Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

TW : internalized homophobia. This chapter contains a slur reflecting Yuki’s struggle, that might shock some readers.

Most people would stop at his piercings, his short, dyed hair, and narrow-pupilled eyes and conclude that he was at best a brute, and at worst a complete delinquent. An alcoholic, they’d assume. Or a hobo, or a thug—and to be fair, they weren't entirely wrong. But on the other side of the mirror, Akihiko had also accumulated an understanding of souls that those who judged him through his piercings could never have grasped. He especially understood those souls stretched thin by pain.

Maybe he didn't want to dwell on his own abyss. Or maybe life had offered him little respite —whatever. He personally thought he owed his insight to years spent with Ugetsu’s insane sensitivity. Though Ugetsu himself would probably scream something more like you have it inside too ! You’ve always been like that !... with a solid dosis of frustration. In this winter night, in this Tokyo convenience store, and with this sensitivity hidden behind his pierced lip and hard gaze, Akihiko knew. Immediately knew. Some little things about this customer now staggering around the aisles. Either way, it was the humming that first drew his attention. Then how the boy looked too young to be even drunk, and also too flashy to be some other forgettable face. Bleached wild hair, ear piercings, music on his lips even while trashed: the guitar case slung over his shoulder made perfect sense. All of it was already not a good sign—a post-concert binge would be with friends, not by yourself, and certainly not in these quiet parts of town—but what pushed it beyond any other wasted highschooler high on harmonics was the look on his eyes.

Akihiko knew of the kind of violence born from despair. It had a particular shade, unlike those from anger, humiliation, or oppression. Its aching was more dull, overwhelming. It didn’t forbid coexistence with light, though, the kind of light that slipped into that tune he hummed, precisely. Most of all, Akihiko knew that people drawn between the light of life and the aches of despair entertained the idea of death perhaps a bit too often. Like… too keen to offer tea to the Reaper. And Akihiko could spot that kind of temptation in someone else's eyes very easily.

Also, the guy was lost in the beer racks now.

"Hey! You! Haven't you had enough already? Minors can't buy alcohol here, you know that!"

At least Akihiko was glad he'd sent Uenoyama home despite his loud protests. Saturday night shifts aren't for high schoolers, Uechi ! he ended up saying. You can make some cash another day.
The ash-blond guy looked up at him, eyes glimmering with innocence, a pout on his lips before giving him a smirk Akihiko knew all too well. He rolled his eyes—if this kid was over sixteen, he'd gladly take another shot at a violin competition.

"Not the beer… Ramen. I want raaaaamen! Mafuyu... doesn't like music, but ramen's okay."

His voice was slurred, stumbling over his words. Then he started babbling, half-coherent, half-lost, about this Mafuyu who was stubborn as hell, especially about music, but still, sex was good. And he loved him. And Mafuyu preferred shrimp ramen, while he, Yuki, was all about curry. It felt like swimming in the existential crisis pool of teenage drama.

With a grimace, Akihiko pointed him to the ramen aisle, but the guy didn't budge. After six attempts, Akihiko let out a long sigh and decided to shove him towards the ramen section with a firm but resigned hand. He cursed his boss, then high schoolers these days, and for good measure, the studio rent that had him, at that moment, much closer than desired to Yuki—sixteen-year-old guitarist, gay, in love, lost, curry ramen fan, and way too chatty when drunk.

Once they reached the aisle, the teenager grabbed a pack of shrimp ramen but, instead of heading to the checkout, plopped down in the middle of the aisle, lowered his head, and started muttering incomprehensible phrases, half in Japanese, half in English. Akihiko sighed heavily and squatted beside him. If he weren’t the only one working the night shift, no doubt the local police would already have been called to find the kid's guardians.

He could've just ignored him, too. Or stuck to appearances, for once. As frowned upon as it might be, the world has seen far worse than a drunk teen sitting on the floor talking to a pack of ramen. Maybe he should've just hoped that the kid's stomach wouldn't empty itself on the convenience store floor. Instead he chose to lift a strand from those ash-blond locks, revealing a darkness that made Akihiko swallow hard. How many times had he seen that same cloud descend on Ugetsu? Ah, tortured musical geniuses...

"Hey... don't stay here, kid. You love music, and you're in love—if your boyfriend says he hates it, you're missing something. And you sure as hell won't find the answer sitting on your ass in the middle of the damn night in my store. Come on, get up!"

The other shot him a dark look without moving an inch. Akihiko sighed.

"I have to choose, huh?" the teenager asked, bitterness seeping through his cracked smile. Then he gagged and stared at the shelves in surprise. "Why are the boxes spinning like that? I can't choose. I can't choose! It's not possible, you see?"

Akihiko wasn't sure anymore if the stranger was talking about the noodle cups swaying in his nausea or his musical dilemma, but he still felt a surge of sympathy. If it was about music, the answer couldn’t come but from within—Akihiko knew that all too well.

"I love him, but that's not enough, is it? Huh? It's not enough... He said, 'Would you die for me?' Just like that, can you imagine?" He started laughing. "Mafuyu's an idiot. Such an idiot! But I love him. Shrimp ramen for my prince, ahaha! Curry's better. But why not, right? Why not? I die, and then I write him a song. THE song. The perfect song, you know? His song. The one I see in his eyes when he looks at the ocean or when he—uh—comes. Ahaha! Shocked, are you? Ever fucked a guy? He's beautiful when he comes, y’know! And then he'd sing my song, wouldn't he? Hey, pierced guy, what d’you think? You're a musician, too, right? And a fag..."

For a brief second, Akihiko considered punching the kid right in the nose—maybe that would knock some sense back into him—yet he sighed, clicked his tongue, and stood up, with a restraint that Haruki surely would have praised.

"You really drank way too much."

He held out a hand to the boy and pulled him to his feet.

"Come on, grab your ramen, go home, eat, and sleep. Tomorrow’s another day: use it to see your boyfriend, talk to him! Now, I'll be waiting for you at the counter."

He made his way back to the checkout. The blond boy took a few more minutes but eventually joined him, holding no less than twelve packs of ramen, bumping into shelf edges three times along the way. He paid with a grimace, rubbing his sore arm. Akihiko smiled—all twelve packages were labeled "shrimp" in big letters. He packed them into a bag, commenting sarcastically:

"Well... shrimp ramen for inspiration, huh? Never would've thought of that... I don't know about your song, Yuki, but at least you won't run out of noodles."

"Tomorrow," the teenager declared, placing his hand dramatically over his heart with a hiccup that made Akihiko fear he might throw up all over the checkout mat. "I'll hang myself first, then finish that damn song. You'll see, it'll be great!"

And he started humming again. Akihiko watched as he walked into the glass door, missing the handle, then backed up, glaring at the sensor, before finally disappearing into the night.

Chapter Text

A few customers went in and out after that. Akihiko looked at the clock—1:45 AM. He had fifteen minutes left until the end of his shift. The neighborhood was quiet at night, though the hum of the city never fully stopped, even in this quiet neighborhood. A woman entered, and he watched her on the surveillance screen. The tune the youth had been humming earlier was still stuck in his head. Usually, Akihiko had enough of his own worries to not take on others' burdens as well. But Yuki—his ash-blond hair, his unfinished song, his clearly out-of-the-ordinary drunkenness—all of it sat heavily in his tired brain. Had he made it home? Had he eaten his ramen—or rather, the shrimp ramen of "his prince"? Was he sleeping his alcohol off?

Akihiko yawned. He was tired, but the kid kept buzzing in his thoughts.

The woman was headed towards the ramen aisle (which seems to be quite a popular place tonight) and there, clearly visible on the camera, was a large black object, nearly two-thirds the height of the customer, leaning against the shelf. Akihiko muttered a curse and left the counter. By the time he reached the aisle, the woman had already picked it up and was bringing it toward him.

"Excuse me, someone seems to have forgotten this, haven't they?"

Akihiko bowed. The kid! He'd forgotten his guitar! No way!

"Thank you very much," he said, taking it with both hands. "A young customer from earlier. I bet he’ll come back for it tomorrow—I'll set it aside for him."

The customer left, passing the boss’s nephew taking over the shift. Akihiko counted the cash, cleaned up the counter, and noted the forgotten guitar in the incident log, right under where he’d already mentioned the high schooler's visit, leaving out that he'd been drunk.

"I'll store it in the locker room," he told his colleague.

"Sure”, answered the other. “If he doesn’t come back for it tomorrow, we’ll see."

Once in the small room, though, Akihiko hesitated. His locker was already open, his civilian shirt in hand, ready to change, but suddenly an intuition, a bad feeling, something gripped him. He set the shirt down and leaned over the black case. He placed it on the small table against the wall, asked forgiveness for his intrusion, and unzipped the cover. A flashy red Gibson. He smiled, sarcastic—it suited its owner perfectly.

The outer pocket was overflowing with notes, sheet music, spare strings, and various picks, but that wasn't all. Underneath the guitar, inside the case itself, he found more—a chaotic mess of hastily scribbled music notes mixed with receipts and printed internet search results. He smiled softly and was about to close the case when his eyes landed on one of the printed sheets. A poorly printed admission record to one of Tokyo's most prestigious public high schools caught his attention. It referred to a name he’d heard sooner: “Sato Mafuyu”. Said Sato had achieved genius-level scores in the sciences department. Akihiko let out a whistle—the curry ramen-loving amateur guitarist had fallen for a genius. Not an easy crush to handle, if he had anything to say about it.

Among the mess, he also found Yuki's admission ribbon—from a less prestigious high school, just a subway stop away. With a sigh, he thought about how the school system’s competitive demands could strain any relationship... especially between two teenagers discovering their queerness, if they weren't particularly good at communicating. The next sheet detailed the dosage and method for acquiring the pills needed for a medication overdose.

Akihiko's heart skipped a beat. He lifted the guitar and began sifting through the papers. Next, he found a map of Tokyo's railway lines, with bridges and barriers overlooking the tracks marked with crosses. Their accessibility was rated from A to E. His worry skyrocketed. Then, a page of knot-tying techniques and a frayed shoelace, obviously used to train. His heart raced when he found a receipt dated yesterday for climbing rope. Yuki's words echoed in his ears.

"Tonight I'll hang myself, and then I'll write him a song. THE song. The perfect song, you see? His. The one I read in his eyes when he looks at the ocean or when he comes."

Right behind it, a prescription. Lithium Carbonate, Quetiapine, Fluoxetine. Akihiko’s blood froze. He'd been close enough to the ups and downs of mental health to recognize a mood-stabilizating treatment. The prescription was dated fifteen days prior and had not been filled at a pharmacy.

Feverishly, now, he rifled through the rest of the papers until he found a name and an address. He stumbled upon the sports club enrollment form from Yuki's high school. Yoshida Yuki, second-year, class 3, had hesitated. He'd checked "Basketball," then crossed it out and never handed in the form. In any case, he hadn't chosen climbing. And he lived three streets away.
Akihiko hesitated only for a second. He closed the case, left the guitar, threw his jacket over his work clothes, briefly excused himself to his colleague with an "Emergency! Explain later!", and ran out breathlessly through the cold winter night.

❆ ❆ ❆

Less than five minutes later, lungs burning, he stood in front of the indicated house. He caught his breath for a couple of seconds, weighing his chances of terrifying the occupants by ringing the bell right after 2 AM, looking the way he did. All the windows were dark; the whole house, no, the entire street was asleep. To avoid scaring the family to death, he opened his jacket to reveal his convenience store uniform. Then he rang.

No answer.

He tried again, twice, three times. Still nothing. He took out his phone and began dialing the suicide emergency hotline, wondering if he was overreacting or if it was already too late. The operator had just picked up when the door opened on a woman with short hair wrapped in a coat over her pajamas, eyebrows furrowed, suspicious. The mother, no doubt. Akihiko put the phone on speaker and bowed, speaking very quickly:

"I'm so sorry to disturb you in the middle of the night. Kaji Akihiko, I work at the convenience store nearby. Your son came in for ramen half an hour ago—he was already drunk and talking incoherently about death, but laughing, and I didn't catch on, I’m sorry. He forgot his guitar. When I opened it to find his address, I found his medical prescription and this receipt for rope. I ran."

Amazingly, instead of screaming at him for intruding, the mother froze for a second, and then he saw it in her eyes—she believed him. She knew. She left the door open and rushed back inside. A light came on upstairs; then a scream rang out.

"Go help her!" urged the voice on the phone. "The address?"

Akihiko shouted it more than dictated it as he raced up the stairs of the stranger's home. In the room, the boy had already hanged himself. The mother, panicking, was gasping on her knees. He rushed under the teenager, grabbed his legs, and lifted him to release the pressure from the rope.

"Okaa-san! Get up! You need to cut the rope! Quickly! A box cutter—scissors won't be enough!"

The woman seemed to pull herself together at the command. She ran off and returned an instant later, not with a box cutter, which she couldn't find, but with a kitchen knife and a stool. Trembling, tears streaming down her face, she climbed up and cut the rope.

The boy's weight fell onto Akihiko. The body was warm and pliable. He staggered, hoping it wasn't too late, and laid him on the floor. Hastily, he freed the boy's neck from the rope and threw it violently across the room as if getting rid of it could expel the powerful anger rising in him—anger at everything that will push a sixteen-year-old gay kid to drown in alcohol and then hang himself.
He placed two fingers on the young man's jugular. The seconds stretched out, endless, hanging on what he waited to feel beneath his fingers. He noted the red-violet mark the rope had left on the youth’s neck and the desperate scratch marks on either side. When he had realized he was suffocating for real, the teenager had struggled. Around his eyes, dozens of tiny blood vessels had burst under the pressure.
A pulse finally responded under Akihiko’s fingers—erratic, weak. A wave of relief crashed over him, so powerful that he might have cried. He simply lowered his head and told both the mother as well as the prevention service still on the line, "He's alive. Okaa-san, I did first aid training in college. I need to do compressions. Okay?"

The mother nodded, sobbing. Akihiko placed his hands on the boy's chest and began compressions. It was a rhythm like any other. Boom-chack, boom-chack—a compression, a beat, a heartbeat, the snare's response, one hundred twenty beats per minute, and hoping not to break his ribs.

"Okaa-san, breathe, and explain to the phone. I already gave your address."

The woman hiccuped but obeyed. In a trembling voice, she began explaining the scene to the person on the line, who was relaying the information to the rescue team already on the way. At the nearby intersection, the siren of a fire truck ambulance wailed. Footsteps on the stairs, more expert hands taking over, a mask being placed over a marked face, machines starting to hum, one hissing, another beeping steadily.

"He's stable! Stretcher!"

More footsteps on the stairs, and the house emptied itself. What was he doing here at a stranger's place in the middle of the night? Then, an efficient, formal policewoman stood in front of him. He straightened with difficulty, bowing with the feeling that his bones had suddenly aged fifty years.

"Thank you for acting so quickly," said the officer. "You probably saved his life. I'll need to take down some information if you don't mind?"

Akihiko nodded, still in shock. Adrenaline pounded through his veins harder than any other drug. Had he really saved his life? The mother was taking down the address of the hospital where her son was being taken—she would follow by car after seeing the young man off, she said. One last paramedic turned to him.

"Aftershock," said a deep voice. "Go home, rest. There's a specialized center in the neighborhood if you need it. Here are the details."

A card was handed to him. Akihiko didn't care much about the trauma witness support service right now. What he wanted, what his body craved, was Ugetsu's violin. His body, too, if possible. But no—Ugetsu was with his new boyfriend. He couldn't go home.

"I’ll need you to answer some questions, but it can wait until tomorrow," continued the officer. "Here's the police station address"—another card placed in his hands. "For now, can you just give me your identity and a contact address?"

"Kaji Akihiko," he said. "Second-year music student. I live at..."

He stopped and corrected himself.

"I lived at... Anyway, I'm staying at a friend's tonight."

He gave Haruki's address. Originally, he had planned to sleep in the convenience store break room—after night shifts, the boss allowed it.
When the house was empty, and he was alone in Yuki's room, facing his mother, now calm but silent, the shock of his intrusion hit him. He bowed deeply, starting to apologize.

"No, no! Kaji-kun, is that right? I'm the one who should thank you. I don't know how... Without you..." Her voice trailed off. She cleared her throat and forced a smile.

"Can I give you a ride?"

He nodded.

❆ ❆ ❆

In the car, exhaustion hit Akihiko all at once. He dialled a number on his phone, hoping desperately that Haruki would answer the call. Meanwhile, he turned to the mother.

"Okaa-san, I don't think he really wanted to die, you know?" he eventually dared. "He was confused, but he wanted to write a song and see his... friend. They’d had a fight..."

"Mafuyu? I know... He means a lot to him. Yuki hadn't said anything, but he'd been troubled for two days. His father was like him... He left us in that same way when Yuki was very young."
She sighed, and the car went to a gentle stop. "We've arrived. Thank you again."

He returned the gratitude and was about to open the door, when he remembered.

"His guitar is still at the store. Should I bring it to you tomorrow?"

"Take it to the hospital instead. I'm sure it will make him happy, if he's awake."

"I'm sure he will be," Akihiko affirmed.

There was no way he'd saved the kid just for him not to wake up. He shut the car door and watched as it disappeared into the night. It took a good ten minutes before Haruki finally answered the door.

Chapter Text

His stubborn, unapproachable look was usually enough to stifle any impulse strangers might have to reach out to him when faced with his blue eyes. With his slim silhouette, fine features, and fringe falling over his eyes, Uenoyama Ritsuka had heard "Ikemen" thrown at him more often than not. He owed his classic, dark beauty to his mother, and while the term itself bored him, he didn't mind the fact of it.

Yayoi, his older sister, had inherited it as well. Her stunning beauty escaped the realm of "kawaii," which, paradoxically, didn't always work in her favor. Had it not been for the age difference, the siblings could have passed for twins: same face, same apparent delicacy, but the same inner strength hidden behind the solid wall of a blunt, unfiltered personality. Yayoi, alongside her university studies, had already started modeling.

"Ikemen" was especially frequent when he'd been seen holding his Fender. The word ran along the lips of students in the halls, murmured, discreetly or not, as he passed. At least at the start of the year. It was the same story since middle school; he was used to it. As the months passed, the questions he didn't answer, the gruff grunts he used to push people away, his slouched shoulders, and his much stronger preference for stealing time to sleep over flirting eventually silenced the rumors.

Then, only a very small number of friends remained to tease him with that word when, in a rare moment of forgetfulness, he would throw his head back and run a hand through his hair. In high school, there were three of them: Itaya and Ueki, his basketball buddies, and, somewhat unusually, Kasai-san, his classmate and head of class. Haruki-san and Kaji-san used it too, half-amused, half-exasperated, when they once again witnessed the effect those blue eyes had on a studio owner—a move that usually worked out quite well for The Seasons.

Ritsuka would brush off the admiring rumors with a shrug, not caring much about the friendly use of the term. What he kept to himself, however, was that while his musician seniors annoyed him a bit with their half-mocking "Ikemen," and he had no doubt about Kasai-san's genuine camaraderie when she used it, hearing it from Itaya or Ueki sent a slight shiver down his lower abdomen. The feeling was strange, unsettling. He quickly shook it off, drowned it in the sweat of a basketball game, or numbed it with a nap. Then, he would no longer think about it. Or, at least, that’s what he tried to convince himself.

Lately, though, basketball had been failing him in that soothing matter. Something about the smell of sweat, the way the throwers' biceps stood out when they hit—something he shouldn't have noticed that much—or the abs he couldn’t help peeking at when a player wiped his face stirred that troubling shiver more than ever in the guitarist's lower stomach. And when he made the same gesture himself, he was a bit too conscious of his body. Thus, he opted for naps. Between the part-time jobs he worked to fund his aspiring musician’s life and his naturally nocturnal rhythm of life, he was chronically sleep-deprived, enough to justify his escapes.

The world, therefore, settled for his standoffish demeanor and left him alone—but not Yoshida Yuki, second-year high schooler from the neighborhood of the convenience store where Ritsuka part-timed. Yoshida Yuki, guitarist, who had made a narrow escape from becoming a number in Japan’s alarming suicide statistics thanks to Kaji-senpai's intuition, wasn't letting go. Ritsuka gritted his teeth, wondering what curse had brought him here, to this hospital room, to bear the explosive sarcasm of a bedridden boy who had been a complete stranger just an hour ago.

You weren't supposed to be that flamboyant, mocking, charming, and sure of yourself three days after a suicide attempt, his inner voices snapped. Especially not with a voice that kept breaking into harsh coughs, leaving you breathless. Was he supposed to use it this shamelessly in the first place? Wasn’t strangulation supposed to be traumatic?

The usual light shiver in Ritsuka's lower stomach had turned wild when he'd laid eyes on the ash-blond hair and devastating smile of the one he was supposed to simply drop off a guitar, not stay beside. He hadn’t been able to not see the pain behind the mask, and this had glued him to the spot. Yoshida’s struggle to hide it.

And the four chords he had struck on his Gibson, as flamboyant and infuriating as he was, extended the shiver's devastation from the soles of Ritsuka's feet to the tips of his hair. He'd bitten the inside of his cheeks savagely when he realized he was almost getting hard from it. The boy had almost dropped the instrument—Ritsuka had caught it before it hit the ground – basketball reflexes. He put it back in its chaotic case while Yoshida fell back onto the hospital pillows with a bitter, exhausted grin. And, even then, the trembling inside Ritsuka refused to subside.

It was fundamentally, absolutely, unforgivably inappropriate. And it was irresistible. Unable to fight the effect the other had on him, unable to leave, unable to ignore the growing amusement in the tired gray eyes that were perfectly aware of what was happening, Ritsuka endured. He silently but thoroughly cursed Kaji-san, main culprit behind this situation. And he stayed–he'd been there for an hour already.

⁂

Haruki had taken longer to recover from having Akihiko show up with a story about a narrowly avoided suicide than the rescuer himself. His eyes had widened even more when the drummer showed up at the studio the next evening, a guitar case slung over his shoulder.

"Weren't you supposed to drop it off at the hospital?"

Earlier, at the rehearsal, they'd had to explain the situation to Uenoyama. The youngest member of the band frowned and blushed at the most shocking parts of the story. It was clear that to the blue-eyed guitarist, emo musicians with unstable mental health were as much of a headache as those who slept together. Haruki felt nervous as he watched him: ah! youth, such firm opinions!

"The kid's mom called me this morning. They put him in a medically induced coma for twenty-four hours. He should make it without too many problems, though."

He paused and added: "Oh."

"What?"

"It's not really my business, but it still got to me. You should've seen his throat... She said between the rope and the intubation, his trachea and larynx took a beating. If I got it right, the kid's a singer, not just a guitarist."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

An hush fell over the room, then dissolved in their notes. Their sessions had been a little off lately, but still, it was good.

The next day, the red Gibson was still sleeping in its case in the corner of the studio. The mother had explainde that even if the boy was awake, visits weren't allowed yet. On the third day, a message arrived in the group chat of The Seasons.

**Kaji:** The kid's awake, and visits are open, but I have to work tonight. Can anyone go give him back his guitar?

**Nakayama:** Same. I would've, but I'm on shift. Ueno?

Uenoyama had sent a few well-chosen emojis to express his true feelings, but agreed to take care of the mission. Musical solidarity. Imagining himself stuck in a hospital without music after an accident... even for a stranger, the thought made him shiver. His thoughts wandered as literature class dragged on.

Sixteen years old, Kaji-san had said. They were the same age. It was unsettling. A guitarist... even more so. There had been a time when Ritsuka couldn't imagine the world without music. Music still held space, but that sense of urgency, of absolute joy, was slowly fading. Had Yoshida felt the same?

Fortunately, he finished early that Wednesday, and he wasn't on cleaning duty. As soon as the bell rang, he hurried out. He stopped by the studio on his way to the hospital, grabbed the case, and hopped back on the subway.

That's how he found himself lingering instead of leaving, drawn in by gray eyes, ash-blond hair, and a mocking smile hiding its pain.

⁂

When he'd finished coughing, Yoshida wiped his mouth and croaked, "Uenoyama... you're a guitarist too, right?" He gestured toward the guitar case with his chin.

"I could've been a bassist," Ritsuka protested, though he still confirmed it.

"You in a band? You play?"

"Yeah."

"Play me something, then" the smile demanded.

Ritsuka was stunned by his outrageous command–and how it sent butterflies fluttering in his stomach.

"What do you want?"

"Your latest. What you're working on for your next show."

"How do you know I write?"

Yuki just laughed.

"I haven't written anything in months."

"Oh. Creative block, Rika? The last thing you laid down, then."

"Rika"! Not even "Ritsuka."
They'd known each other for an hour, and Yoshida—Yuki—had the nerve to use a casual nickname without any warning. Ritsuka almost cursed out loud when he realized he couldn't resist it.

He tuned the guitar, blushing despite himself under the piercing gaze fixed on him, and played a tune, barely brushing the strings to avoid disturbing the rest of the ICU ward. It was frustrating. He shifted the conversation to their favorite styles. Here and there, he accompanied the name of a song with a few muffled notes. The other boy drank in his notes. It made him shiver.

Yuki liked European indie too but duged deeper for inspiration, below the Mediterranean and across the ocean to South America. His musical knowledge was nothing like Kaji's, but his international eclecticism fascinated Ritsuka. He had ideas, insights, and passion in his fingertips. Another half-hour passed without Ritsuka noticing.

Yuki's voice was breaking quite often, slipping into coughing fits, but music still animated him. Ritsuka's emotions were whirling dangerously. It had been so long since he felt that fever. His musical euphoria clashed with the evident realization that the singer wouldn't be singing again anytime soon. Pity mixed with the excitement of the mutual discovery, the muted tension in his lower stomach, and the worry over Yuki's last cough, which had been particularly intense and painful, though he still tried to act tough.

Between two gasps, fighting for air, Yuki unbuttoned the collar of his pajama shirt. He'd kept it tightly buttoned until now. As he sucked in air like a drowning man with a raspy wheeze. Ritsuka instinctively handed him a glass of water, but Yuki waved it away, pointing at an IV pole that was currently disconnected. The visitor wanted to smack himself for not realizing Yuki probably couldn't swallow anything yet. His coughing eventually subsided.

“Are you even supposed to be allowed to talk ?” he asked, quietly, when the cough settled down.

Yuki grinned without answering, with such a self-destructive aura that Ritsuka shivered. He couldn’t hold his gaze anymore, so he lowered his eyes. But then, said eyes couldn't help but settle on the now-exposed neck. He grimaced at the sight of the bruise. On this third day, they were turning black. The scratches’ marks looked angry.

The collar had previously hidden the reality of what Yuki had attempted. Now, the fading spots of burst vessels around his eyes, which he'd barely noticed before, were crying out loud the harsh reality of what Yuki had been through.

Yuki gave a crooked smile, probably trying to brush away the awkwardness with a careless joke, but his voice wouldn't let him. Ritsuka leaned against the wall and bowed his head to regain his composure.

Then, in the awkward silence, the two boys heard footsteps approaching in the hallway—two or three people. They were looking for room 402, meaning Yuki's room, speaking in hushed voices, except for one whose mocking tone got on Ritsuka’s nerves before the door even opened.

Yuki froze, an unexpected look of panic on his face. Hastily, he fumbled with trembling hands to button his collar, but he couldn't manage it. And the door opened.

Chapter Text

The three high schoolers who entered the hospital room showed the kind of easy familiarity that comes from growing up together. They were visiting their sick friend—sure, their voices were hushed with worry, but it was a light concern. Ritsuka added their carefree tone to Yuki's panic, struggling with his collar, and guessed that they hadn't been told the real reason Yuki was here. He tried to imagine what his own mother would tell his friends in a similar situation: "A little fainting spell," maybe, or "He was feeling weak and overtired, got hospitalized for a few days," or even "A visit? Of course, it'd cheer him up. Just wait a few days until he's rested." Something like that. Ritsuka tried to disappear into the wall.

Two of the boys wore uniforms Ritsuka had often seen around the neighborhood near the convenience store where he worked. One was a loud blond he immediately disliked. The guy was barging into the room as if he owned the place, oblivious and without any hesitation: "Yuki-chan! Getting all weak on us, huh? Fainting spells now?"
The other was a dark-haired guy who seemed to have a bit more sense. At least, he read the room quicker and better and tried to hold his friend back before it was too late—and obviously, he failed.

However, if things spiraled out of control faster than Ritsuka had ever imagined possible, it was because of the third one. This one had messy light red hair, and Ritsuka didn’t recognize his uniform—his cardigan didn't match anything—but he did recognize him from his own school. The guy was in the class next door. Ritsuka had never tried to approach him yet he had noticed that angelic face. And it was an understatement to say he did not have the time to get a better look now.

The redhead’s eyes landed on the bruised neck, and he froze for a split second with such intensity that Ritsuka wondered if he’d turned the entire room into an ice block. At least his reaction had the positive effect of shutting up the annoying blond before he could finish his second idiotic sentence.

Then those hazel eyes narrowed, his face tightened, and Ritsuka thought that if he were Yuki, he’d want to back away. Despite the inevitability of what was about to happen, the violence of the movement still caught the guitarist off guard—as well as the other two, even though they seemed to have known him for years. Ignoring everyone else in the room, the redhead literally lunged, one knee on the bed, grabbing Yuki by the collar and lifting him off the pillows with a strength no one would’ve guessed he had. He pulled him close, just a few inches away, and started shaking him without mercy, yelling words laced with visceral fear. His jaw was clenched so tightly that it must’ve hurt to shout.

“What did you do? What were you thinking? What. Were. You. Thinking?”

His intensity was so overwhelming that Ritsuka felt pinned to the wall, unable to move. Yuki, all his spirit gone, let it happen, eyelids closed, a single tear glistening in the corner of one eye. And the other boy kept shaking him, repeating the same helpless words over and over, his entire body trembling.

The blond loudmouth and the dark-haired guy reacted before Ritsuka did. The blond tried to stop the redhead with about as much gentleness as the redhead had shown, and an efficiency close to zero. He ended up half-choking him, which, strangely, didn’t stop him from screaming. Then the dark-haired guy stepped in, trying to keep the blond from suffocating the redhead while also stopping the latter from hurting an already fragile Yuki more. Now the blond was sobbing uncontrollably, and the dark-haired guy’s jaw clenched tighter with each failed attempt to calm his friends.

“Closer to a disaster, you die,” Ritsuka thought, his sense of irony and ability to act coming back in the face of the chaos. He wondered how, by what kind of miracle, no one had yet burst into the room to kick them all out.

He was the same age as them, but he liked to think he had more sense. With an annoyed, even slightly disdainful grimace, he lifted one knee, planted it on the chair he’d been sitting in moments earlier—unrespectful, but things could hardly go worse– grabbed his guitar and a pick, ignored by everyone. Then he strummed a suspended A minor chord on his unplugged Fender as hard as he could. While bowing his head, like he was starting a concert.

He had the immense satisfaction of seeing it work. Maybe too well. Or at least, in a strange way. Silence fell over the room with the last echo of the strings. No more shouting—the arm shaking Yuki froze, the one choking the redhead dropped to his side.

“Who the hell are you?” asked the blond.

“Uenoyama Ritsuka,” he answered, bowing politely, hiding his irritation. “I came by to return Yoshida’s guitar.”

The dark-haired guy frowned, clearly wondering how Yuki’s guitar had ended up with this stranger—Ritsuka had the same question—but he let go of the blond. Said blond rubbed his arms, glaring at Ritsuka with as much natural hostility as Ritsuka himself felt in return. All of this was, more or less, what Ritsuka expected.

But the reaction of the two boys at the center of the storm was anything but normal.
The readhead from his highschool seemed frozen, struck by the chord as if he’d taken a bullet. Suspended. Or instantly transported to another world, one only he could see. His arm, though softened, still held his friend close. Then he lifted his head, staring into nothingness, offering his profile to Ritsuka’s eyes—and what a profile. Stunningly beautiful, mouth open, breath caught on lips that Ritsuka’s brain instantly decided were made to be kissed, pupils blown wide. The guitarist swallowed hard. It felt like he could literally see the last vibrations of the chord sink into the unmoving body. A shiver ran down the guitarist’s spine, an irrationnal impulse mixed with a powerful rush of power—the impact of his notes on the boy who was now still.

Still held by his collar, Yuki seemed to see it too. He exchanged a glance with Ritsuka. Without knowing why, Ritsuka blushed from being read with so much accuracy, and at the same time, he had the urge to step back. But Yuki smiled, a tender smile, by far the most genuine he’d given so far, with just a hint of irony at the corner of his lips. He rested his head on the redhead’s shoulder and, in his broken voice, murmured softly:

“Ah, Mafuyu… I’m jealous. I wanted to be the one to catch that one of your first times too. Your first time with music…”

Ritsuka’s world shattered a little with the sudden, undeniable clarity of the relationship between these two. At Yuki’s words, the redhead seemed to come back to earth—a little, not completely. He finally met his friend’s eyes.

“What about my first time at your funeral, Yuki?”

Tears welled up in the big hazel eyes.

“No,” Yuki answered, shaking his head, sincere. “I never wanted that one. I’m sorry, Mafuyu.”

“Was it because of what I said?” asked the other, his voiced shaking.

Now that the words had broken free, they kept coming. Ristuka’s heart tightened: without knowing the guy nor the details of his relationship with Yuki, he was heartbreaking to watch. “Note to self,” his busy mind recorded, “in case of suicide, don’t fight with your lover right before. Devastating effect.”

“I didn’t mean it! Not really! Not like that!”

“No. No. Mafuyu.”

Yuki took his trembling face between his hands. Ritsuka guessed that if they’d been alone, Yuki would have kissed him.

“I was drunk. Bad mix. Just a bad mix. Not your words.”

He leaned in, whispering something into Mafuyu’s ear, for him alone. Mafuyu’s shoulders relaxed. Yuki’s lips brushed his neck, hesitating, then pulled away without actually kissing the exposed skin. Instead, he rested his forehead against Mafuyu’s neck in a gesture that was as intimate as indecent. From there, he turned to meeting Ritsuka’s gaze. Defiant and gentle, maybe slightly possessive, he asked:

“But now, listen again. If Uenoyama would be so kind as to play that splendid suspended A for us again?”

And, just like before, Ritsuka couldn’t resist those gray eyes.
None of this made any sense.
Yet, with a shiver, he raised his hand and struck the chord again. Then he lifted his gaze intentionally to drink in, at the same time, the effect it had on the redhead and the deeply unsettling connection he felt with Yuki. He seemed to him that the convalescent knew exactly what he was looking at and why—because Yuki himself was drinking in the same sensation straight from the shiver running through his lover’s body.

This time, th redhead didn’t stay still. Once the sound settled, he turned to Ritsuka, hazel eyes wide, seemingly swallowing the guitarist. Then, in a voice from another world, pleading, passionate, yet strangely soft, he spoke his first words to him:

“Uenoyama-kun, teach me how to play music… please?”

Ritsuka had the strange impression of being struck by lightning while simultaneously facing a puppy too adorable to handle. He bowed his head to hide the storm of emotions surging within him. And Yuki, pressed against Mafuyu's chest, made the exact same gesture.

“Mafuyu!” the blond roared, then, barely restrained by the dark-haired guy before he could truly lunge at his friend. “I’m going to kill you!”

These four had some serious history to work through. Ritsuka wondered if he had just dipped a toe into their colossal mess or if he had plunged in headfirst, all the way to the last strand of his hair.

Chapter Text

Most people would go no farther than noticing he existed in the same space and time as them to decide that he was "there." Bold of them, because often he wasn’t—and the first to be unaware of the fact. Not that Mafuyu cared much—he didn't really bother about what others thought of him anyway.
There were exceptions, though, and the gaze of the boy named Uenoyama, who swayed along with the metro's rhythm effortlessly, was one of those. Uenoyama wasn't staring at him—because he was a polite and well-mannered guy, obviously—but he would sneak glances when he thought he wouldn’t be noticed. Mafuyu definitely noticed and somehow the cold blue of those eyes felt oddly warming on his skin.

At that moment, in the train, Mafuyu was there and he was not there, yet putting it into words would have taken way too much energy. So he just hoped it was obvious, maybe even normal, despite the overwhelming number of times that had proven otherwise.

He was leaving the hospital, fully aware that Yuki had tried to take his own life, maybe a bit less conscious of having jumped on him in reaction—but still. The magical power’ of the guitarist’s hands was fresh in his mind. That blue gaze, no less.

And yet, at the same time, he was drifting in a fog. It was all too much. Too much information, too fast, all the time, especially now. This time’s overload included the prospect of a world without Yuki. The idea was properly impossible to process, so it went and buried itself somewhere in a different memory, while the fog rose, blurring and softening everything, making it bearable.

Few people saw Mafuyu through all his kaleidoscopic variations. Yuki could. And Yuki... well, he'd deal with that later.

Some cuts to the soul, carved deep at far too young an age, keep having an impact long after everyone around—including oneself—has forgotten their origin. The difference between those who bear them and others becomes invisible, undetectable.
For others, the world was just routine. Mafuyu saw them live in color, running along with the soundtrack. Hiiragi ran, Yuki ran, Shizusumi maybe a little less. Pasted on the background of the world, Mafuyu was overwhelmed by its motion.

He could see every shade perfectly—too many shades, in fact. Anywhere, anytime, the patterns, the subtleties of people's behaviors, their expressions, the location of all the emergency exits. When your survival at a very young age depends on guessing the slightest emotional shift in people who hold power over your life, your eyes learn to take everything in, without rest—and they don’t unlearn easily. The constant overload of information probably played a part in that feeling of "too much" that Mafuyu often experienced, and the fog he let rise to deal with it.

The fog let him slow the world down.
Yuki knew that.
Others were surprised by how his gaze would drift off into the distance. They thought he was spacing out, lost in some rich fantasy world. They didn’t get that Mafuyu was just trying to pause Time, to give himself a moment to breathe, to sift through the millions of details, the world's relentless barrage. They didn’t get that the fog—his ally—allowed him to let emerge the facts, one by one, at a pace he could handle. But the world didn't stop moving, so they figured it was Mafuyu who was falling behind.
But not Yuki.

Yuki knew Mafuyu in the fog. Yuki knew where it came from and still felt a healthy anger about its origins, even years later—maybe more than Mafuyu himself did. And maybe, to blow away the fog, Mafuyu needed Yuki’s anger.
Yuki also knew how to reach Mafuyu through the fog. It was instinctive for him. He would reach out with a hand and a smile, and the world would become harmless. And then Mafuyu could laugh, dance, and love. Walk by the water and feel the rhythm of the waves. Tease Hiiragi. Bring a smile to Shizu’s face. Taste Yuki’s lips and feel his whole body hum under Yuki's touch. Then his intensity would explode into the world, his retorts sharp, his energy electric. And Yuki would devour him with his gaze—like Mafuyu’s vibrance was what kept him tethered to the world.

Yeah, Mafuyu knew all of this, even in the fog. He knew it wasn't all that healthy. He knew about the tension caused by his move to another high school. He knew how the music carried away the trio of his friends before the fog had even given him time to realize he wanted to join them. And this clarity, paradoxically, made the fog heavier—especially the shock of the purple bruise on Yuki’s neck, right where Mafuyu loved to rest his lips.

So, for now, if he was on the metro after visiting Yuki hospitalized because of some "incident," according to Saeko-san's message, and didn’t remember all the details, it was just fine.

The boy riding the metro back with him had some of Yuki's magic too, though Mafuyu thought he wasn't quite aware of that yet. For instance, he could sense the fog, and instinctively knew it wasn’t romantic. He hung on—how many times had he called out? "Sato-kun! Sato-kun? Sato? HEY, SATO?!" He was really trying to reach him, pull him out of that daze.

He’d managed it earlier, and Mafuyu’s heart still raced from it. Two chords on his guitar... that sound! It was so cool! It cut through everything, straight to the soul. On the first try. Mafuyu could almost feel Yuki’s slight envy.

"Mafuyu!"

Ah, his given name. He’d been burning to taste it on his lips, didn’t he?

Mafuyu landed back. The sway of the metro, the sounds, the smells. He had no idea what the last question was—though his memory had perfectly stored away, "Your three friends started a band, and you haven’t gone to see them even once? Seriously?"—but that would only resurface in a minute or two. For now, he tilted his head, charming, and gave him his most irresistible smile.

“Uenoyama-kun... teach me to play music, please!”

The other blushed and looked away. There was that too. Uenoyama was in his year at school, in a neighboring class. He'd seen him in the halls, never stopped to talk, but he'd wondered if, by chance, maybe Uenoyama liked boys too. If that was the case, the flush in his cheeks suggested he was just realizing it—he had that adorable aura of an inexperienced top. Ah. If that was the case, Mafuyu had just added a problem to an already long list. Uenoyama was really very handsome, after all. And those notes he drew from his guitar...

"...not trying to annoy you, it's just that I've never taught anyone guitar before. You'd be better off in the school club," Uenoyama was finishing.

Mafuyu had caught it too late. He was already repeating:

"Please, teach me..."

"You're such a pain!"

Even when annoyed, he was beautiful. Mafuyu nodded, fell silent, and looked out the window.

"So you’ve never gone to see them?"

He shook his light hair.

"No."

"You're an idiot. Your Yuki’s just a turbo newbie, but he's got gold in his hands."

Ah—"your Yuki"—he’d noted that. Mafuyu stared at him—there was a lot of contradictory emotions in those blue eyes hidden behind his bangs. How long had he stayed in Yuki's hospital room before they all got kicked out by the nurse for being too noisy? Oh! Now mafuyu had stared too long. It made Uenoyama uncomfortable—that happened a lot. He turned his gaze back outside. They were almost at the station where Uenoyama would get off anyway. Mafuyu didn't know if it applied to music, but Yuki having gold in his hands—that, he knew.

"Join the music club!" Uenoyama barked once more, gruff, before getting off.

The train rattled on.

Chapter Text

When he got home, once the fog had lifted a little, Mafuyu managed to accept the sound of Yuki’s broken voice, the violent bruises on his neck. It took quite a lot of effort, but he did some research, exchanged texts with Hiiragi and Shizusumi. He concluded that Yuki’s trachea was likely severely damaged, along with his larynx. It would take months of rehab. It was shocking. Holding his red guitar in his hands was shocking too.

On a whim, as dinner time rolled around, Mafuyu headed out again. Guitar slung on his back, he made his way to Saeko's place. Yuki’s mom let him in and invited him to join her for dinner. They chatted a bit, half-finished sentences left hanging between them. Saeko's eyes were red and swollen, but her son's gesture—giving his guitar to his boyfriend—gave her hope. She encouraged him.

Together, they opened the guitar’s case—Mafuyu let out a silent gasp. Yuki hadn’t even emptied it of the clutter of his papers, as if he wanted Mafuyu to understand what he had been through when he would sort them. If that was his intention, it worked. Mafuyu’s hands shook as he and Saeko got through everything Yuki had been carrying in silence behind his bright smile. The metro maps with points marked for a guaranteed fatal jump, the schedules for university activists’ meetings... his own high school acceptance results.

He remembered Yuki walking away from him in the night, flanked by Hiiragi and Shizusumi, waving goodbye with a smile that seemed almost cruel, as if Mafuyu’s loneliness meant nothing... and he realized that Yuki had been carrying all this burden, literally on his back, all the time.
Strangely, understanding this weighed Mafuyu down more than ever. He didn’t know what to do with it, nor what to do at all. He watched Saeko wipe away a tear and stifle a sob with that painful detachment that kept him from doing the same. Then he took the guitar in his hands and plucked the strings out of curiosity—the sound was awful. A soft laugh escaped Saeko’s lips as she turned away to get some tissues.

"A guitar can be tuned, you know?" she said gently.

"Really?"

He went back home not having left the guitar behind. Its weight on his back was grounding.

The next day, the weight on his throat wouldn’t lift. Not knowing what to say, he acted. He put the guitar on his back and headed to school. One more month to go as a first year, and then summer break would be there. Then they'd all move up to second year.

In the hallway, he caught Uenoyama’s attention. The boy from the next class spotted him just as he was walking into his classroom. He waved, and by the time Mafuyu could decide how to answer, Uenoyama had already disappeared into his classroom, with an annoyed face.

At noon, Mafuyu looked for a quiet spot. He knew one behind the gym—he had used it a lot at the beginning of the year when he felt very alone, and less so over time. He went there, took out the guitar, and held it—like he could comfort Yuki through the gesture, say everything he couldn’t put into words. He fell asleep.
He was woken up by a hand, a rough and gentle hand, on his head, and a blue gaze he hadn’t expected, a scowl. Again. What did that guy have with scowling? Mafuyu smiled.

"Uenoyama-kun."

Mafuyu watched Uenoyama soften, the frown fading as the boy’s cheeks turned pink, and he wondered what Yuki thought about three-way relationships. Definitely wasn’t the right time.

"Uenoyama-kun, teach me to play!"

The other let out a heavy sigh, sat down, and refused again, explaining that he wasn’t good enough. It was a bit funny, honestly, how obviously false that was. Mafuyu smiled again. Uenoyama looked down, his cheeks burning. Ah! Mafuyu liked the effect he had on him. The world felt a little easier to face, the tightness in his throat a little looser.

That evening, he followed Uenoyama to his studio, disarming him with smiles whenever the other seemed about to get annoyed. It. Was. So. Sweet. He introduced himself to his senpais, charmed Haruki-san in less than two minutes, and caught Kaji-san’s interest by not being intimidated by his piercings. He was actually immune to pierced guys. Yuki had three, Hiiragi two, and Shizusumi, without any, was no less imposing. Mafuyu was used to seeing sensitive hearts hiding behind tough facades.

He asked to hear them play, challenging them a little. In the confined space of the studio, the world felt stable; the too-recent reality of the hospital, of Yuki’s purple-marked neck, drifted away. And he was finally stepping into his boyfriend’s musical world, with his guitar on his back. The shiver down his spine was made of excitement and an unexpected joy. He felt light, like an eight-month weight was slowly lifting into the cushioned air of the soundproofed walls, under the basement lights.

When Mafuyu was relaxed, he could easily be playful, even mischievous. Yuki called it "cheeky gay," Hiiragi "annoying kid." The two older boys put on a show, teasing Uenoyama who went from being the 'cool guy' at school to the adorably grumpy youngest here, one senpais would let get away with tantrums because he was so talented. It made Mafuyu laugh. The guitarist visibly swallowed at the sound. Mafuyu gave him an enticing look. Uenoyama closed his eyes, and Mafuyu laughed again, because flirting with him was both fun and easy.
Haruki and Kaji exchanged glances, half surprised, half amused, each raising an eyebrow. Yet, as light as Mafuyu felt in that moment, his request was still serious, his focus sincere. He wanted answers... that stunning emotion he had felt the day before, at the hospital, when Uenoyama played those notes: was it real? Or was it just a dream?

"What kind of guitar do you want?" Uenoyama asked.

Once the surprise of the question had passed, Mafuyu looked up at those blue eyes, in a wide-eyed hazel wave.

"Something... cool!"

Uenoyama gave a wolfish grin.

"Could you be any vaguer?" he teased, before strumming the strings and launching into an electrifying rock riff.

Mafuyu's heart skipped a beat: in his element, Uenoyama stirred some new butterflies in his stomach. Then the bass and drums joined in, and his pupils dilated.

The way the melody and rhythm merged certainly answered his question. It left him frozen. To his ears—ears that had never owned an MP3 player or a streaming subscription—the music ignited a pulse of life that started deep in his belly, enveloped him completely, tore through the fog, and anchored his soul to the world. He still didn’t know what to say, but at least three things were clear.

1. It wasn’t just that he *wanted* to learn to play; he *needed* it.

2. Uenoyama was incredibly cool. If the guitarist really refused to teach him, he would have no choice but to join the music club. For months, he'd ignored the obvious by avoiding Yuki, his music, and anything Syh performed. But it was catching up to him. He had no choice. And he’d come back when he could claim to play alongside the handsome blue-eyed guitarist.

3. He wanted to see Yuki so badly it burned. And yet, for now, his feet seemed utterly incapable of carrying him to his lover.

The next day, during the midday break, he went to the music club.

Chapter Text

People always saw his charisma and smile and assumed he was invincible. But Yuki was wavering. He laughed at school, but inside, he felt trapped and stifled—simmering. The subjects bored him, the pressure was too much, and he had no one to talk to. At sixteen, he saw the world through a complex political lens, and what he saw often felt too heavy to carry.

Yuki saw things on a bigger scale: Tokyo, Japan, and beyond. High school barely touched on issues like gender inequality, hidden precarity, immigrant treatment, climate change, suicide and depression rates, the 'evaporated' people, and most of all, LGBT+ rights. Yuki was gay, and he knew exactly what that meant—for his family, in society, and politically.

He had joined the debate club back in middle school, but it wasn't enough anymore. Most high schoolers weren't truly politicized—academic pressure left them no time. He felt torn between wanting to reassure his mom, who worked tirelessly for both of them, meeting expectations, finding his place, and his desire for freedom. Sometimes, he felt on the verge of breaking. Yet he wanted more. He'd go and spy on student union meetings and keep his ears wide open to whatever news came from Stonewall Japan's branches in Tokyo.

Mafuyu had no clue. Mafuyu saw the world in his a unique way but lived in a kind of bubble. It was frustrating. When it came to studies, he was a natural: in middle school, his grades soared without pain. He couldn't understand the struggle Yuki and others went through just to stay average. He had moved on to a prestigious high school almost on a whim—because he could, because society said that was the way. At his private school, full of smart guys, he kept an honorable average, still without much effort. He never noticed the layers of societal imbalance that upheld his school's very existence. Yuki, meanwhile, saw through systemic lenses. And systemics feel heavy, especially when you can't share them with the one you love.

Despite all that, Yuki was head over heels for Mafuyu. His laughter, his eyes, his innocence—Mafuyu gave meaning back to the world just by existing in it, especially when Yuki was overwhelmed by all the contrasts and shadows. Mafuyu was like silver reflections on the sea—the only one able to make him forget, if only for a moment, about overfishing, maritime sovereignty disputes around the Senkaku Islands, and post-Fukushima radiation.

With music Yuki had found a release of his own. His lyrics were powerful—or so people said—and his notes drew from countless sources across both hemispheres, impressive for a sixteen-year-old just starting out. Life, death, the world—they all flowed naturally through his melodies.

He hadn't invited Mafuyu. But he dreamed of Mafuyu's voice, harmonizing with his, fitting his chords. The missing 'M' from Syh—Shizusumi, Yuki, Hiiragi—burned his eyes. But Mafuyu lived in his bubble, in his distant shiny school, rocketing towards society on the expected path, unaware, while Yuki needed to scream about the world.
Thus, he had thrown himself into music like a climber grabbing a lifeline, but behind the brightness of his smile, he felt more strained than ever.

Mafuyu and he had taken a big step this year. They'd made love. Mafuyu's desire came and went—like everything about him—but when he wanted to, he was intense and provocative. Yuki was the top, which seemed obvious to Mafuyu, who never considered any other position, but ultimately, it was Mafuyu who led the dance. When Yuki took him, Mafuyu gave himself, shamelessly, to an extreme no one would have imagined—except Yuki. Often his eyes shone with tears that spoke when words failed. Yuki's heart felt like it would burst with love and gratitude just being able to leave his mark on that beloved body. And yet, when Mafuyu fell asleep, Yuki cried himself to sleep, silently, against his back—from the tension between loving him so deeply and feeling like he was losing himself at the same time.

When they had argued, the struggle between what let him breathe in—Mafuyu—and what let him breathe out—music—hadn’t overwhelmed him more than usual. It had been there for a while. No, if he had drank too much that night, it was to forget the brutal realization of the pain he'd caused the one he loved. In a sea of unspoken words and miscommunication from both sides, he had missed it. He hadn't seen the fog settle this time; he hadn't noticed Mafuyu getting frozen, feeling rejected, not understanding why. He hadn't realized that all Mafuyu wanted was to join him, to break away from the path, if Yuki would just reach out like before. He’d drank, promising himself that tomorrow, he’d write a song for them to sing together. And somehow, the alcohol convinced him he didn’t have the strength to pull Mafuyu towards him against the whole system—not this time. That it wasn't his role, that maybe it was even toxic. Mafuyu had to make his own choices, move forward on his own, for once.

And if pulling Mafuyu towards him wasn't his role anymore, then what was his place in the world?

The blue-eyed-guitarist with the custom Fender had done on instinct, in a split second, what Yuki thought was impossible—pulled Mafuyu into the music, got him off the tracks, got him moving—all in just two chords. With a f** A minor suspended, he’d cut through the fog and lit a new spark in Mafuyu’s beautiful hazel eyes. Yuki felt a twinge of jealousy. Yeah, he felt jealous, and annoyed, because Uenoyama Ritsuka was obviously gay, clearly smitten with Mafuyu—and Mafuyu’s eyes had lingered on the handsome guy with magic fingers—and Yuki, maybe, had fallen for those two chords too. It was bound to be a beautiful mess—but in a way, it felt invigorating.

Ritsuka was precisely sitting beside his hospital bed again. Friday morning, 9:35 a.m.

“What was the point of asking for your guitar back just to give it to him?” he grumbled.

Ritsuka complained a lot. Or maybe, Yuki thought, he just hid an overwhelming kindness behind all the grumbling. Seeing him brought Yuki an unexpected joy. Ritsuka hadn't been able to stay away. He lasted barely 48 hours before coming back—right in the morning, during visiting hours reserved for family and close friends, shamelessly skipping classes at his fancy private school, focused on the guitar, and maybe, just a bit, on him. To get to Yuki, he had to show credentials and register his identity at the front desk. Nothing less.

“I didn't ask for anything. You’re kind of charming when you grumble, Rika, you know?” he teased.

His collar open, voice even rougher than two days ago, Yuki couldn't help flirting with the boy with jet-black hair. Did it make the bruise on his neck—the one now darkening an leaking in purplish black—any less dramatic? Judging by Ritsuka's look, probably not.

Ritsuka grumbled louder.

Yuki laughed, coughed, then sat up with a slight grimace. Without thinking, Ritsuka stood up and slipped an arm around him to help rearrange the pillow. Yuki closed his eyes briefly at the touch. Protective, Ritsuka—and right now, it was nice to be on the receiving end of such instinct. It disarmed him a bit too. Usually, he was the one doing the protecting part.

“Can you drink?”

Yuki shook his head. Actually, he wasn’t allowed to talk either – who cared? The swelling in his trachea was going down, but not enough yet.

“You look worse than the other day,” Ritsuka murmured.

“Aftereffects,” Yuki rasped with the voice of a crow. “And besides, it's 9:36 a.m. I haven't even done my pre-show warm-ups...”

“You...!”

Riling him up was way too easy. Yuki stifled a laugh to avoid another coughing fit.

“He's gonna need a guitar to learn,” Yuki said, half-serious, half-amused, referring to Mafuyu. “And I’m not getting back on stage anytime soon,” he added, gesturing at his throat. “In the meantime, I can use the guitar I had back at the end of middle school.”

“Less red, I bet.”

“You bet right. A starter guitar from Shimamura Music. Skipping class, Rika-chan?”

“Raaaah! You’re so annoying...!”

He'd almost said his first name, but held back.

“Yuki,” Yuki prompted.

“You’re so annoying, Yuki! Yeah, I’m skipping! You gonna lecture me? I’ll catch up!”

Yuki smiled. Inevitably, attending Mafuyu's school, Ritsuka was bound to be a star student too. One who napped in the afternoons, played basketball well enough to occasionally make the starting lineup—Yuki would learn that later that morning. They weren’t there yet.

“You gonna teach him?”

“You too?! What is it with you two?! I can’t teach!” the guitarist half-yelled.

Yuki couldn’t help but laugh out loud, doubling over.

“Sorry. But it’s funny... He asked you again, didn’t he?”

“He showed up at school yesterday with your guitar. Bugged me all day. After school, he even followed me to the studio, watched our whole practice with those wide eyes. Felt like I had a lost puppy trailing me.”

“... a Pomeranian,” Yuki added. “I've thought about getting him one.”

Ritsuka blushed furiously, both embarrassed and touched by how well Yuki had read him. Yuki found it endearing, though it also stung a bit.

“Oh... he came to listen to you guys…”

Yuki lowered his head.

“You manage what I couldn't,” he said quietly. Then, looking at Ritsuka from under his lashes, “He makes you melt, doesn't he?”

Ritsuka blushed again, grumbling.

“He's your boyfriend, right?”

“I think I fell for him the moment I met him, when we were three,” Yuki said with a tender smile. “We grew up together. Started dating last year. Became lovers this year.”

“Shameless,” Ritsuka muttered.

Yuki couldn't blame him. Who says that to someone they barely know? Maybe it was because he didn’t know Ritsuka well that he could say it. Or maybe he wasn't as detached as he wanted to be. Or maybe his cracks were just too wide open, despite the smile.

“I can't resist him. And when he lets himself be taken... he's the shameless one, trust me.”

“And territorial,” Ritsuka grumbled. “I get it, alright! I know how to behave!”

Yuki chuckled softly.

“Ah, don't worry about that. Mafuyu is like a shooting star. He might seem shy and dreamy, but he's more capable of breaking taboos and conventions than anyone. I've known for a long time I wouldn't be his only love. I tried to make the most of it while he was just mine. We're lovers, but this year, I'm losing him. Your stupid school got between us. Studies, a good job... he's going places. I'm going nowhere.”

He grimaced, leaning back into the pillow.

“And in the end, it was the music that took me away from him first. I didn't even realize I was leaving him behind.”

The mix of bravado, pain, and a strange, almost ageless maturity from the bedridden boy left Ritsuka frozen. Yuki could see the effect he was having, but for once, he couldn’t stop himself. He tried to backpedal, adding a smile to lighten things up.

“No, Rika, don’t worry. I’m not the jealous type. I don’t think about hanging myself when I’m sober, but... ah, I’m not really sure I’ll be around for much longer, you know?”

“Well, so much for keeping it light,” he thought. His heart pounded. Why did he want Ritsuka to hold him? He ran a hand over his forehead.

“Anyway, what I mean is... yeah, I’m definitely jealous he chose you to dive into music with. But... I don’t feel like I own his heart or his body. Nothing and no one will ever take my place there. Flirt if you want!”

He wasn't sure if he meant it or if he was just giving up. The bright red on Ritsuka’s face saved him. Like a cat landing on its feet, he found his teasing tone again to steady himself.

“Seriously... You've only just realized you're into guys? It never crossed your mind before? What were you even doing?”

“Playing guitar,” Ritsuka muttered.

“Got your Fender? Yeah? Then... play!”

Ritsuka decided the guitar would be too loud for the room. He had confidence and follow-through in a way Yuki hadn’t expected. He found a nurse, explained what he needed, and soon enough, Yuki was in a wheelchair, wrapped in a blanket, heading to the small art room in the psych unit.

There was no amp there, but Ritsuka could play more freely than in the room. If Yuki wasn’t sure he’d fallen for him until now, then the session did it. He felt captivated.
Ritsuka had years of practice, and it showed. He was good, like, really good. His technical precision was impressive, his speed and phrasing just as much. His sense of rhythm… Mind-blowing.

Several times, Yuki stopped him to repeat a hammer-on, a pull-off, an arpeggio sequence, or a chord substitution. Each time, Ritsuka paused, explained, and demonstrated again. He handed Yuki the Fender with patience and genuine kindness. Incapable of teaching? Yuki laughed softly.

He let himself be guided. It was comforting. So much comforting that somewhere between measures, he let slip he’d been wanting to go to the last Tokyo Pride. Between a few more measures, he spoke of his frustration—how he hadn’t dared tell Mafuyu, or share it with Hiiragi and Shizusumi, and how he’d turned back when the parade was already in sight.

Ritsuka listened. Just listened. And it was so much. He hadn't gone—wasn't particularly interested or involved—but some friends of his older sister, who was in art school, had. He talked about it like it was absolutely normal. He knew the sound of a couple of the bands that had marched. He mentioned the unusual April downpour that had drenched the parade, but how they hadn't stopped, just kept going, soaked through.

Yuki just hadn't expected to find someone who would just listen. The gentle surprise of it made him drift off in his chair, with a vague urge to cry—but it was a soft kind of urge.

He woke up in the middle of the afternoon, back in his bed. The IV was hooked up again, cold against the crook of his elbow. With his little musical outing and this new connection, he'd apparently earned some trust: during the psychiatrist's visit at 5 p.m., they told him he'd be transferred from the ICU to the psych unit for lighter observation in three days—and that he could have his phone back now.

Chapter Text

He scrolled through the Syh group chat messages with a smile. They'd piled up during the week when he hadn't had access to his phone. Between the lines, Yuki could read just how worried his friends had been. He sent them a photo of his meal tray, making a victory sign with his two fingers: "Got my phone back!"

Hiiragi's reply came almost immediately.

"Yuki-chan! We bet on when you'd text us, Shizu lost, I'll tell you all about it."

And then, thirty seconds later:

"You don't look too bad for a guy in the ICU. Get those tracks done already, or I'll be stealing your solos!"

Yuki smiled.

Three minutes later, Shizusumi reacted too, dark and sarcastic as always:

"Hospital ventilation sucks. Don't catch a throat infection, you wouldn't be able to sing."

Yuki burst out laughing. The lightness of this normalcy warmed him. Then he bit his lip. Hiiragi, without realizing it, and Shizusumi, fully aware, had both touched on what was really bothering him. He wasn't going to be able to join Syh for who knew how long, but definitely too long. At least, as a singer. He hesitated for a moment, started typing, erased it.

Mafuyu had only sent three messages. His boyfriend couldn't find the words, so he'd sent pictures. Gentle snowflakes caught in a streetlight, a bright staircase—probably his school. The third was a video. Yuki played it, his heart skipping a beat when he recognized his Gibson. Mafuyu had framed it so that only his hands were visible. One of Yuki's picks in his fingers, Mafuyu strummed the open strings. Then he leaned in, part of his face coming into view—just enough to show that smile Yuki adored. "So, is it tuned right?" he asked. Then the video ended.

Yuki swallowed hard, his throat tight with something more than just the trauma to his trachea. He turned towards the window, holding back tears—ah, he felt like he was always teetering on the edge of an emotional cliff, lately. One tear betrayed him, rolling down his cheek.

There was also a message from an unknown number. It was an MP3 file—Ritsuka's latest tune. The high schooler had sent it at 3 p.m., between classes. A second text, one minute later, read: "I got your number from Mafuyu. Sorry for intruding. Let me know what you think?" Ritsuka was a polite guy. And his composition was stunning.

Now, on top of those betraying tears on his face, strange knots were forming in his stomach.

Two doctors and a nurse entered the room. He was too much of a mess to hide behind any mask: he just laid back and let them do their work. The ENT examined him, exchanged a few words in low voices with her colleague, the psychiatrist, then left. The nurse followed after checking his vitals and unhooking the IV for now. The psychiatrist waited until the door closed, pulled up a stool, and sat next to the bed.

"Yoshida... you had a visitor today. The nurse said you seemed more relaxed, but you couldn't help putting on a brave face for your friend, pushing your larynx to talk, as if every word didn't hurt a thousand times over."

Yuki turned his head away. Once again, his eyes burned. The psychiatrist handed him a tissue.

"You might not believe me, but I'm actually glad to finally see you cry. Was it a close friend who came this morning?"

Yuki didn't know how to answer. He shook his head, then nodded, then shook it again.

The psychiatrist smiled at him, handing him a small whiteboard and marker. Yuki pouted but took them. Since he'd woken up in the hospital bed, she had done nothing but support him, without ever making him feel guilty. She hadn't forced him to take the medication he hated either, the kind that dulled his musical sensitivity. She had listened to him and believed him when he said the alcohol had made him do something he wouldn't have done sober—not yet, anyway. She had negotiated with him to try a minimal dosage of medication in exchange for more frequent monitoring and a promise to call whenever his mood dropped and to make an effort to talk to her. He had kept his word. She hadn't increased the doses.

He quickly scribbled on the whiteboard:

"A friend's friend. He's a musician too. Guitarist."

"A *friend's* friend?" she questioned, sharp as always—or maybe that was just her job.

Yuki rolled his eyes.

"... my boyfriend's friend. I think he has a crush on him. But he skipped morning classes to come see me today."

"I see," the psychiatrist said. "You're making progress, Yuki. Really."

He swallowed and put the whiteboard back on the blanket.

"Are you ready to hear about the rehab plan ahead of you?"

He nodded, thinking of Hiiragi and Shizusumi's texts.

"The ENT thinks you'll probably get your voice back, but not unless you finally put it at rest and follow what she says. She expects six months of rehab before that happens. If you want to get there, you're going to have to push yourself. Are you willing?"

He took a deep breath and nodded again.

"She wants you to give your vocal cords complete rest for two weeks. Even when you have visitors, Yuki. Did it hurt this morning?"

"Yes," he admitted, writing on the board. "And I keep coughing. It hurts."

She nodded.

"Then, three to four weeks of rehabilitating basic vocal functions. That means learning to make sounds with your vocal cords again without damaging them. Basically, like a baby. After that, you can start speech rehab—that'll take another three to four weeks. Only after that, singing rehab. And that'll take months."

Yuki ran his hands over his face.

"It's hard, Yoshida, I get it."

He took the whiteboard again.

"It's like I tried to kill myself twice," he wrote.

"You're not wrong. Do your friends know?"

He shook his head, then wrote again.

"Probably have an idea, but expect a few weeks, at most. Band's waiting for me. We were already signed up for a contest next summer, hoping to go pro."

"Don't rush into any decisions. You have time to weigh it all out and think it through. What I suggest is finishing your two weeks of complete rest here. But I need you to commit to this, Yuki. After that, you can do your vocal rehab alongside social rehab outside, in a psychiatric rehab center for teenagers. The one connected to this hospital—I'm the supervising psychiatrist there. I could continue to follow up with you—you'd also have physical therapy and speech therapy. Rooms are shared, so patients won’t be alone. Depending on your progress, you could return to high school in about a month and a half."

Yuki watched the clouds for a moment, then nodded. On the whiteboard, he wrote:

"Cost? Did you tell my mom?"

The psychiatrist smiled.

"She said you'd definitely worry about that. The rehab I'm suggesting is through the public system. Not everything is covered, but I've already sent her the paperwork for a support program for single mothers facing their children's medical costs. Don't worry, it'll be okay."

When the psychiatrist had left, Yuki picked up his phone again. He started typing in the Syh group chat, deleted that again, then finally sent a short: "I'll keep you guys updated. Work hard in the meantime." He wasn't ready to share the full reality just yet. Then he listened to Ritsuka's demo again, spending the next hour picking it apart so he could give proper feedback.

It wasn't until much later, that evening, that he replied to Mafuyu:

"It's perfect. Send me your first chords!"

Then, after much hesitation, he added:

"I'm not allowed to speak for a month and a half. Rehab. Will you come?"

He imagined Mafuyu freezing, seeing him so vulnerable. Not expecting an immediate response, he was about to put his phone down when three notifications lit up the screen.

"Of course," Mafuyu replied.

"Stay strong! I love you," said the second message.

The third was a photo—a selfie. Mafuyu, at home, his hazel eyes smiling, unruly bangs on his forehead, holding a small white puppy, its head resting against his chest.

"Meet Kedama, Yuki! Mom got him for me yesterday. He's adorable."

Maybe it was because Mafuyu's responses dismantled some of the fears Yuki had built up in his head about what was separating them lately. Maybe it was because he'd carried Mafuyu so much that he'd forgotten he could let himself be carried too. Or maybe because he guessed that if Mafuyu was smiling like that, it meant he'd spent time with certain blue eyes, and the world definitely wouldn't return to the way it was "before." Suddenly, Yuki felt overwhelmed. He turned off his phone, rolled onto his side, and cried himself to sleep, quietly, tears falling into his pillow. In silence, without sobs, to spare his larynx.

Chapter Text

“How on earth did you manage to get him to sing for The Seasons?!”

Yuki’s exclaimation was silent, as he was typing the message on his phone. Ritsuka gave him a predatory grin accompanied by a gently mocking laugh.

“Genius move, Yuki. I *asked* him, you know? And it’s ‘Given’ now.”

Yuki made a face that read, “Come on, don’t mess with me, surely it was a little bit more complicated than that”. Ritsuka had to admit it.

“Oh, don’t give me that look... He obviously said no at first. I was mad; you have no idea. Mafuyu really can be infuriating... as much as he is adorable!”

Yuki seemed reassured. That matched more with what he expected.

“That said, Haruki-san claims my communication skills are terrible, but compared to yours, I’m actually doing pretty well.”

Yuki pulled a face. Lounging in his plush armchair, he aimed a lazy kick at the ribs of the other guitarist, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor with his guitar. It only elicited a mocking smile. Ritsuka had a sister and was used to solid yet tender daily rivalries—he wasn’t that easily fazed. Yuki sighed and stretched out across the communal lounge’s armchair, head tilted back, staring at the ceiling.

“Mafuyu thought he couldn’t express himself, couldn’t reach anyone,” Ritsuka continued. “With that voice of his! It’s insane. He sang six notes and... I’m not sure I was very gentle with him. But in the end, I just told him what I really thought: hearing him sing makes me want to tangle my sound with his, to accompany him, but not just that... to impact him, transform him, take him higher, further, I don’t know, but somewhere else. I want to play on his voice, with his voice...”

Yuki raised his phone above him and, in the least practical position possible, typed a comment.

“To make his voice resonate but also to show the world you’re the one supporting it, right? You and no other one. ‘Tangle...’ It’s not just your sound you want to tangle with Mafuyu, is it, Rika?”

He turned his head, showing him the screen, and challenged the blue eyes with his gaze. Ritsuka looked away.

“Maybe,” he replied softly.

⁂

It had been two weeks since the convalescent had been at the “Mapple Retreat”. The center was a psychiatric rehabilitation unit for adolescents, set in an open environment just two streets from the oceanfront. The facility provided a multidisciplinary internal support framework with a semi-community setup, imposing minimal restrictions on its residents, especially regarding meals and curfews. Beyond that, it offered them a lot of freedom. A classroom was available for those who wanted to keep up with their studies.

Yoshida Yuki, admitted for depression and suicidal ideation, was more dedicated to the ocean than the classroom. To his surprise, both his psychiatrist and mother seemed reassured by this, and he didn’t quite know what to do with that information. He had retrieved his first school guitar, along with an old case, and though he couldn’t sing, he spent much of his day strumming—in his room, the lounge, or on the beach. The bruises on his neck had now faded to yellow-green hues, like some alien dye applied to his skin. And the person best positioned to track their evolution was named Uenoyama Ritsuka.

⁂

If you’d told Ritsuka a month earlier that he’d come here often enough not to need to show ID at the entrance anymore, or if you’d told Yuki that, if he attempted suicide, his most frequent visitor would be Ritsuka, neither would have believed it. Yet here they were.

Yuki had temporarily distanced himself from Hiiragi and Shizusumi. Holding back from voice speaking with Hiiragi was too hard; the decisions to make for Syh too painful; and Shizusumi’s gaze too perceptive. He’d explained that he preferred to limit their visits for now and focus on his recovery. They’d see each other when he got home. Hiiragi had protested, but Shizusumi silenced him with a single look.

Despite his promise, Mafuyu hadn’t visited once since his initial hospital visit. He still sent regular messages, though. Yuki didn’t blame him, but his heart silently ached.

He wasn’t alone, though. First there was his mother. Depending on her schedule, she often came by around lunchtime. Yuki appreciated her presence, but he had difficulties opening up to her. They shared part of a meal—residents were allowed to eat with family in the winter veranda. She’d give him some news from their neighborhood, which he listened to in silence, more attuned to the sound of her voice than the content of her words. Then, she’d leave. Besides, in two weeks, even though he only communicated through his phone, Yuki already had made several friends.

However, for once, he wasn’t trying to be the life of the room. He’d stepped back from the center—just a bit. The imposed silence had turned his focus inward. None of his interactions with the other teens at the Maple Retreat gave him the same thrill of anticipation as the erratic visits from the blue-eyed guitarist. Yuki was fond of his perpetually grumpy or distant air—which he wasn’t at all—and his slightly customized Fender.

Ritsuka was used to skipping afternoon classes to nap, but he was a serious student, well aware of the expectations tied to his age. He’d catch up on all his lessons and knew well that missing morning classes was judged far more harshly than falling asleep at midday. The first time, he couldn’t help himself—drawn by some inexplicable force, he needed to see the guitarist again. The second time, three days later, he stole an afternoon. Yuki had just been transferred to psychiatry, still in the hospital. Then came a third time, a fourth... Other afternoons, other mornings.

To his immense surprise, Yuki opened up his world. To Yuki’s immense surprise, Ritsuka was familiar with what he brought. It was a shock. One came from the bottom—a mother who gave everything but was tired and alone, a life where every expense was counted. The other came from the upper middle class, from a solid, loving, available two-parent family. Used to second-hand uniforms, Yuki had seen curry on the table far more often than sashimi. For him, presented with education as the only path to social mobility, music was a dissidence, if not a rebellion. For Ritsuka, guided by a geeky, musician father and alongside an art school sister, education was a given but far from the sole determinant of a life. The same margins that symbolized freedom and power, for one, were part of normalcy for him, and he hadn’t even realized.

Now, Ritsuka saw it in Yuki’s eyes. Their shared world—music, part-time student jobs—took on a completely different hue through Yuki’s perspective. Music was Yuki’s lifeline. That it could start to lose its meaning was nonsense. Sometimes, Ritsuka wanted to kick himself. Yet Yuki, more than anyone, understood his need for freedom. It was obvious. When Ritsuka arrived from the studio with the faint gray cloud of mild boredom hovering over him, Yuki would greet him with:

“Oi, Rika! Did you lock yourself in a cage again?”

Then Ritsuka would replay the piece he’d worked on earlier, and Yuki, despite having far less experience, had an innate talent for showing him where to look for the keys. And the cage opened.

When Mafuyu spoke of Yuki, he told tales of a being of pure light. Hiiragi, whom Ritsuka was beginning to know, called him a charismatic talent with no limits. Ritsuka, for his part, discovered a young man pierced through and through by the world, a little bit too familiar with the abyss, as powerfully alive as he was desperate. The boy touched him in his strength and vulnerability beyond what he thought possible. He understood him. He spoke the same language—without the cracks.

Yuki wasn’t used to being understood. The connection that grew, visit by visit, was becoming dangerously vital to his balance. Ritsuka regularly skipped two half-days of school a week for him and still gave him another afternoon during the weekend. That was a lot. He reassessed his privileges at Shinkansen speed, pulled him upward in technique and musical openness. Above all, he was stable. Persistent, solid, strong—Yuki didn’t have enough words. And protective—definitely, adorably, tenderly protective. When the blue eyes met his, direct and honest, his heart skipped a beat. It was addictive—and concerning. What would he do, if he got used to it, when Ritsuka returned to his ordinary rhythm?

⁂

Right now, the two boys were in the Maple Retreat’s lounge. Ritsuka sat on the floor, guitar in hand, while Yuki lounged across an armchair, his own guitar resting against the armrest. He raised a hand to shield his eyes.

“I felt left behind,” Yuki admitted. “His voice... anyone would want to play alongside a voice like that, right? It’s raw, powerful, without pushing it. It grabs you by the throat, ties you up, and frees you at the same time. When I hear him hum, it kills me—I don’t know if it’s from not being able to amplify it or from willing too hard to keep it locked away, just for me. He doesn’t even realize how talented he is. But I, Yoshida Yuki, who holds so many of his firsts? I didn’t think of that. I thought about music as a way to pull his eyes back to me. You just wanted to play with him, simple as that.”

“You’re an idiot, Yoshida Yuki,” Ritsuka said mildly, tuning his guitar. “Mafuyu never stopped looking at you. Do you have any idea what words he uses when he talks about you?”

“... He talks about me?”

“Oh my god. You’re not serious, are you?”

Ritsuka shot him a glare sharp enough to pin him to the ceiling. Yuki propped himself up on his elbow, but the other looked away, plucking a few strings as he spoke, his tone getting dreamy, and a little bit tense:

“He doesn’t say he likes you or that he’s fond of you, like every other high schooler dating. No. He talks about you using nothing less than great love. Yuki, I love him madly. Those are his words. You’re his world , Yuki.”

Yuki swallowed hard. Doing so still hurt his throat, but not as much as it had in the early days. For some reason, he felt like wrapping his arms around Ritsuka, pressing his forehead to the hollow of his collarbone, and breathing in his scent while whispering, Thank you . Instead, he asked, his voice rough but less broken than before:

“What are you playing?”

“Talk again, and I’m not coming on Sunday,” Ritsuka warned—but his voice was soft.

Yuki exhaled a laugh.

“Alright,” he typed on his phone. “Please come.”

Ritsuka smiled without looking at him. Yuki closed his eyes for a moment, taking in the smile.

“I’m working on arrangements for a tune Mafuyu has stuck in his head. Haven’t shown it to him yet. Wanna hear it?”

Yuki nodded. He bit his lip as he recognized the two phrases that had been racing through his mind for weeks—notes tangled with the taste of ocean salt on Mafuyu’s lips.

“So? What d’you think?”

“Can’t help you with that,” he typed on his screen. “But listen to this. It’s the song I was working on the night of...”

Without finishing the sentence, he sat up straighter in the armchair, plugged in his headphones, handed them to Ritsuka, and played a demo.

Ritsuka’s blue eyes widened—the reaction was worth seeing. Then a competitive grin spread across his face.

“Alright,” he said, as if Yuki had just thrown down a challenge.

Relief washed over Yuki, settling warmly in his stomach. How good it felt for this to be a challenge—not a tragedy!

“But Mafuyu will sing yours,” Yuki added with a playful pout.

“Obviously!”

“And Syh’s still without a singer.”

“Oh, about that!”

Ritsuka set his guitar down and turned to the boy who could now be called a friend.

“Can I talk to you about something?”

“Huh?”

“Have you ever heard Hiiragi sing?”

“I’ve asked him a thousand times to do duets,” Yuki typed. “Even solos. He always refuses. He doesn’t think he’s good enough. He’s afraid of the spotlight on stage.”

“Yeah, I figured. The other day, Mafuyu was down because Hiiragi’s struggling. Somehow—don’t ask me how—he convinced me to cheer him up. Next thing I knew, I was playing backup guitarist so Syh could rehearse a bit yesterday.”

“You really can’t say no to him,” Yuki wrote with a silent laugh. “I’m jealous! Seriously jealous! Was it good?”

Ritsuka made an exaggerated face.

“Hiiragi’s a spoiled brat! So sure of himself! Absolutely unbearable!”

Yuki laughed silently.

“Sounds like someone I know,” he teased through his phone screen.

Ritsuka turned and pretended to punch him in the chest, stopping just before impact to gently press his knuckles against Yuki’s shirt. He closed his eyes briefly, as if dazzled, then pulled his hand away. Yuki shivered.

“But he’s good! Hiiragi, I mean. He really has a feel for melody, great voice, and he knows how to charm. He’s just held back by this massive admiration for you that’s practically choking him.”

“He doesn’t see the cracks beneath your confidence,” Ritsuka added silently, brushing his knuckles as if still feeling the faint connection through Yuki’s shirt.

“But what if you tell him what’s on your heart? If Mafuyu can yield because I tell him I want to follow his voice, what do you think Hiiragi would do if you offered him your guitar?”

Yuki looked at him, then nodded. They sat quietly for a while before Yuki thrust his phone under Ritsuka’s nose:

“Play with me!”

Ritsuka hesitated for a second, scanning the room for a gaming console—there wasn’t one.

“Guitar, idiot,” Yuki added with a laugh.

“Oh! Okay. But what?”

“Anything! For two guitars. You can play anything, Rika... I love your dexterity! A tango? The solos from Stairway to Heaven arranged for two guitars? Classical Gas?”

Ritsuka laughed, and Yuki bit his lip.

“Classical Gas it is. But... can you keep up, newbie?”

Yuki tried to ruffle his hair in retaliation. Ritsuka dodged, laughed again, locked eyes with him, blushed, and looked away. Yuki’s heart skipped a beat again. He didn’t clear his throat, having learned not to in rehab, but he lowered his head over his guitar to hide the heat rising to his own cheeks, and he began to play the opening notes.

They played and laughed for over an hour.

Chapter Text

The air was mild, and not just because spring was showing off the last blooms of the cherry tree planted by the canal next to his childhood home – the house here, right next to Yuki’s. He had left it a year earlier; his mother wanted to spare him the daily metro trips and cut the distance to his new high school.

In the end, he had made the trips anyway, to see Yuki and the others. They’d meet at the metro station next to their junior school. A lot at first, then less and less. The exhaustion from days spent in an unfamiliar world, far from the ash-colored hair that used to clear away the fog, had overtaken his burning desire to be with his friends—especially the one who gave color to reality. Drained from keeping up with the school’s demands, which were quite high in his new school, Mafuyu grew more overwhelmed by the noise and movement of those commutes every day. That was precisely what his mother had tried to spare him. Then the sight of the guitars on the backs of the trio walking away from him had paralyzed him. They’d created a group. Without him. He hadn’t ask to come and join them. Neither hadn’t he been able to ask Yuki to come his way sometimes too. He hadn’t managed to say he was hurting from not sharing their lives anymore. The space between them had thickened, like a wall.

The cherry tree by the canal had always bloomed late. Yuki called it "lazy," but Mafuyu knew better; it just followed its own rhythm, slightly out of sync with the others. This year, Yuki was mimicking the cherry tree—he was out of sync, but clearly hadn’t grasped the concept of rhythm.

So, Mafuyu had hopped on the metro after school, suddenly, almost on a whim, even though he hadn’t seen his boyfriend in nearly two months—and hadn’t warned him. In truth, it wasn’t that impulsive. It was more like the cherry tree. He was ready, that was all. So he moved, while Yuki had just frozen—it was his turn. His love needed him, and he was coming to play his part. The world, at the start of his second year of high school, felt more stable, less aggressive, and the fog much lighter.

Mafuyu had been following Yuki’s healing progress both from a distance and up close. From a distance, because he hadn’t visited him even once again at the hospital, nor at the rehab house, nor at home since Yuki had returned ten days ago. He hadn’t explicitly checked in, either—but he’d regularly sent his support and love through pictures of Kedama, street details, his high school, little touches of life’s beauty that struck him as he passed by, and videos of his progress with the red Gibson. Sometimes Uenoyama’s hands appeared in the frame, or his gruff voice, tinged with absolute tenderness. It was his way of telling Yuki what was happening, through the haze.
And up close, because he had gotten more answers through the Given’s guitarist than through Yuki’s texts. Uenoyama didn’t betray the secrets or struggles Yuki hadn’t shared himself, but to Mafuyu, he was an open book. And Uenoyama was going through a period of intense turmoil.

Uenoyama had just admitted he liked boys, which was already a lot to process. Mafuyu could practically see him sweating buckets over the now-conscious impact male bodies had on him during basketball—and he was enjoying it, a little at least. He’d joined the team. Basketball was great. Itaya and Ueki were good guys, solid companions, maybe even becoming friends. Plus, Mafuyu was pretty good at scoring; on the court, he entered another dimension. The space opened up, gave him room: he could breathe better and see everything, or almost. He darted, passed, received, scored. But, admittedly, the thrill of unsettling Uenoyama with glimpses of his sweaty abs or the tension in his thighs as he jumped weighed heavily in his sportive motivations.

And more importantly—probably Uenoyama’s biggest issue—he was in love. In love with Mafuyu, of that, Mafuyu was almost certain. Sometimes he doubted, and it stung a little. But when he had fallen asleep on his shoulder the other day at the studio, Mafuyu had found their hands entwined upon waking up. And when they played together, when his voice settled on the guitarist’s nimble notes, the smile in those blue eyes didn’t lie. It was pure love. When Uenoyama got frustrated with his beginner’s clumsiness, it was raw desire and deep frustration. Mafuyu heard it, Mafuyu answered. He worked harder, skipped steps, absorbed music like a dry sponge. He met him halfway, flirted, expressed his desire through looks, smiles, and notes. But discreetly. Well... Kaji-san had caught on, anyway.

Above all, Uenoyama wasn’t just in love with him. He had fallen for Yuki too, and Mafuyu was absolutely sure of it. He could literally see Yuki’s impact on the guitarist. Mannerisms Uenoyama picked up; the way his gaze now lingered on the world; how his notes expanded their horizons, defying stasis. He also noticed his absences. Uenoyama skipped school several times a week, and Mafuyu didn’t always find him napping. He saw the turmoil burning inside the guitarist, sometimes, when he showed up in the early afternoon; his laugh tinged with a hint of ash-blond—it tightened Mafuyu’s throat a little. What had they shared? Had they kissed? No, Yuki would have told him. And the crease on the forehead above the blue eyes when Uenoyama returned with worry—he never missed it.

Mafuyu grew anxious too, seeing that crease. He’d send a text—a slanted ray of sunlight, early spring flowers, three luminous chords. He’d wait for Yuki’s reply, trying to read behind the light words his boyfriend used to brush off his pain, whether the crisis was serious or fleeting. He resented the fog for keeping him from asking outright, still. Then the crease on Uenoyama’s beautiful forehead would fade with the next visit, and Mafuyu would breathe. Not this time. He wouldn’t lose Yuki this time, either. Was it just a “not yet”? Maybe that’s what fed the fog: his tenacious fear.

He met with Shizusumi regularly, and his friend told him the essentials. The rehab was going well. The idea of Yuki put to the test of total silence for a month and a half had made Mafuyu shudder. But the convalescent’s patience had paid off. The pain had subsided, he could make sounds without croaking, and finally, his first words. He wasn’t allowed to use his vocal cords for more than thirty minutes a day, in ten-minute segments, wasn’t allowed to sing, and absolutely forbidden to shout, but he was recovering. Slowly.

The high school had allowed Yuki to take partial exams at the end of first year, provided he caught up in the first trimester of second year and took the missed exams during summer break. Yuki had studied—with Uenoyama? Mafuyu would have sworn yes. But he didn’t know for sure—anyway his lover had earned the necessary points. He was starting his second year too, in Shizu’s and Hiiragi’s class. The administration had put the trio together—a prevention measure against relapse.

But then, on the Wednesday of the first week back, Yuki hadn’t shown up for class. Nor on Thursday. Or Friday. He hadn’t replied to his friends. Saeko-san, when contacted, reassured them about his physical health but said he didn’t seem ready. And Uenoyama had skipped Thursday AND Friday afternoons that first week. He had missed Given’s session, hadn’t found a minute for the stairwell. The crease on his handsome forehead, more pronounced since the last days of spring break, had deepened.

So, Mafuyu took the metro. It was his turn. Shizusumi had hinted he thought so too, but Mafuyu didn’t need that: he was sure. He wasn’t particularly worried—he even felt calm, and his heart exploded with joy at the thought of seeing Yuki. He wondered if he’d find Uenoyama there. He was ready to bet he would.

It was a ten-minute walk from the metro station to the house by the canal. He took out his phone, opened his conversation with Yuki, and typed:

"Don’t move. I’ll be there in ten minutes."

Three blinking dots appeared immediately, then disappeared. Reappeared. Disappeared again. He smiled, slipped the phone back into his pocket, and kept walking, face turned to the sky. Two minutes later, his pocket buzzed. He pulled out his phone. No need to unlock it: Yuki’s message appeared in full on the notification screen:

"I haven’t moved in two months, dumbass. Get your ass over here!"

The spring breeze lifted his chestnut locks. He let out a breathy laugh and inhaled deeply. Then he adjusted the straps of the guitar case on his back, gripped them tightly, and started running.

Chapter Text

Yuki's phone let out the familiar "dong" of a new message. Ritsuka watched him check the screen, start typing a reply with a smile, freeze for a second, resume typing, stop again, and finally look up at him.

They were in Yuki's bedroom. As usual, Ritsuka sat on the floor, his back against the bed—he definitely liked the grounding feeling of it. Yuki, on the other hand, was sprawled messily on the bed, one leg tucked under him, the other foot on the floor. The distance between them was too wide for real intimacy yet too close for formal propriety.

Ritsuka leaned his head back against the couch, turned his intense blue gaze to Yuki, and raised an eyebrow.

"It’s Mafuyu," Yuki said, smiling a mix of terror and wonder that he couldn’t quite suppress. "He says he’s coming. In ten minutes. He’s probably just leaving the metro station."

"Ah," Ritsuka replied.

So, it was happening. That inevitable moment when the various dimensions of their strange, three-person dynamic would collide. To be honest, he was surprised it hadn’t happened sooner. Also surprised by his own inner state: he felt calm, curious, only mildly anxious. And by Yuki’s apparent composure, which almost hid the fact that he was teetering on the edge of exploding from combined stress and joy.

"Should I tell him yes?" Yuki asked, indicating that he would consider the opinion of his current guest.

Ritsuka grinned, feral.

"It’s Mafuyu. Did you think you had a choice?"

Yuki laughed, resumed typing, and this time sent the message. Then he lowered his head to hide his emotions and picked up his guitar to regain some composure. Ritsuka watched him play for a few moments without looking away.

"What?" Yuki asked, more flustered than usual.

"You’re so anxious to see him it’s practically dripping off you," Ritsuka teased with a grimace. "It’s painful to watch."

"Look who’s talking," Yuki muttered.

"Mn," Ritsuka conceded, gently plucking three strings.

Then their voices overlapped. Yuki’s "Are you going to be okay?" collided with Ritsuka’s "Do you want me to leave?" They smiled without meeting each other’s eyes. Their responses overlapped again. "We have to face this someday," on Yuki’s lips; crashed into Ritsuka’s "I wanted to see him anyway. I haven’t seen his face since the day before school started."

Their gazes met, their smiles widened, and an electric spark passed between them. Ritsuka refocused on the strings and plucked a few more notes. Yuki quickly retuned his.

"It never stays in tune," he grumbled.

"Oh, big surprise. It’s the worst quality guitar ever."

"Let’s just pretend I didn’t hear that—just like I didn’t hear you admit that you’re madly in love with Mafuyu’s face and can’t go three days without seeing it."

"Perfect. That way, I didn’t what you said either. Nothing to address."

Yuki strummed a chord. Ritsuka stopped plucking aimlessly and checked his phone on the bed.

"You’ve got seven minutes left of your speaking time," he noted.

"Mn."

"I’ll add five extra minutes, just this once."

"Mn."

"Wanna play?"

"Mn."

They leaned into an arrangement for two guitars of a song Yuki was working on. But it only took five minutes, not ten, for the doorbell to ring downstairs. Yuki shivered but continued commenting on the last four bars, struggling with the tricky key change he couldn’t quite nail. Ritsuka straightened slightly but said nothing.

⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂

Ringing the doorbell was strange in itself. The day after Yuki’s failed attempt, Mafuyu was supposed to meet him at his house. That Sunday morning, Saeko-san would had left early for work. She wouldn’t have checked on her son, thinking he was still asleep. If things had gone as planned, Mafuyu would have rung the bell—he always did—then used his key when Yuki didn’t answer. Of course, he had a key. He would have climbed the stairs, picturing Yuki in bed, buried under blankets or half-naked, sprawled out. He would have found him hanging, bottles of alcohol scattered on the floor, his guitar abandoned in a corner.

The image no longer required a mental fog to cope, but Mafuyu still shivered. Yes, ringing the doorbell felt strange.

Saeko-san opened the door, exclaimed in surprise, and greeted him with her usual warmth, a hand on his arm to show her affection. She had known him so long that he was like a second son to her. While she didn’t name it directly, out of modesty, his love for Yuki was a known fact—and she supported them. Mafuyu glanced at the living room frame: a beautiful, classic calligraphy of the kanji for “Love” and “Freedom” that Saeko-san had hung to quietly show her support for her son. It warmed his heart. He smiled.

"You look well, Mafu-chan. That’s good to see. Now, get upstairs! He’s been waiting for you. You’ll update me about your mom later, right? Staying for dinner? Yes? And overnight? Perfect. Go on. I’ll set up the futon for later. Off you go!"

He went. As he climbed the stairs, his steps steady with the certainty of finding Yuki alive at the top, he heard the guitars. Quiet, but there were two. They paused for brief exchanges, then resumed. He pressed his forehead to the door for a moment before opening it, listening to the strings and voices. Warmth spread through his body, heating his cheeks and tingling down to his hands. His cheekbones must have been flushed, his eyes bright, because when he opened the door, the notes stopped and both guitarists inhaled sharply as if to greet him, but were left out of words. Then they bit their lips. Mafuyu melted with love, gave them his most innocent smile, and said:

"Uenoyama-kun."

Ritsuka closed his eyes and proceeded to internally combust on the spot. Mafuyu loved seeing it happen: feeling his impact on him, imagining that one day it would end with an embrace Ritsuka couldn’t resist. Being the one Ritsuka couldn’t refuse. He tilted his head. The blue eyes reopened, locked onto him, and with the rough gentleness only Ritsuka could muster, he replied:

"Hey, newbie."

Yuki looked from one to the other, opened his mouth, closed it, smiled. Mafuyu set his guitar against the wall by the door, took off his spring jacket and sweater, and rolled up his shirt sleeves. Four eyes drank in his every move. Almost surprised by the solidity of the floor beneath him, he walked around the low table, knelt at Yuki’s feet, rested his head and arm on his thigh as if it were the most natural gesture in the world, something he could do even with Ritsuka watching. Then, feeling the real warmth of the boy he loved, he closed his eyes and said simply:

"Yuki."

Then:

"Tadaima."

Yuki swallowed hard, ran a hand through Mafuyu’s chestnut hair, and welcomed him.

"Okaeri, Mafuyu."

An angel must have passed, because silence fell. Yuki’s hand continued stroking Mafuyu’s light brown hair as he looked up and caught Ritsuka’s eyes.

"So, Rika-chan, I wasn’t expecting this. Two months of you two being glued together, playing in the same band, and you couldn’t got him to drop the honorifics?"

Mafuyu laughed softly, leaning against Yuki’s thigh. He opened his eyes and sat up slightly, glancing at Ritsuka.

"He likes it when I call him that, you know."

Ritsuka had to close his eyes to calm the hammering of his heart. Yuki laughed.

"I believe you. If you called him Ritsuka, he’d probably self-combust."

Mafuyu smiled, and silence reclaimed the room for a moment. Ritsuka took the opportunity to reopen his eyes and study the pair. Without fully resting his head on Yuki’s thigh again, Mafuyu let his chin rest on his arm, still draped over Yuki’s leg. Then, looking up at him from beneath his lashes, Mafuyu launched a direct attack:

"Tell me, Yuki… how did it feel when I left for that private school, with grades you couldn’t get, leaving you behind?"

Ritsuka winced. Mafuyu was out of the fog now, and to face an out-of-the-fog-Mafuyu, one needed guts to keep up. The alarm on Yuki’s phone rang, marking the end of his extended speaking time. Yuki’s gaze on his boyfriend was so intense Ritsuka wondered if it could shut the shrieking sound up. Since it didn’t, he reached over and silenced the phone. Yuki took three deep breaths, leaned down, slid an arm behind Mafuyu, and pulled him close. Half-lifting him, Yuki kissed him passionately. The hand resting on his thigh slid up to his shirt collar, brushing the skin there.

Their abandon was outrageous, indecent even. Ritsuka could sense withheld tears—or maybe not withheld at all—and smiles in that kiss. Inside him, a battle raged. The thought of being in Yuki’s place to kiss Mafuyu fought with the thought of being in Mafuyu’s place to kiss Yuki, while the urge to protect the necessity of their love and never look away tried to strangle the first two impulses. Giving up on appearances, he buried his head in his elbow, resting it on the mattress.

"At least wait until you’re alone," he muttered. "Some of us are starving here."

The couple broke apart. Yuki opened his mouth to retort, but Ritsuka’s piercing blue eyes shot over the top of his arm, and a pointed finger jabbed toward the phone.

"Speak, and I’ll make friendship bracelets out of your crappy guitar strings, Yuki."

Mafuyu bit his lip to stifle a laugh, but a giggle escaped as he ducked his head. Yuki leaned back with a heavy sigh but obeyed his friend’s silent command. Picking up his phone, he began typing while Mafuyu, dreamily, commented:

"Who would’ve thought you could be so obedient? Does Hiiragi know?"

Yuki shot him a dark look and handed him the screen:

"It hurt, and it took me a long time to even realize it. I pushed you further away, and I don’t know why. Maybe to make sure I could really feel it? When all I wanted was to scream for you to come back to me."

Mafuyu nodded slowly.

"I know. I hurt too. So much. The distance… watching your back as you walked away… the guitars without me. It pierced me, glued me to the ground. I only recently understood that it was just a mirror of what you were going through, and I hadn’t seen it. I wasn’t there… Yuki…"

"I wasn’t there either, sweetheart," Yuki typed.

"Mn," Mafuyu murmured, a small smile flickering at the sweetness of the endearment.

He inhaled deeply, hesitated, and Ritsuka shifted slightly, ready to shield Yuki from the next arrow. Alas, he didn’t possess any Mafuyu-proof defense to offer. He doubted they could be invented. Mafuyu raised a tentative hand toward Yuki’s neck but stopped short, unsure.

"May I?" he asked softly.

Ritsuka relaxed. Mafuyu could be uniquely gentle, and he knew it. The electricity coursing through his own nerves at the thought was almost unbearable. Yuki nodded, took Mafuyu’s suspended wrist, and guided it to his neck. Mafuyu’s fingers settled tenderly on the spot where the rope had left its hideous mark for weeks. The skin showed no signs anymore, but everyone in the room knew that inside, the trachea, larynx, and vocal cords were still healing. Mafuyu’s words came out in a rush:

"And when the rope tightened, Yuki, did it hurt? Were you afraid?"

Ritsuka clenched his fists, his face contorting with anger, compassion, and gratitude all at once. A moment ago, he’d thought Mafuyu might spare Yuki, but he’d only been holding back. Now the arrow struck Yuki straight in the heart. It was a question no one else had dared to ask—not even Yuki’s therapist, at least not this bluntly. Yuki searched Mafuyu’s hazel eyes for a long time before picking up his phone and typing. Before showing the screen, he leaned in, kissed Mafuyu’s forehead, and intertwined their finger.

"I was terrified. There are no words. Suddenly, I wasn’t drunk anymore. I didn’t understand how I’d ended up there, but I was fighting for my life. The pressure was enormous. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t scream. I tried, but it was useless. I was alone, facing death. At home. Alone. It wasn’t possible! I couldn’t die—not now! Not when I hadn’t sung with you, not even once. I didn’t want to, but the rope… every movement made it tighter. The pain was unbearable. And then… nothing. I woke up in the hospital."

Mafuyu handed back the phone, then sat back on his heels. He gave him a look Yuki knew so well, the kind that tried to convey words through his eyes when his lips couldn’t manage them. His hazel eyes glistened with tears, and his lips trembled, but no sound came.

“Mafuyu…”

Mafuyu smiled through the curtain of tears, and Ritsuka didn’t protest the name spoken aloud. Yuki had said it so softly it was barely audible.

“It took me a while,” Mafuyu said with an apologetic smile, “but I needed to stabilize the world around me. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but… music helps, you know?”

“Idiot,” Yuki mumbled, his voice catching on a hiccup.

He leaned forward, and Mafuyu barely had time to straighten up before Yuki’s head hit his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around him as Yuki began to cry, the tears finally breaking free in heavy sobs that shook his frame and left his breathing ragged.

Ritsuka had moved abruptly for a second, doubting that Mafuyu could support Yuki’s weight. But the boy managed, the situation settled ; he set his hand back on the bed, unsure of exactly where he fit in this scene. With his damp cheek resting on Yuki’s ash-gray hair, one arm steadying the boy whose emotional dam had finally burst, Mafuyu cast a smile and a look toward Given’s guitarist. He placed his hand next to Ritsuka’s on the bed, his pinky brushing against the other’s thumb but not quite touching, as if to say, “Stay with me. Stay with us.” Then he turned his attention back to Yuki. Ritsuka nodded, relaxed, and watched them quietly. He was far more moved than he cared to admit.

“You two, honestly,” he murmured.

It was both a declaration of love and exasperation.

When Yuki finally calmed down and pulled away from Mafuyu, Ritsuka handed him a tissue.

“Sorry,” Yuki murmured, wiping his eyes with his shirt sleeve far more than with the tissue.

“So much for restraint and decorum,” Ritsuka quipped dryly. “That needed to come out ages ago. Here, take another one and blow your nose. I’ll make some tea.”

He stood up.

Then, with the voice of an angel who had just tumbled down from the heavens, Mafuyu declared without a shred of hesitation:

“Yuki… I want to make love to you. Now.”

Ritsuka felt as though he’d been punched square in the chest. He froze mid-step toward the door, turned halfway around, his face crimson, and exclaimed, emphasizing each syllable:

“MAFUYU!!”

Mafuyu, biting his lip without the slightest hint of repentance, watched him with calm defiance. Ritsuka buried his face in both hands.

“Correction: I’m making you tea, bringing it up here, and then I’m leaving. Meanwhile STAY CLOTHED, you idiots! I am absolutely not ready to witness… anything.”

He shut the door on the sound of Yuki’s laughter, which was quickly stifled—a decision Ritsuka approved. Vocal cords first. He descended the stairs, his legs slightly shaky, exasperated, hopelessly in love, and utterly tangled up inside. Steadying himself, he focused on preparing tea, exchanging a few words with Saeko-san, who was an utterly adorable mother.

Fifteen minutes later, he left the house with his guitar slung over his back, wiping sweat from his forehead and trying not to think about what might be now happening in Yuki’s bedroom.

Chapter Text

The door slammed once behind Ritsuka, and then, a minute later, behind Saeko, leaving on an errand. Yuki watched his mother walk down the canal, then turned his gaze back to the steaming teapot. His tray was neatly set on the coffee table, two delicate cups from the family set. Mafuyu followed his gaze, sitting on the floor with an elbow on the bed, trying to guess what Yuki could possibly find so special about the teapot. The similarity to Ritsuka’s usual lounging position, minus the distance, unsettled Yuki—a warmth in his lower back he didn’t quite know how to handle, though he was certain it belonged there. He grabbed his phone.

“I wouldn’t have imagined Ritsuka being a tea guy,” he typed, thoughtfully, before handing the phone to Mafuyu.

Mafuyu looked at the screen, then the table, his eyes wide open filled with that unique mix of confusion and genuine curiosity—no judgment, just the puzzled interest that only he could express so plainly. He nodded gravely.

“Same here, not since I’ve known him. He’s usually more of a canned iced coffee kind of guy.”

“I thought so,” Yuki tapped out, his fingers confirming it. “Want some tea?”

A silence.

“… No?”

Yuki smiled.

“Me neither.”

The sheer presence of Mafuyu was disorienting. He had changed—like a reconfiguration, slight but noticeable, or a solidifying, but without destroying the tenderness, quite the opposite. Yuki realized he had doubted his return more than he had thought. He had feared that this warm hand would never settle on his again.
That uncertainty, that fragility... he wasn’t used to it. Normally, in their relationship, he was the confident one. He steadied the world for Mafuyu, cleared the fog, allowed his smile to bloom, and loved him. Now, it felt as though Mafuyu was holding him up. He wanted to pull him close, bare himself, burn from the touch of his skin, feel his pliant body arch beneath him. Another person probably wanted that too: a blue-eyed boy, somewhere on a subway, guitar slung across his back. ll of this gently bubbled in his reality

“If we invite him to see the fireworks, do you think he’d wear a yukata?” the phone asked in place of Yuki’s voice.

Mafuyu glanced at him, knowingly.

“Maybe?”

He was killing him. But no, Yuki decided. Ritsuka would show up in jeans and a black tee. He’d melt with adoration at the sight of Mafuyu in the yukata Hiiragi would lend him (because, of course, he’d forget to find one— it always ended like that), and would burn on the spot at the sight of Yuki's. For Yuki had one. In fact, he could even wear his father’s kimono now. His parents had mixed classical culture with modernity. Despite their modest life since his father passed, his mother encouraged him to carry on in the same direction.

Yuki tugged Mafuyu by the arm, urging him to climb onto the bed. He wanted to kiss him again, hold him tighter. See if the sex plan was still on. Mafuyu’s desire fluctuated easily: his genuine enthusiasm from earlier might already be gone. And there were questions Yuki needed to ask before. Communicating via phone, at that moment, felt incredibly frustrating. His hands were focused on a screen while Mafuyu sat right there, only inches away, after weeks apart. It felt cruel.

“Do you really still call him by his last name?” Yuki typed on the screen.

“Uenoyama?” Mafuyu checked, surprised. “Yeah. Why? I haven’t known him that long, and we’re not exactly close.”

Out of love, Yuki closed his eyes for a brief moment. Mafuyu was definitely one of those people whose rhythm didn’t sync with the rest of the world. That off-beat tempo, strangely, made the room brighter: Yuki shuddered. He couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for Ritsuka, who would probably be dancing on hot coals for a while. Those two saw each other every day, shared meals, rehearsals, and homework. Mafuyu flirted shamelessly—Yuki had seen it happen just moments ago—Ritsuka was composing him a song, their hands brushed, but “I haven’t known him that long, and we’re not exactly close”—right.

He leaned in, resting his head on Mafuyu’s shoulder, pulling him into an embrace, inhaling his scent. He’d missed it. Mafuyu eagerly responded, holding him back, burying his face in the ash-blond hair. The warmth of his hands through his clothes—Yuki wanted it on his bare skin.

“You like him, huh?” he murmured, allowing himself a few words.

“Mn,” Mafuyu confirmed.

“How?”

“Romantically, I think.”

Yuki smiled against his shoulder. That unfiltered honesty—always—disarmed him. The idea of Mafuyu in Ritsuka’s arms burned Yuki’s lower back—with desire and fear. But faced with such sincerity, such certainty: how could he be jealous?

“Mn,” he replied quietly.

“And you? You like him too.”

It was as much an affirmation as a question. Without sitting up, Yuki opened his mouth, but Mafuyu pressed a finger to his lips, then tilted his head to kiss them before pointing the phone toward Yuki’s lap. With a frustrated sigh and a glance at the device, Yuki obeyed.

"Yeah. I can talk to him. Behind his furrowed brows, he's someone I find deeply kind. Gentle. Patient. Caring. Protective... He built a bridge between our worlds. And his guitar skills... when I play with him, I get chills."

"And his eyes... he's cute too, right? And so adorably gay."

Yuki gently bit the shoulder within reach.

"You’ve had a big impact on him too," Mafuyu said, playing with the ash-blond hair. "I’ve felt you pop in his music. Like notes straight from you, but shaped by his fingers. He was cool before... now he’s... extra cool."

"I’m happy," Yuki typed.

"Me too. I’m glad he took care of you when I couldn’t."

"Mafuyu…"

"What?"

"Nothing."

Yuki wished he could tell him that the beauty of his heart made his own beat harder than ever, but there was no space for that on his phone screen. He wanted to say it with his voice. Later. Instead, he took the boy’s hand, kissed the tips of his fingers.

"What do we do now?" he typed again.

"I don’t know," Mafuyu answered. "Love?"

Yuki laughed, sat up, typed:

"Do you still want it?"

"Mm," Mafuyu confirmed, nodding seriously.

"Want it how?"

"What do you mean, how?" Mafuyu asked, puzzled, looking up after reading the message.

"You’ve changed, Mafuyu," Yuki typed quickly. "Do you... want to switch our usual roles?"

Mafuyu pouted, tilted his head, and gave him a pleading look.

"… No? Does it bother you? You wanted to receive, for once?"

Yuki lowered his head, trying to hide his growing arousal. It was already happening.

"No, I’d rather take you," he murmured under his breath. "You love it to a guilty extent."

Then he picked up his phone again.

"Prep? Do you want me to prepare you? Here? In the shower? Or do it yourself?"

Mafuyu shook his head.

"I'll do it. In the shower, yes, that's good. But please, come with me…"

He bit his lips but added without blinking:

"...it's always better when you make me come once, before. And even if you shouldn’t use your mouth, we can…"

The beast in Yuki's roared. He tipped Mafuyu onto the bed, reveled in his burst of laughter, kissed him fiercely, pressing his erection against him. Mafuyu met him naturally, wrapping one leg around him, pressing back. Yuki relaxed his muscles, rolled to the side, grabbed his phone.

"No oral, but I know how to use my hands," he threatened before kissing him again. "You're so shameless...!!! Come on!"

He got up, pulled Mafuyu through the hallway to the bathroom. The sound of the boy's laughter fell directly into his pelvis: since when did Mafuyu laugh, and so lightly?

Once naked under the hot water, Mafuyu became tender. Wet locks, water beads on the tips of his eyelashes, he looked up to meet the gray eyes.

"Yuki... let me kiss your neck?"

Yuki nodded, more moved than he could say. His hands wandering over his lover's naked skin under the flowing water, he let the beloved lips remove the last phantom mark of the rope with small tender kisses and licks. When Mafuyu had placed his last kiss, under the left ear, he took his lips, mingling their tongues when they opened. Then he made him turn halfway, like a dancer, pressed him against his stomach, one hand below the navel.

Mafuyu's skin burned him more than the water, and his sex hardened when it met his cheeks. He whispered "now, let me", delighted in both the desire and embarrassment he provoked in the hazel eyes, kissed him again. His free hand gently seized his lover's sex and he made him come like this, standing, pressed against him, legs trembling, devouring the beloved body with all his eyes and drinking his moans from his mouth. Mafuyu didn't last two minutes. He turned his head away when the spasm of pleasure hit him. Yuki kissed his nape.

"You were dying for it," he noted, tenderly.

"I love you," Mafuyu whispered.

Yuki was rinsing him off.

"Prep yourself. I'll be in the bedroom."

Yuki put on some lounge pants. While Mafuyu finished his shower, he took out condoms, lube, a towel, biting his lips with impatience, while his thoughts wandered to what his boyfriend was currently doing. He checked the expiration date on the condoms, breathed a sigh of relief when he saw they were still good, placed two of them within reach.

The door opened to reveal Mafuyu in a bathrobe, wet hair dropping water onto his shoulders, cheeks flushed, desirable enough to make Yuki tremble. One of the robe's sleeves was falling, revealing his shoulder, the line of his collarbone. Yuki came close, embraced him, kissed that shoulder, moved up to the neck, brushed the ear, took the lips.

"I can't wait," Mafuyu pleaded, his voice shaky.

"So demanding," Yuki whispered.

He led him to the bed, sat down, drew him onto his lap, then proceeded to untie the robe, exposing the shoulders, the waist... Mafuyu's body was a miracle. Its softness under his hands, the tension of the nipples and the reddening of his cheeks: Yuki wanted to never stop touching him.

"Yuki..." Mafuyu murmured, hiding his face.

With a smile, Yuki moved his hands away, kissed him.

"Come."

He lay on his back; Mafuyu followed the movement and found himself sitting on his lower stomach, shy and obscene at the same time. Yuki had to close his eyes for a moment to control himself. The two boys had made love several times over the past year - not that often. Without really thinking about it, Mafuyu had always been underneath him, quiet, almost subdued in the expression of his pleasure. Today, the look he was giving him was confident; he was blushing, but playing, provoking. Yuki didn't know how much he had desired this.

"I want to see you," he whispered.

It was the first time Mafuyu's nudity was displayed like this before his eyes. He was shivering from head to toe.

"You okay?"

Mafuyu nodded with a "mn" as affirmation. Yuki smiled at him, lifted him with a hip movement, removed his pants. The heat of Mafuyu's thighs on his! He grabbed a condom, put it on.

"Lube," he announced, handing him the bottle.

"Mn."

Two minutes later, Mafuyu handed it back, his cheeks hotter than ever.

"Ready."

"Then... come. Come on me. At least at the beginning. Show me your rhythm."

Mafuyu couldn't take his eyes off him. Slowly, he raised himself, arching his back, one hand entwined with Yuki's, the other guiding his slick member. He closed his eyes as he impaled himself on his lover, adjusting his rhythm to his sensations. Yuki drank in his expressions, fascinated by the fleeting discomfort, the waves of heat as endorphins took effect, and the pleasure that overtook him.

"You really love this, don’t you," he said softly, his voice husky with desire.

Mafuyu opened his eyes slightly, divinely indecent, threw him a golden glance, and put a finger to his lips.

"Shhhhh. You talk too much."

Then he tilted his head back, and still holding onto him with one hand, supporting himself with the other placed behind him, he entered a bubble of pleasure. His thighs contracted and he began to move up and down. The silence was only broken by his soft sighs. Yuki made a violent effort not to come immediately. He let go of the hand holding his for a moment, grabbed the lubricant left aside on the bed, and started to caress his lover's member with one hand, intertwining their fingers again with the other. Mafuyu moaned louder. Yuki bit his lips - he wasn't going to last. With a hand on his chest, he stopped him, panting.

"Mafuyu... Ah! Stop. You're too... you’re just too much. Ah! I can't…"

He breathed. Again, the golden gaze fell upon him. Yuki was exploding with love. He propped himself up on an elbow, pulled Mafuyu to him, kissed him senseless. The boy moaned into his mouth, resumed his rocking. He was driving him crazy.

A few notes sprang into his brain, notes of love and lust. He would turn them into chords tomorrow. He clung to them, let them mingle with their embrace. More in control like that, he began to move his hips in rhythm. Mafuyu, surprised, squeezed his hand harder and held back a cry. Yuki was dying to hear that cry. A smile revealed his canines, and his hips lunged forward again.

He freed his hand, grabbed a waist, the top of an ass cheek, set the rhythm. His other hand still on his lover's member, he was rediscovering, amazed, the incredible sensation of orchestrating Mafuyu's pleasure, but a thousand times amplified. His hips rose higher, faster. Finally, Mafuyu let his pleasure escape his throat loudly. He bent over, bringing his forehead against Yuki's neck.

"I can't anymore," he whispered. "Take me."

His legs were trembling. Yuki smiled harder, wild. With a thrust of his hips, he turned them around. Now on top of Mafuyu, he slid his arms under his body and held him tight. His mouth against his ear, he whispered:

"I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you! I want to sing with you. And hear you cry out in pleasure again."

Then he knelt, lifted a leg which he supported with one arm; with the other hand, he gripped Mafuyu’s waist and plunged without restraint into his lover's tender depths. Mafuyu arched and cried out again. Yuki was crazy about him. He took him without mercy, intoxicated by the body into which he was diving, by the sounds of pleasure he was causing, by the sweat that glistened on the beloved skin. Orgasm was upon him in no time.

Panting, he lay with all his weight on Mafuyu's stomach and kissed him. His lover's member was still hard, and he shivered with anticipation, half in his bubble, half present, begging for more kisses and sensations. Yuki withdrew, rolled to the side, removed the condom, tied it off, and set out to make him come with his hand, all while holding him close. As he led him to pleasure, he whispered in his ear all the words of love he had held back for two months. Mafuyu arched again as he reached orgasm. When he fell back, Yuki pulled him close and kissed him like never before.

When their lips parted, he realized that Mafuyu was crying.

"Mafuyu?" he whispered, a little worried. "Talk to me. Did I hurt you?"

It took Mafuyu two minutes to find his voice back. He wiped his eyes, pulled Yuki into another kiss, and explained, his voice cracked with emotion:

"Not hurt… Yuki… too much love… too much joy... and…"

He trailed off, unable to find the words. Yuki pulled him in, holding him tightly, trembling. He had come so close to never feeling that burning skin against his own again. They fell asleep in each other’s arms, not bothering to clean up more than a quick towel wipe.

Much later, after they had gotten up, showered, and had dinner, in the middle of the night, Yuki opened one eye. Mafuyu wasn’t asleep either. Lying on his back, his nose pressed between Yuki’s shoulder blades, a leg draped over his, their bodies separated only by a modest layer of cotton pajamas, Mafuyu murmured.

"Yuki…"

"Mafuyu," Yuki whispered.

"You know... if going to school paralyzes you... don’t go."

"Huh?"

"But don’t stay locked up at home."

"Mafuyu…"

"The world needs your light, Yuki!"

He had put passion into his voice. Yuki shuddered. Again, that overwhelming urge to cry... Mafuyu went on.

"There are other paths. Other musics to create. You’ve never liked studying anyway…"

Yuki squeezed his hand.

"I like Japanese, and foreign languages," he murmured. "History and geography too."

"Freak," Mafuyu whispered with a smile – for he was all about the sciences.

"And basketball."

"Uenoyama is good at basketball."

The answer had come out quickly. Mafuyu stiffened a little, but Yuki laughed, tender, so he relaxed and added.

"And I'm not bad either. I started, you know…"

"Ah," Yuki whispered. "I’d like to play with you guys."

"I’d like that too."

"And music too."

"Mm. I want to sing for you," Mafuyu said, more serious than ever.

Yuki shivered. There was a pause. The two boys were falling back asleep.

"... Or skip classes," Mafuyu resumed slowly, fighting sleep, "You passed your exams without being there... Uenoyama usually skips one or two afternoons every week... sometimes even mornings, and he’s fine…"

"I know," Yuki smiled. "He was there."

"I thought so."

Yuki let out a small laugh.

"I’m jealous," Mafuyu said, almost asleep.

"Really?"

"No." He yawned. "But…"

"You’re already asleep. But what?"

Another yawn came from behind him.

"I want two tops."

Yuki’s eyes widened in the dark. He carefully pulled away, turned, propped himself up on an elbow. Mafuyu had fallen asleep. In the light coming from the street, Yuki watched his angelic face, the strands of hair sweeping over his closed eyes, his slow, steady breath. He kissed his forehead.

"Of course," he whispered. "You want two tops."

And what did he want? In the heart of the night, thinking about the moments he’d shared with Ritsuka –stolen from school obligations, felt strangely comforting. Imagining him intimate with Mafuyu made him shiver, even more so now that Mafuyu’s was in his arms than if he’d thought about it alone. Still, what exactly did he want? He didn’t know. Mafuyu’s eyes barely opened.

"He’ll top you too," he said, as if reading the future.

Yuki laughed. Ritsuka, topping him? He lay back, stretched, suddenly relaxed, his worries fading away.

"Maybe," he replied. "Sometimes."

Mafuyu didn’t hear it: this time, sleep had truly taken him. Yuki entwined his hand with Mafuyu’s and let himself drift off without fear: he trusted Mafuyu’s presence to protect him from nightmares.

Chapter Text

The following Monday, Yuki showed up at school. By Thursday afternoon, he skipped class for the first time—the ocean was calling him louder. After that, time seemed to speed up.

Sometimes, a second guitarist's footprints joined Yuki's in the sand along the shore. He had blue eyes and a rebellious fringe. They would reimagine the world together, facing the sea, or hang out in Syh’s studio to work on chord progressions when no one else was around. They’d sneak into union meetings, the setting up of tiny art gallery events, or protests organization. Sometimes, a third guitarist would join them along the water. It was different with him. His hazel eyes seemed to absorb the very essence of the ocean, pouring it back into his smile, his voice. Ritsuka would lower his eyelids, but Yuki would devour him with his eyes—and later, when they were alone in the evening, with his lips.

The first month passed so quickly it made Yuki dizzy. Some things were sweet, others bitter. Sweet, the feeling of distancing from the abyss: the darkness still came and went, but it no longer felt so overwhelming. Sweet, the musical lines that emerged from his conversations with Ritsuka. Sweet, Mafuyu’s skin, his pleasure, which now showed more freely. Sweet too, his laughter, more frequent.

But bitter was his own voice, still so fragile, only allowing him to speak for half an hour twice a day, without any vocalization. Bitter was the fatigue that fell upon him. Months spent in limbo, running faster than his shadow, trying to escape it, now catching up with him. He was sleeping eight hours a night, dozing off in class, and exhaustion would claim him by 6 PM. There was no way he could take a part-time job in this state. Yet, he longed for it: he needed a new guitar. The red Gibson reminded him too much of the sensation of the rope around his neck. Like the memory, it strangled him. Plus, it was perfect for Mafuyu’s hands: it brought out the shy boy’s sparkle, highlighted him, echoing that voice no one expected. And it was almost like his lover was touching him through it, every time his fingers rested on the polished wood. He had his eye on the “Blue Sparkle” Fender Stratocaster. Probably influenced by some blue eyes, he was drawn to the more direct attack of a solid-body guitar—sharper, maybe, but clearer and more powerful too. He’d tried it: not only did it sound amazing, but the idea of teasing Ritsuka with a flashier Fender than his custom one was terribly tempting. But that would have to wait.

And in the midst of all this, there were bittersweet moments, or sweet bitterness. First and foremost, his band: Syh was alive. Hiiragi was exploding with vocals and composition. Yuki would return one day, Syh was waiting for him, eagerly, but then, he’d need to find his place, a new one, a different one. Yuki had wanted to handle the guitar at least, but his fatigue didn’t allow him to be consistent. Another high school student had stepped in to play support. Yuki had dreamed of bringing Ritsuka into that spot, but he didn’t dare suggest it. It was probably too much, given the current mess of their trio.

Because the second bittersweet thing was this: while time for him had started to race, it wasn’t the same for Mafuyu and Ritsuka. The two of them circled each other, challenged each other, created together, fought, pulled away. Then, they’d draw closer again—just a little more than before, but still not close enough. They sniffed each other like a newly united puppy and kitten in the same house, slowly taming each other—but the kitten, aka Uenoyama, often bristled. Apparently, being a gay cat wasn’t an identity you could just take on in a few weeks. A gay cat in love with two men, even less so. As for Mafuyu, “untangling a situation quickly” had never been an option. They were preparing for their first concert, scheduled for the second week of July. All their energy was focused on that date. Yuki watched them, torn between the urge to not make things more complicated, and the wild desire to flirt with Ritsuka, even push him into Mafuyu’s arms, which he sometimes gave in to.

Bittersweet was also his discovery of Given. Two weeks after his return, he went to their practice. The drummer, more pierced than him, greeted his appearance with a raised eyebrow and a:

“Ah! Yoshida-kun! Glad to see you standing with a guitar on your back! Way better than last time…”

Yuki bowed deeply and apologized profusely until Mafuyu’s hand slipped into his and pulled him into the room, while Ritsuka interrupted with a “Alright! We get it! Grab your guitar so we can tune up,” grumbling.

He listened to them a lot, played auxiliary guitars a bit on two songs he knew—Ritsuka had worked on them with him. Mafuyu amazed him. In three months, his progress was mind-blowing; all his senses alert, he drank in the words of the three seniors in the band, especially the pierced guy’s. Yuki understood: the guy who had pulled him away from death had a fascinating musical culture. The newbie soaked it all in, earning just as many affectionate looks as playful teasing: he took everything and nodded seriously, his gaze angelic. But when he sang, Given changed. Even though he only hummed without lyrics because he hadn’t manage to write them until now – which had Ritsuka freak out, Yuki knew. The drums got finer, the bass more precise, the guitar sharper, and Yuki felt it just as much as the others. Newbie, maybe, but with his voice, Mafuyu had them all in the palm of his hand. It created bubbles of happiness in Yuki’s ears and acid in his stomach.

At the end of rehearsal, the drummer, Kaji-san, cornered him alone for a few minutes while the others were already leaving, under the pretense of helping him clean up. Two hours of shared music had made Yuki realize that beneath his brusque exterior, the man was sensitive, deeply caring, had an eye for details, and was probably gay or bi.

“Yuki-chan,” he said, handing him a cable reel, “It’s already a mess between Uecci and Mafuyu at our place…”

As Yuki was coiling the cable, he began putting the amps away.

“… Try not to make it worse, please. Not yet, anyway.”

Yuki winced. After finishing with the cables, he lined them up against the wall, stood up, and gave the drummer a bright smile.

“Not even a little bit?”

“Show-off,” Kaji grumbled—but he was smiling.

Yuki smiled back, bit his lip, grabbed a broom, and began sweeping the room.

“You were already a show-off that night, when you came looking for ramen at the convenience store where I work.”

Yuki stopped mid-sweep, suddenly serious. He swallowed.

“I’m sorry, I don’t really remember,” he said softly, looking down.

He shook his ash-blond bangs and resumed sweeping a little more slowly. Kaji, leaning against the wall, watched him carefully. Finally, he sighed and added:

“Sometimes it’s better not to remember. Thank yourself too, Yuki-chan. I thought you were a lovesick kid, a bit cocky, pretty lost. You know how to fake it, huh? I wouldn’t have reacted if you hadn’t sung. But the way you sang, the melody you carried, I don’t know… There was pain in it. And you forgot your guitar. Even drunk, I never forget my violin. That’s what saved you.”

Yuki looked up at him, surprised. Then his eyes lit up.

“Thank you, Kaji-san.”

“And that song you wanted to write for Mafuyu, I get it now... where are you with it?”

The broom resumed. Kaji rummaged through a cabinet looking for the dustpan.

“Not written yet,” Yuki admitted.

“Then get on it, will you?” Kaji replied, handing him the dustpan. “Write your song, add the ramen, the rope, and the fact that you’re not singing anymore. Here, take the trash! By the time you finish your composition and the lyrics, we might just have Uenoyama back on solid ground.”

After that, he joined them occasionally, but mostly at the end of the evening, about ten minutes before their rehearsal ended. Then he’d catch Ritsuka for a meeting, Mafuyu for some alone time, or both of them to go eat with Hiiragi and Shizusumi. Those dinners were legendary. Ritsuka and Hiiragi were as drawn to each other as they were repelling. Mafuyu gently stirred things up, Shizusumi kept score. Yuki, now allowed several hours of speech per day, sometimes feared the intensity of the happiness in those moments.

By mid-May, he slowly began his vocal rehabilitation. He cried for a long time after his first session. And when Mafuyu, who came to sleep over, did the exercise with him, their voices intertwining, he couldn’t finish. He trembled in Mafuyu’s arms in silence for five long minutes as Mafuyu gently rocked him, stroking his ash-blond hair.

“Write me a song,” Mafuyu whispered when Yuki emerged. “Hiiragi said you’ve thought about it.”

“I’m on it,” Yuki said, sitting up.

“Then put two voices in it. I want to sing with you—even if it’s in six months, or even a year.”

Yuki kissed him, feeling like he was overflowing with love.

At the end of May the basketball club he had joined at school ended up at the spring tournament with Mafuyu and Ritsuka’s highschool. Despite his nonchalance, Ritsuka was serious on the court and played as a starter player. Mafuyu started on the bench, but his shooting talent earned him a lot of playtime. Yuki felt fire in his veins as the match ended. The feeling of Ritsuka’s skin when they clashed in the middle of the game... Mafuyu’s laughter when, spirits lifted by his friends’ support, he sneaked in and scored!

After the match, Yuki pinned him against a wall in an empty restroom and devoured his lips, a knee pressed against his crotch. Ritsuka found them, pulled them apart with an exasperated “Oy,” grabbing them by the collars of their jerseys, but Yuki smiled fiercely, confident: Ritsuka had taken three seconds too long to intervene. And in front of Mafuyu’s seductive and not-so-remorseful pout, Ritsuka’s blue eyes seemed ready to ignite.
Before leaving the restroom, leaving him with his teammate, Yuki grabbed Ritsuka’s bare arm for a moment, pressed his hand on the guitarist’s abs, feeling—with pleasure—his breath catch at the gesture, and whispered in his ear: “You’re on fire on the court, Rika.”
Yuki’s school lost the match, but it didn’t matter. He hadn’t felt so alive in a long time. He stayed to watch all of Ritsuka and Mafuyu’s games from the balcony that day, and came back the following weekend to watch again, until they lost in the semifinals.

By the end of June, two weeks before Given’s concert, Ritsuka seemed more nervous than ever. Mafuyu still hadn’t written the lyrics for the opening song—the whole band was on edge, but Ritsuka more than anyone. Once again, the guy with the red Gibson had disappeared out of time into his own world: from there, Mafuyu couldn’t feel the frenzy of the guitarist, his doubts so overwhelming that Yuki’s heart ached just watching him. The two high schoolers seemed to drift apart for a while— only to find each other again when Mafuyu would step out of his bubble, Yuki hoped.

He knew he was probably the least qualified to ease the situation, but he still wanted to support Ritsuka. And the blue-eyed guitarist, although he had distanced himself a bit these past weeks, couldn’t help but visit him regularly. One Monday afternoon, when they skipped school to play in Ritsuka’s room, Yuki suggested they listen to the demo of the song he was composing. It wasn’t finished and he was struggling, but he thought it might help his friend relax by giving him something else to focus on.

Enticed, Ritsuka gladly took the headphones. However, his reaction wasn’t what Yuki had expected. After a few bars, he froze, paled, then hunched over his knees and buried his face in his hands. When the track finished, he handed the headphones back to Yuki, head down, not looking at him.

"Ritsuka?" Yuki asked, concerned.

He gently lifted Ritsuka’s messy fringe: his blue eyes were clouded with darkness.

"Rika?"

Ritsuka sighed—it was almost a moan. Then, he pretended to lose his balance, half-fell onto Yuki, and rested his forehead against his shoulder.

"Can two men love the same person like this, Yuki?" he asked softly.

Yuki held his breath. He raised his arm to wrap it around Ritsuka’s shoulders, but didn’t dare complete the gesture. He let his hand rest on the ground, right next to the Given guitarist’s, close enough to feel its warmth, not close enough to touch. He didn’t answer "and can they love each other, too?" but hoped his thought would be heard.

"I’m lost…" Ritsuka admitted.

Then, after a silence, he lifted his head. There was something of Mafuyu’s tenderness in his smile when he looked straight into Yuki’s eyes and asked:

"The song for the concert… the one he can’t write the lyrics for… has he sung the melody to you already?"

Surprised, Yuki shook his head.

"... He said it was a surprise."

Ritsuka tilted his head back and hid his eyes with his arm.

"Ah. You’ll come to the concert, Yuki, right?"

"Of course!" Yuki replied.

"Good," Ritsuka approved.

He kept to himself in the final two weeks and didn’t visit Yuki even once before the big day. Finally, July knocked on the door, swung it wide open, and the concert was here.

Chapter Text

The lights of the stage, the smell of bodies, sweat, perfume, drinks, the waves of sound: Yuki always felt a bit drunk at a concert, if the sound was good. And the first band’s sound had been, really good. They played for a long time—at least two or three songs more than expected. Yuki sensed some drama backstage with Given, but didn’t really worry. He knew Mafuyu and Ritsuka—everything would be fine. His empathy pulled him toward their supposed chaos, a smile on his lips, and it gave an intimate touch to the music from the first band.

Then the curtain fell.

“They were good!” Hiiragi commented, holding a glass of fruit juice, right next to him.

“Yeah, they killed it, plus they played for so long,” Shizusumi added.

“Trouble backstage?” Hiiragi asked, glancing at Yuki. Yuki playfully patted him on the shoulder.

“ Last I heard, earlier, Mafuyu still hadn’t written the lyrics.”

“WHAT!???”

Yuki laughed.

“Breathe! It’s Mafuyu, what did you expect? He probably has them in his head already—or he’ll make them up on stage.”

“Make them up on…?”

Hiiragi’s eyes went wide, and he visibly paled at the thought.

“Or maybe he won’t sing,” Yuki grinned. “Given is instrumental, after all. They’ll make it work.”

He’d expected it, but still, Mafuyu’s voice, full force on stage, hit him like a shockwave, took his breath away, and stopped time. He’d also anticipated that the lyrics would be directed at him, but “What words should I use to describe a world without you?” tore his guts. “And we undo the rope, but everything changes, and the ground is no longer stable” pinned him in place. “If you love him, and I love him, what happens to ‘us’, tell me? Does it get lost, drown? Does it grow?” made him shiver, head to toe. Then the chorus hit, and the notes nailed him to the ground. They were the same six notes he had stolen from Mafuyu’s lips to put in his own composition. Ritsuka had fallen in love with them the same way, turned them into a tune, and offered it to the boy they both loved. And on those two fifths, Mafuyu made his words resonate with that voice out of this world: “If the ground is unstable, if the path is made with every step, in the sand, I want mine beside yours.”

Hiiragi was crying rivers without even realizing it. Shizusumi himself allowed himself to stare at their childhood friend, mouth agape, eyes as wide as saucers. On stage, Haruki and Aki had opened their eyes wide too, and Ritsuka nearly fell over when Mafuyu’s voice hit, but they had quickly recovered. Ritsuka’s smile now lit up the stage at least as much as the spotlights. He was wild, devastatingly good, totally in sync with his singer, and he was loving it.

From the floor, Yuki smiled through his tears as he watched them: joy seeing their wings spread, and the longing to join them rising in his core. Wanting meant living. Moving forward. Singing, too, one day, again. And somewhere, in some universe, singing with them, sometimes. He had survived the rope, recovered, plenty. He’d learned to sip tea with the dark days, learned to ask for help before it was too late. He’d made a new friend, maybe a new love, and solidified the one he already had. But the urge to live—it hadn’t hit him like this in so, so long. Before the ocean, or when his skin kissed Mafuyu’s, it brushed against him. In the dim concert hall, senses overwhelmed by sensations, it crashed into him like a tidal wave.

“Yuki…” Hiiragi said softly.

Yuki didn’t turn to him; his eyes were glued to the stage, unable to look away from Mafuyu. Shizusumi wrapped his arm around his neighbor’s shoulder, whispered something in his ear that Yuki didn’t catch. “Mm,” Hiiragi replied, then turned back to the stage.

The song was ending. Ritsuka and the others slammed the final instrumental measures with the electric energy of those who’d just had a blast playing together. Mafuyu, though, seemed dazed: his fingers were no longer really trying to play the chords he needed at the end of the song, and it wasn’t a big deal. Yuki saw him exchange a look with Ritsuka, felt the tenderness, love, and pride in the smile he received in response. His heart nearly exploded. On stage, Mafuyu’s heart did too: a trembling frown appeared on his lips—he looked suddenly on the verge of collapsing into tears.

Yuki’s eyes went wide: it was rare to see Mafuyu cry. He had already started making his way through the crowd to the backstage even before Ritsuka slipped a reassuring arm over the singer’s shoulder and guided him off the stage.

“Ah, our guitarist ran off,” the bassist said, trying to buy time, as Yuki rushed down the stairs. He smiled.

He turned the corner and froze in his tracks. There, against the wall, Ritsuka was kissing Mafuyu, awkwardly but fully on the lips. With wide eyes, stunned and teary but holding back the flood, Mafuyu clung to his shirt, returning the kiss. Yuki hesitated for a second between freezing in place, feeling like his world was falling apart, or sighing with relief with a smile. The corners of his lips stretched into a grin, and he whispered, “Finally!”

He rushed down the rest of the stairs and caught up with them just as their lips parted and Mafuyu started to cry. He wrapped his arms around his shoulders, locked eyes with Ritsuka, reached out, and gently, lightly, placed his hand on the guitarist’s cheek:

“I would’ve done the same thing to you, Rika,” he said, his voice a bit rough but still calm. “But tomorrow, I won’t be able to pretend I was on adrenaline rush like you are right now. I’ll wait until you’re sober, okay? Don’t worry, I’ve got this. Go! They need you, on stage.”

Ritsuka tilted his head, leaning Yuki’s warm hand, and placed his own over it for just a moment, quick as a breath but suspending time. Then he nodded.

“I’m going back.”

Yuki let Mafuyu cry against his shoulder for the length of a song. The sound reached him a little muffled, but even from here, he could tell that Given sounded amazing on stage, even without vocals. The guitar was on fire. He kissed the salty streams running down the beloved cheeks: the tears seemed to have calmed a little. He took a step to guide him back to the hall.

“Come on,” he said, “you need to see this. Rika’s in full concert mode… come watch how he owns the stage, that other guy you love.”

Mafuyu held him back. Without a word, he looked up at him with big, teary eyes, unsure what to do with the flood of emotions overwhelming him. Yuki smiled at him, then leaned down to kiss him again. Mafuyu clung to him, passionately mixing their tongues together with the hint of a tremor.

“You’ll be fine,” Yuki whispered. “Trust... yourself, me, him. It’ll be okay.”

Mafuyu threw himself back into his arms, wrapping his arms around his waist.

“Don’t die, Yuki.”

“I’ll try,” Yuki murmured in his hair. “At least for a few decades.”

“I love you.”

“I knew that already, but your song really printed it in me.”

Mafuyu smiled, a hint of insolent pride on his lips amidst his tears.

“Was it good?”

“You made half the room cry, not just me. I think we can safely say it was good, yeah. Your voice is miraculous, your sensitivity out of this world, and your words…”

He paused. Mafuyu raised his head with a greedy look.

“I made you cry?”

Yuki could have devoured him right there. He bit his lip, then dove onto Mafuyu’s ones. The second instrumental track from Given was threatening to end.

“Uenoyama…” Mafuyu said again, with a trace of worry in his voice.

“It’s not addition, it’s multiplication. Come on, let’s go hear it now! I swear, it’s worth it.”

Mafuyu let himself be led. There were murmurs as they passed, while Yuki cut through the small crowd, holding Mafuyu’s hand, until they found Hiiragi. Mafuyu didn’t really hear them. He was swimming in an overwhelming amount of happiness. Once they reached their friends, Yuki turned Mafuyu toward the stage, embraced him. Given’s music suddenly exploded in the singer’s ears, the same music that had just rocked the room, and the guitarist’s smile from the stage hit him square in the lower stomach. He let himself sink into Yuki’s embrace.

“I love him,” Mafuyu whispered just in Yuki’s ear, so he could hear.

“And you want him. I know,” Yuki replied, as quietly as the music would allow. “He’s my friend, I want him too. We’ll figure out how to count.”

Chapter Text

He hadn’t even remembered it right away. He’d had time to get home, shower, change. They were eating late that night at the Uenoyama house. It wasn’t until he was mentally commenting on his sister’s romantic misadventures—she was cutting her hair in frustration after finally accepting that Akihiko had turned her down—that the image came back to him.

He had kissed Mafuyu. Earlier, in the middle of the concert, backstage. Couldn’t help it. Now his brain was screaming, “No way, did you really do that?!!” but his memory had clearly recorded the taste of his lips, the shape, the warmth, the weight of his body in his arms. Ritsuka slapped both his cheeks at once—they were already red before that. And Yuki…?

Yuki had arrived right at that moment. He’d seen them kiss. Had wrapped his arms around Mafuyu, and then… what? His hand on his cheek? Ritsuka placed his own hand where the other one had been before—it felt like his skin was burning. “I’d do the same to you”… That’s what he had said, right?

Ritsuka wiped the sweat from his forehead.

He skipped dinner and slept restlessly. The next day, he went to school with his mind racing, struggling to focus all day. At lunch, he barely managed to get three bites down. On the basketball court, he missed every shot.

Mafuyu was absent. The Given chat on his phone told him he was sick, like a kid too excited after his first concert. Ritsuka smiled and felt a wave of tenderness.

“I’ll drop by after school,” he typed to Kaji and Haruki.

Of course, it was a figure with ash-blond hair who answered the door, smiling with that mix of charm and cynicism when he saw Ritsuka blush as soon as their eyes met.

“He’s half asleep. Feverish, but nothing serious. Come in!”

Ritsuka felt himself start to burn the moment the door closed. He leaned against it to steady himself. The whole apartment smelled like Mafuyu, and his lower stomach reacted violently.

Yuki let out a breathy laugh.

“Don’t catch the fever just because you’re here,” he teased. “You never came before?”

Ritsuka shook his head, lost for words.

“I can’t believe it,” Yuki muttered, rolling his eyes. “You’ve been in the same band for six months, or did I dream that?”

“Yuki…” Ritsuka pleaded.

He took off his shoes, placed the meal to be reheated in the fridge, grabbed the vitamin water—no bubbles—and followed Yuki into the bedroom. Mafuyu opened one eye, propped himself up halfway. His cheeks were flushed, sweat on his forehead, and his eyes… oh, those eyes. Ritsuka lowered his head to hide his desire and panic.

“You do one concert and you get sick,” he said in a hoarse voice.

“Uenoyama…”

“I brought you food. It’s in the fridge. You good?”

“Mm. Thanks…”

“Don’t move around too much. Here, drink this.”

He handed him a glass. Mafuyu gave him a sweet smile and drank without complaining. Ritsuka shuddered. He made a move to get up and leave.

“Stay.”

“Oy!”

“Just for a little while…”

He stayed, watching Mafuyu for a long time after he fell back asleep.

He closed the bedroom door and made his way to the living room, hesitant. The apartment was bare, as if the people living there had just moved in and hadn’t really had time to settle. Yuki was waiting by the living room window, his back turned. Hesitant, Ritsuka joined him, looking out at the street with him, keeping a good distance of about sixty centimeters between them. The view wasn’t particularly beautiful or ugly, just ordinary.

“I was teasing you,” Yuki said quietly. “Before… Before March, I’d never come here either. In his childhood house, you could see the canal from the living room window. And the walls were covered with drawings. Did you know he draws, too?”

Ritsuka didn’t reply, but rested his head against the glass.

“He must’ve felt so alone here when he first arrived. New school, new place. He who hates rapid changes so much… I didn’t see it. Didn’t want to see it.”

Ritsuka glanced at him. Yuki caught his gaze, smiling.

“I’m glad he found you.”

It was sincere. The guitarist’s heart skipped a beat.

“Your concert was fantastic,” Yuki added.

Ritsuka lit up and fully turned toward him.

“And that first song…”

“Thanks.”

Yuki smiled. The world around them slowed down.

“Do I need to remind you of some things, or have you regained your memory on your own?”

Ritsuka blushed, bit his lip, and looked away.

“Stop messing with me. I remember,” he muttered.

A tender finger stopped his chin and brought his blue eyes back to meet Yuki’s gray ones.

“Then tell me, now that you’re fully aware… can I kiss you?”

Ritsuka trembled. He grabbed Yuki’s hand.

“But… Mafuyu…”

Yuki laughed softly.

“Mafuyu… whom you already kissed without asking permission from anyone, between us… will tell you he’s not against two tops. Are you ready for that?”

Ritsuka blushed furiously.

“As for me… I told him yesterday, while we were listening to you setting the stage on fire, when it comes to love, I prefer multiplying rather than adding. I’m not saying it’ll be easy, or that I know how to do it, but… Rika…”

Just like he had done once before, he placed his hand below Ritsuka’s navel.

“… that desire… do you feel it?”

Ritsuka’s whole body answered him. A surge, a tension. Then the next moment, the blue eyes were closing in, a hand sliding around his waist, pressing them close, and it was Ritsuka kissing him, not the other way around. Ritsuka was embracing him, holding him tight, tearing him from the world to make him shiver. His lips, his tongue wanting more. He was clumsy, but his desire was undeniable. Yuki slid both arms around the guitarist’s neck, pulling him closer in his turn, guiding him, deepening the kiss. He found himself pressed against the window. Then Ritsuka pulled away, backed up a few inches, and whispered, “I feel it. Kiss me.”

Yuki burst out laughing—but not too loud, not wanting to disturb the sick one’s sleep—and rested his forehead against his friend’s shoulder. A strange urge to cry rose within him.

“You, huh…” he murmured, hiding so Ritsuka wouldn’t see the joyful tear running down his cheek.

Ritsuka stood there, holding his head up, awkward as a penguin in the Gobi Desert, unsure where to put his hands. Yuki smiled despite himself at his adorable clumsiness, wiped his eyes, straightened up. He turned toward the ordinary view of the street. Ritsuka did the same. They went back to looking out the window, shoulder to shoulder this time, and Yuki delicately intertwined his fingers with the other guitarist’s. He shivered, feeling the roughness of his fingers, hardened by the strings. Ritsuka rested his forehead against the glass, his gaze lost on the passing cars.

“For Mafuyu, Haruki is going to kill me.”

“Oh… and not Kaji-san?” Yuki teased.

“Rraaaah. Yuki! Help me out here! Haruki-san is much more frightening than you think ! I’m gonna have to ask permission before I get to touch him.”

Yuki chuckled softly.

“Don’t worry. Your senpai will give you an earful, but he’s not going to say no. He can’t afford to lose a guitarist like you, or Mafuyu’s voice. He knows, like I do, that the two go together. And…”

“And?”

“Oh, considering how much he’s into your drummer, he’s in no position to stop you…”

“Huh?!?”

Yuki laughed again.

“Honestly… you see nothing, do you? Come on, come here! Kiss me again.”