Chapter Text
Rain was still doing everything he was supposed to do, and by now, that was the part that hurt the most. He stood where he always stood, bass resting comfortably against his body, fingers moving with the same practiced precision they always had. The notes came out clean and steady, filling the rehearsal space without hesitation. To anyone watching, he looked the same, grounded and present. There was no visible fracture, no sign of something slipping beneath the surface. But to the pack, his perfection was beginning to look like a desperate performance. He played, he listened, nodded when spoken to. He answered questions when they were directed at him. He showed up. Functioning, after all, was easy. It was feeling that had become impossible months ago.
There was a constant weight in his chest, a pressure that never truly eased no matter how much time passed. Some days it dulled everything around him, leaving the world muted and distant, as though he were watching it from behind glass. It was an internal winter. Other days it pressed so hard he wondered if it would finally become visible, if it would carve itself into his posture or his expression and give him away. He hoped it didn’t. Rain had never been one to draw attention to himself, quiet by nature, calm, observant. He preferred the edges of rooms, the comfort of listening rather than speaking. It had been easy, at first, to hide behind who he had always been. But as the weeks turned into months, the space around him had widened into a chasm, and the disguise was wearing thin.
The pack had noticed long ago, and the realization had settled into a quiet, collective ache.
It wasn't just that Rain was missing shared meals or late-night hangouts; it was when he stopped the small things; window gazing, hanging out by the greenhouse, sketching in his notebook, and most importantly, playing those soft, complex solo pieces on his bass just for the joy of music itself. That was the moment they knew this wasn't temporary.
Swiss lingered near him longer than usual, his eyes tracking Rain’s movements, with a weary concern rather than his usual mischief, instead of focusing on whatever he was supposed to be doing. Aurora and Cirrus exchanged subtle, pained glances whenever Rain declined another invitation, another shared meal, another late-night hangout, his excuses soft, polite, and always reasonable, but they'd all heard 'em before. Phantom still tried to pull him back into familiar routines, into habits they’d shared for years, only to falter when Rain offered a thin, brittle smile and said maybe later. It was always later. Always not now. Each small refusal was a brick in a wall they didn’t know how to tear down without hurting him further.
Mountain noticed first, he always did. It wasn’t anything Rain could point to or defend himself against, nothing obvious enough to explain away. It was simply the way Mountain’s gaze lingered on him, heavy with a silent, protective sorrow. He positioned himself closer during rehearsals without ever touching, acting as a steady, unmistakable anchor for a soul he could feel drifting away. Rain hated how sharply he noticed it, because if Mountain could see the difference, then it meant Rain wasn’t hiding as well as he thought. It meant something had shifted beyond his control.
Rehearsal wrapped up without ceremony, the familiar sound of instruments being set aside and cases snapping shut filling the room. Voices overlapped in easy conversation as everyone began tidying up, the atmosphere light in a way Rain felt increasingly detached from, a ghost at his own wake. He moved on autopilot, slipping his bass into its case, shoulders already tense with the knowledge that lingering meant questions. He didn’t wait for anyone to notice him leave. He simply turned and walked toward the door, pulling it open just enough to slip through before it fell mostly closed behind him.
Sodo had been meaning to talk to him.
He only realized Rain was gone when he glanced up, instinctively scanning the room for him. The space Rain usually occupied was empty. For a moment, he thought he’d missed him, that Rain was somewhere just out of sight, but then he noticed the door, slightly ajar, the hallway light cutting through the gap. Sodo dropped his guitar without thinking and moved after him, breaking into a short sprint as he pushed through the door and into the hall.
“Rain,” Sodo called, falling into step beside him. He didn’t use his usual high-energy tone; it was muted, seasoned with the sadness of missing a friend who was standing right in front of him.
Rain was only a few feet ahead, already halfway down the corridor. At the sound of footsteps, he glanced back briefly, eyes flicking toward Sodo before he turned forward again without slowing. His expression didn’t change, serious and distant, dulled by something Sodo couldn’t quite reach. When Sodo caught up and fell into step beside him, Rain offered a faint smile, barely there, the kind that seemed more reflex than feeling.
“You headed out early again,” Sodo said gently. It wasn't an accusation, just a quiet observation of the pattern that had become their new, painful normal.
Rain shrugged, hands tucked into the sleeves of his jacket. “Didn’t want to bother anyone.”
The words landed wrong, heavy in a way Rain didn’t seem to notice. Sodo frowned slightly. “You don’t bother anyone, Rainy. We just... we miss you being around. The Den feels different without you.”
That, somehow, hurt more than confrontation would have. The words brushed against something raw inside Rain, something he didn’t have the energy to engage with. He felt too dull, too weighed down for them to sink in properly. “I’m just... tired,” he said instead, because it was easier than explaining the rest.
Sodo slowed, then stopped, reaching out to catch Rain gently by the arm. Rain halted with him, turning so they stood facing each other in the quiet, shadow-drenched hallway. Sodo didn't ask if he was okay; he knew better than that by now.
“How are you doing, really?” Sodo asked softly, his eyes searching Rain’s face for even a glimmer of the person he used to know. “You can talk to us, you know. You don't have to carry whatever this is by yourself.”
Rain stared at him for a moment, searching for words he didn’t have. “I don’t know,” he said finally.
Sodo squeezed his arm, his grip grounding and firm. He didn't offer a platitude or a "snap out of it". He just looked at Rain with a profound, weary kindness. “I hate that you’re feeling like this,” Sodo whispered, his own voice sounding a little tighter, a little more fragile. “We’re here. Even if you don’t have the words, we’re right here.”
Rain nodded, the motion stiff. “Thanks,” Rain answered, then paused, a flash of exhaustion, fueled frustration creeping into his tone as his voice lifted a bit. “I just—I don't know, Sodo. I don't know what to say.” His breath caught for just a moment before he repeated it. “I don’t know.” This time it was honest in a way that left him drained. Even asking himself the question felt like too much. What was he supposed to say? That everything felt muted and heavy? That the weight never left his chest? That he wasn’t happy and didn’t know how to explain why? None of that felt like something they wanted or needed to hear. So he stayed quiet.
He exhaled deeply, a sound so heavy it seemed to physically deflate him. His shoulders sagged, the rigid strength he’d been maintaining finally snapping. "I'm sorry," he murmured, his voice thick with a fatigue that sleep couldn't fix. "I didn't... I'm sorry."
The slight lift in Rain's voice had hit Sodo like a physical blow. He didn’t see it as a lash-out; he heard the jagged edges of a person pushed to their absolute limit. It made Sodo’s chest ache with a sudden, sharp pang of helplessness. He had expected an excuse, but he wasn't prepared for the sheer amount of pain vibrating in those three words. It made the hallway feel colder, seeing the quietest member of their pack look so small and frayed.
He exhaled deeply before he straightened again. “I’m sorry,” he added, quieter now. “I appreciate it. Really. I’ll- I'll be fine. I’m alright.” Even as he said it, the words felt hollow. He pulled his arm gently free. “I just.. want to be alone if you don't mind.”
Sodo didn’t stop him. He watched as Rain turned and continued down the hallway, his steps steady, his back straight, carrying the weight of things he couldn’t put into words. Rain reached the end of the corridor and simply turned the corner, disappearing from view. The silence he left behind felt heavier than the noise of rehearsal ever had.
Rain focused on the feeling of movement, on the simple act of walking forward. If he stopped, if he slowed down, if he let himself acknowledge the cracks he felt widening inside, he wasn’t sure what would spill out. And he couldn’t afford that. Not when everyone relied on him to be steady, to be the quiet constant that didn’t waver. Strength was the only thing he knew how to offer, the only role he trusted himself to fill. So Rain stayed quiet. He stayed strong. And the pack stayed close, watching him drift just far enough away to hurt, unsure how to reach him without pushing him further into the distance.
The walk to his room was a blur of sterile hallways and the rhythm of his own heartbeat. When he finally reached his door and slipped inside, the click of the latch was a mercy. The relief was instantaneous but heavy, like a physical weight dropping onto his shoulders now that there were no eyes to watch him carry it.
Rain didn't move. He leaned his back heavily against the wood, his head thudding back against the frame with a hollow sound. He let out a breath that felt like it had been trapped in his lungs for hours, and suddenly, everything came crashing down. It wasn’t a loud explosion; it was a silent, suffocating collapse. His mind became a storm of 'shit' he couldn't outrun, the worthlessness, the exhaustion, the terrifying certainty that he was becoming a ghost while still alive.
The first tear was hot and unbidden, tracking a slow path down his cheek before he could even think to stop it. Then came another. His legs felt like lead, and he slowly slid down the door, sinking into a tight crouch with his knees pulled hard against his chest. He buried his face in his arms, the fabric of his sleeves soaking up the quiet, jagged sobs he could no longer hold back. He let the moment stretch, letting the darkness of the room swallow him whole.
But even here, the instinct to survive took over. Be strong, his mind whispered. Don't let them see the mess.
With a ragged inhale, Rain forced himself to stop. He wiped his face aggressively with the palms of his hands, his skin stinging from the friction. He took a deep, shaky breath, forcing his lungs to settle, and stood up. He needed to do something. Anything. He began to mindlessly tidy his clothes, folding and refolding garments with trembling hands, his brain so clouded by the fog of his own depression that he was barely aware of the fabric beneath his fingers.
He was so lost in the static of his own head that he didn’t hear the soft knock. He didn't even hear the door open.
The first thing that reached him was the scent, earthy moss, wet stone, and the comforting scent of petrichor that always followed the Earth Ghoul. It acted like a tether, pulling Rain's focus back to the present. From the corner of his eye, he saw Mountain move into the room with that calm, deliberate grace he always possessed.
Rain didn't stop his frantic, aimless tidying, but he offered a faint, ghost of a smile as Mountain sat on the edge of the bed. Mountain didn't ask questions. He didn't demand an explanation. He just sat there, observing Rain with an expression that was less like a judge and more like a gardener watching a wilting flower. He looked at Rain with a quiet, soul-deep admiration that didn't need a single word to be felt.
"You're so pretty," Mountain said softly, his voice breaking the silence like a gentle bell.
Rain froze. The compliment caught him completely off guard, making his fingers go still on a sleeve he had folded five times already. He wanted to ignore it, wanted to brush it off as a lie, and he tilted his head, giving Mountain a look that screamed 'I'm not, you're just saying that.' His mind hissed at him that no one could possibly find him "pretty" when he felt this hollow and broken.
Mountain didn't flinch. He just smiled, that warm, honey-thick smile that always made Rain feel a little more grounded. But beneath the warmth, Mountain’s eyes were sharp. He saw right through the act. He noticed the tell-tale puffiness of Rain’s eyelids and the slight redness that no amount of rubbing could disguise.
"Rainy," Mountain murmured, his tone shifting to something more tender, more knowing. "Were you crying?"
Rain’s heart hammered against his ribs. He refused to give in yet. "No," he lied, his voice a little too airy. "Just... rubbed my eyes too hard. Dust in here, probably."
Mountain didn't believe him for a second, but he didn't push for a confession. He didn't need one. "You shouldn't have to cry alone," Mountain said, his voice a low rumble. "You don't have to tell me the details if you don't want to. But I’m here for a reason, and I love you no matter what state you're in."
Mountain reached out, shuffling closer on the mattress, and opened his arms. It wasn't a question; it was an invitation. Rain hesitated for only a heartbeat before he let himself be pulled in. Mountain wrapped his large, steady arms around him, holding him close against his chest, shielding him from the rest of the world. In the circle of Mountain's embrace, the "strength" Rain had been fighting so hard to maintain finally felt like something he could put down, even if just for a little while.