uruha slid his hand from the back of Aoi’s neck down to his back, drawing him closer.
“I’m here,” he repeated, this time not just as a whisper, but with his entire being.
And Aoi believed him.