Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The apartment was silent.

But not just the kind of silence that comes after a long day or the kind that fills a room when the TV’s off and no one’s around. No, this silence felt like it had weight, like it had settled over everything like thick dust, clinging to the air and pressing into the walls. It was the kind of silence that made your ears ring just to remind you that time hadn’t actually stopped. The kind that seeped into your bones and stayed there—stiff, unmoving, almost mournful.

Kunigami Rensuke sat alone in the middle of his sparsely furnished living room, his legs crossed loosely beneath him on the bare hardwood floor. He hadn't moved in over three hours. His posture remained rigid, shoulders slightly slouched forward, hands resting uselessly in his lap. His eyes were fixed, not on anything worth staring at but on a blank, lifeless stretch of wall. The drywall was pale and unremarkable, just like every other wall in this apartment. There were no decorations. No shelves. No personality. No reason to keep looking. And yet, he did. Not because he was interested, but because it required less effort than doing anything else.

Around him, half-unpacked boxes sat untouched. A few had been opened, revealing mundane necessities—a kettle, some books, a few clothes crumpled and forgotten. The rest remained sealed, stacked near the corner like silent witnesses to his apathy. He should’ve finished unpacking days ago, but the truth was, he didn’t care. Not about the boxes. Not about the empty walls. Not even about the faint layer of dust settling in.

He didn’t care about much anymore.

The air in the apartment had begun to feel stale, like it had been recycled too many times without being refreshed. He hadn’t opened a window. He hadn’t lit a candle. Even the scent of cardboard felt too strong for how little energy he had. The only light in the room came from the wide window behind him, sunlight spilling in too brightly, illuminating the untouched dust in the air. The sun stung his eyes when he blinked, not because he had been crying, but because he hadn’t. He didn’t cry anymore. Crying required feeling, and Kunigami didn’t feel much these days.

He existed. And barely, at that.

Until a sound broke the stillness.

Three sharp knocks hit the front door. Rapid, almost rhythmic.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

It didn’t fit the apartment’s mood. Too energetic. Too bright. Too much like someone who didn’t understand the weight of silence.

Kunigami didn’t move.

A few seconds later came another set of knocks—faster, more persistent.

Knock knock knock knock!

A voice followed. Sweet, light, and singsong in tone.

“Helloooo~?”

Kunigami’s eyebrows pulled together faintly, a flicker of irritation surfacing for the first time in hours, though still not enough to make him shift.

“I saw you moving in few days ago and wanted to say hi!”

Another pause followed, like the stranger was waiting for a response. When none came, the voice tried again, this time with a little more enthusiasm.

“I brought cookies! I didn’t bake them, but I did warm them up in the microwave! That has to count for something, right?”

Kunigami blinked slowly. Who the hell is this?

With a sigh that felt more like a punishment than a release, he forced himself to move. His body felt heavy, like every joint had forgotten how to function. He pushed himself off the floor with slow, stiff movements, dragging his legs toward the door like they were strapped to lead weights.

He opened the door just enough to see out, and immediately, a flash of color blinded him.

Strawberry red.

And a smile so blinding it almost made him recoil.

“Hi!” the stranger beamed.

A young man stood on the other side, beaming at him like they were old friends instead of complete strangers. He looked like he was around Kunigami’s age, though his energy suggested otherwise. His long red hair shimmered in the sunlight streaming down the hall, tied loosely in a low ponytail that looked like it had been thrown together on a whim. He wore mismatched socks—one yellow with stars, the other plain gray—along with cheap blue slippers and a green hoodie with a faded cartoon fish printed across the chest. In his arms, he carried a small plastic tray of cookies, wrapped clumsily in cling film.

Kunigami stared at him blankly. “…What.”

The redhead grinned even wider and leaned in slightly. “I said hi.”

“I heard you,” Kunigami replied, his voice flat.

“Then why do you look like I just asked you to donate a kidney?” the stranger teased with a light laugh, undeterred by Kunigami’s clearly unamused expression. “Anyway, new neighbor! I’m Chigiri. Chigiri Hyoma. I live right next door in 4A. You’re 4B, right?”

“…Obviously,” Kunigami answered after a beat, still trying to figure out what kind of person had this much energy at ten in the morning.

“And you are?”

He hesitated. His jaw tightened slightly. “…Kunigami.”

“Kunigami what?”

“…Rensuke.”

“Ooh,” Chigiri said, drawing out the syllables with genuine delight. “Sounds strong. You a gym rat or something? Athlete?”

The question made something inside Kunigami twist uncomfortably. He looked away for a split second before replying, voice clipped. “No.”

“Oh. Sorry,” Chigiri said quickly, though his tone didn’t dip into awkwardness. If anything, he just rolled with it, unfazed. “You just have that vibe. Like... you could lift a fridge if you wanted to.”

Kunigami didn’t answer. He didn’t even flinch. Just stared.

Chigiri didn’t let the silence bother him. He extended the tray forward. “Cookie?”

Kunigami glanced at it like it might explode. “I don’t want cookies.”

“Liar.”

“I’m not lying.”

“You look like someone who could really eat a cookie,” Chigiri insisted.

“I don’t eat sweets.”

At that, Chigiri gasped, completely scandalized. “How do you live like that?!”

Kunigami opened his mouth to retort, but the words that came out weren’t the ones he meant to say. They slipped out before he could stop them.

“I’m not sure I want to.”

The silence that followed wasn’t like the one from earlier. It wasn’t the heavy, empty kind. It was sharper. More brittle.

Chigiri’s smile faded just for a second. His eyes softened.

But he didn’t say anything about it.

Instead, he adjusted the tray in his arms and replied cheerfully, “Then you must be starving. Okay. No sweets, got it. I’ll bring savory foods next time.”

Kunigami furrowed his brows, visibly confused. “There’s not going to be a next time.”

“There is now,” Chigiri replied with a wink and a brightness that felt like sunlight through a stormcloud. “Anyway! I need to go feed Tony. He gets cranky when I’m late.”

“Who the hell is Tony?”

“My son.”

Kunigami blinked. “You have a son?”

“Not a human one. He’s a goldfish. But I love him very much,” Chigiri said with a proud smile.

Kunigami didn’t respond. He was still processing the conversation.

“Well, see you later, Rensuke,” Chigiri said, backing away as if this had all gone exactly as planned.

Before Kunigami could stop him—or come up with a reason to—Chigiri had already turned and disappeared into the apartment next door, closing the door to 4A with a gentle click that echoed louder than it should’ve.

Kunigami stared down.

Somehow, at some point, Chigiri had placed the tray into his arms.

Still warm. The chocolate chips were half-melted. They smelled… good.

He closed the door behind him and stood there for a long while, the silence returning like a familiar blanket.

He placed the cookies on the kitchen counter.

He didn’t eat them, but he didn’t throw them out either.

The next morning came, and with another knock.

Knock knock knock.

“Good morning, grumpy neighbor!” Chigiri’s chipper voice rang through the door like it belonged to a radio host.

Kunigami didn’t answer. He buried himself under the blanket on the couch, annoyed, tired, and unsure of whether he wanted to scream or sleep forever.

“Tony says hi!” the voice continued. “Well, actually, he didn’t say anything. He’s a fish. But I think he meant it.”

No response.

A pause.

“Do you like cranes?” Chigiri asked, almost as if he were thinking aloud. "Origami ones, not the giant metal ones that swing on construction sites. Because I made some! I'll leave them by your door!"

Kunigami closed his eyes, hoping silence would make him disappear.

Hours later, when the sun was already beginning to dip low in the sky, he finally stirred. He got up, sleep-heavy and slow, taking out the trash with robotic movements. His hood was pulled low. His head down. Just enough effort to survive.

When he opened his door, something unfamiliar sat on his welcome mat.

A small paper crane.

Pink, delicate, and perfectly folded. The wings sharp and symmetrical, tail curved gently like it was caught in mid-flight. It looked like it had taken time. Care.

Kunigami frowned, glancing to the side. The door to 4A was closed. Of course it was.

He stared at the crane a moment longer, then nudged it lightly with his foot.

It tipped slightly but didn’t lose its shape.

With an irritated sigh, he picked it up. He told himself it was so the hallway wouldn’t look messy. Not because he cared. Definitely not that.

He tossed it in a small bowl on the bookshelf.

The next day, there were three more.

Purple. Blue. Orange.

Each had little doodles. One had stars. Another had a stick figure of a smiling goldfish. The third had a tiny message scrawled in curly handwriting.

“Today is a gift. That’s why it’s called the present :)”

Kunigami exhaled, the sound was sharp and short. Almost like a laugh. Almost like frustration.

This time, he knocked on 4A.

The door opened almost immediately, as if Chigiri had been waiting.

He was still in pajamas. Shorts and a big shirt with a terrible unicorn drawing on it. His hair was a mess, falling around his shoulders.

“Oh! Morning, Rensuke!” he greeted brightly.

Kunigami held up the paper cranes like evidence. “What the hell is this?”

Chigiri’s eyes sparkled. “Aww, you got them! Aren’t they cute?”

“Why are you leaving stuff outside my door?”

“They’re cranes. For luck. And wishes.”

“I don’t need luck… or wishes” Kunigami said flatly.

“Everyone needs it,” Chigiri replied without missing a beat. “Especially you. You looked like a kicked puppy when I met you. These are ‘get-better cranes.’”

“That’s not a thing.” Kunigami muttered.

“It is now.”

Kunigami narrowed his eyes. “Stop putting stuff outside my door.”

Chigiri tilted his head. “Why?”

“Because I didn’t ask for it.”

“You didn’t ask for cookies either,” Chigiri replied easily. “But you didn’t throw them away.”

Kunigami scowled. “How the hell would you know that?”

Chigiri smiled. “Just a feeling.”

Kunigami opened his mouth to argue but stopped. What is the point? Instead, he turned and walked back to his unit.

He didn’t notice the way Chigiri’s expression softened as the door closed.

The next day arrived not with peace, but with noise.

Sharp, chirping birdsong pierced through the early morning stillness like needles, echoing off the bare walls of Kunigami’s apartment with brutal cheerfulness. The sun hadn’t fully risen yet, but the sky outside was already glowing with the warm tones of dawn—soft oranges, pale yellows, the kind of colors that seemed to mock his exhaustion.

Kunigami groaned and instinctively dragged the scratchy blanket over his head, shielding his face from the world, from the light, and from the noise that seemed to exist solely to spite him.

It didn’t work.

Because just a few minutes later, it came again.

That now-familiar knock. Unapologetically cheerful. Rhythmically impatient.

Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock.

He didn’t move right away. He lay there, eyes open but unwilling to get up, body heavy with something he couldn’t name. Maybe if he stayed perfectly still, maybe if he didn’t acknowledge it, the knocking would stop.

But it didn’t.

Instead, a voice followed—loud, animated, and criminally awake for this hour.

“Rensuke!” Chigiri’s voice rang clear through the wooden door, warm with amusement. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day! Did you know people who skip it are statistically more grumpy?”

Kunigami sat up slowly, his body protesting the movement. His hair stuck out in every direction, tangled and messy, and his eyes were half-lidded from sleep deprivation. The apartment around him was quiet, cold, and still drenched in shadows.

He stared at the door, debating internally whether to ignore the intrusion again.

“I made onigiri!” Chigiri’s voice continued, cheerful as ever. “And tamagoyaki! You probably hate eggs, don’t you? But I made them fluffy. Just in case.”

With a reluctant sigh, Kunigami stood and padded toward the door, his movements sluggish and grumpy. He opened it only a sliver, just enough to peek through.

Chigiri was sitting comfortably on the floor of the hallway, cross-legged, back resting casually against the wall beside Kunigami’s door. In his lap was a neatly arranged bento box, still warm, and wrapped in a pale pink furoshiki cloth. His eyes lit up the moment Kunigami looked at him.

“Are you insane?” Kunigami rasped, his voice rough with sleep, eyes squinting.

Chigiri grinned up at him like this was perfectly normal. “Good morning!”

“It’s six-thirty.”

“And?” Chigiri tilted his head playfully. “It’s morning! I like to start my day with intention and optimism.”

Kunigami ran a hand over his face, sighing again. “I like to start mine in silence.”

“Well, you’re awake now, aren’t you?” Chigiri replied brightly, holding the bento box up with both hands like an offering. “So eat. You look like you haven’t had a real meal in a week.”

Kunigami didn’t argue this time. Without a word, he reached out, took the bento box, and closed the door again in a slow, deliberate motion.

He stood in the hallway of his own apartment for a few seconds, looking down at the meal. The smell was pleasant. Soft rice, slightly sweet tamagoyaki, something else he couldn’t identify. He walked back to the couch and dropped onto it with a thud, the box still in his hands.

He didn’t open it.

But this time, instead of setting it aside or tossing it somewhere out of sight, he kept it close on the coffee table beside him, within reach. As if it were something that mattered. Just a little.

Later that afternoon, the apartment was filled with the glow of the muted television. Kunigami wasn’t watching, he rarely did, but he kept it on anyway, mostly for the color and the movement, even if he kept the volume off. Something about game shows playing in the background gave the illusion of company. Of life.

His phone vibrated on the armrest.

Yoichi: You ghosting everyone or just me?

Kunigami stared at the message for a moment, thumb hovering over the screen.

He typed something.

Paused.

Then deleted it without sending it.

The phone fell on the couch beside him with a soft thud as he returned to staring at the TV, the bright neon lights of a quiz show reflecting in his tired eyes.

Then, another knock. Softer this time.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

It wasn’t the usual rapid rhythm. It wasn’t pushy or playful.

It felt like a question. A gentle one.

Kunigami stood and opened the door just a crack.

Chigiri stood on the other side, his expression bright but soft. In his hands was a thick, slightly worn photo album, its corners taped and colorful.

Kunigami frowned. “What now?”

Chigiri didn’t miss a beat. “Wanna see baby pictures of me?”

“No.”

“You look like you need a laugh.”

“I don’t.”

“They’re really cute,” Chigiri said, flipping the cover open anyway, undeterred. “There’s one where I’m dressed like a tomato. It’s life changing.”

Kunigami stared at him, deadpan. “I don’t care.”

Chigiri chuckled to himself. “Okay. Okay. Then maybe you’d prefer the story of how I nearly drowned when I was six. I had these floaties and thought I was invincible. Spoiler alert, I wasn’t.”

He sat down on the floor again, right outside the door, cross-legged and completely at ease. He started flipping through the album, narrating the pictures like it didn’t matter whether Kunigami listened or not.

“You ever notice how parents always seem to take photos when you’re mid-cry?” he said, pointing at a photo no one else could see. “I had a meltdown over carrots once. Ruined the whole birthday party. Still can’t eat them. Not ‘cause of the taste, just trauma.”

Kunigami didn’t speak. He didn’t nod. He didn’t roll his eyes.

But this time, he didn’t shut the door either.

Instead, he leaned against the frame—arms crossed, head tilted slightly, listening in silence. Not agreeing. Not participating. Just… listening.

And somehow, that was enough.

By the end of the week, the small bowl on his bookshelf had become crowded. Over twenty paper cranes now filled it. Each one bright, colorful, some decorated with tiny doodles or written affirmations. Kunigami told himself he kept them because throwing them out would be too much of a hassle. Too time-consuming. Too much effort for something that didn’t matter.

But every time he passed the shelf, his gaze lingered.

They were colorful.

They were lively.

And his apartment, somehow, didn’t feel quite as empty anymore.

It was raining on the tenth day when he gave in.

Not intentionally. Not with any kind of grand epiphany. It just… happened.

He had gone out to grab a cup of ramen from the corner store, his usual meal of choice and was returning down the hallway when he spotted Chigiri by the stairwell, juggling a dripping umbrella, two heavy paper grocery bags, and a frown.

One of the bags was clearly falling apart at the bottom, soaked through by the rain.

“Seriously?” Chigiri muttered under his breath, half-laughing and half-frustrated as he struggled to shift the weight of the bags. His umbrella was crooked, and his hoodie was already soaked at the shoulders.

Kunigami paused. Stood there beneath the overhang with his hood up and keys in hand. Watched quietly as the bottom of the bag gave way, sending a cascade of apples clattering across the floor.

Chigiri let out a long sigh, muttering something under his breath about the universe testing him.

Without thinking, Kunigami bent down and started collecting the apples, his movements silent and methodical. He didn’t say anything as he held them out, his hand steady.

Chigiri looked up, surprised. Then he smiled softly this time. Not bright or teasing. Just grateful.

“Thanks.”

Kunigami handed him the apples without meeting his gaze. “You shouldn’t carry this much at once.”

Chigiri shrugged, brushing wet strands of hair out of his eyes. “I like challenges.”

Kunigami raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

A beat passed.

Chigiri glanced up at the gray sky, then back at Kunigami, and gave a small, quiet answer. “Because I’m alive.”

The words hit harder than Chigiri probably meant them to.

Kunigami stiffened slightly. His grip on the plastic bag tightened.

But Chigiri didn’t comment on it. Or maybe he noticed and chose not to.

Instead, he smiled again, rain-soaked, ridiculous, and still glowing. “I’m making stew,” he added. “I always make too much. Want some?”

Kunigami hesitated. Then opened his door with a sigh.

“…No.”

That night, when he returned from a long shower and aimless pacing, something small caught his eye near the entrance.

A single paper crane rested on his welcome mat. White and clean. Delicate.

Next to it sat a small Tupperware container, carefully sealed.

He picked up the crane first. On one wing, written in neat handwriting, was a small message.

“Thank you for helping me with the apples and I still want to give you stew instead of eating your cup noodles (that’s unhealthy, you know?) Anyways! Hope you like it! PS: I’m not a chef so if it tastes bad, I’m sorry, I’m not trying to poison you.”

Kunigami stood in the doorway for a moment, unmoving.

Then carefully, he picked up the Tupperware and stepped back inside. He placed the white crane in the bowl with the others, the collection now overflowing.

The stew? He didn’t eat it that night.

He put it in the fridge.

Just in case.

By the time another week passed, it had become routine. Every day, like clockwork, Chigiri would knock. Sometimes with food, sometimes with cranes, and sometimes with nothing but conversation. Each time, Kunigami would listen. Never speak much. Never open the door wide.

But he stopped ignoring it.

And when the hallway stayed quiet one morning when there was no knock, no voice, no presence, Kunigami found himself standing by the door, ear pressed to the wood, straining to hear anything.

It was quiet.

Too quiet.

The silence didn’t feel peaceful anymore.

It felt like an absence.

It felt wrong.

That evening, just as he was about to give up, a soft knock broke the quietness.

“Sorry I was quiet today,” Chigiri’s voice came, muffled but warm through the door. “Tony got constipated. That’s a thing, apparently. Fish can get constipated. I spent the day googling fish laxatives. Don’t ask.”

Kunigami blinked, lips twitching. He didn’t know why. But something in him shifted.

“Anyway,” Chigiri continued, tone light, “today’s crane is green. I read somewhere green symbolizes healing. So... here.”

A pause. “Hope your day sucked a little less.”

A soft sound of paper folding. Then footsteps retreating.

Kunigami opened the door slowly.

The hallway was empty.

But the green crane sat on the mat like a gentle offering. He bent down and picked it up carefully. It had a single word scribbled on the inside.

“Breathe.”

Kunigami stood there for a long time, holding it in his palm.

His fingers trembled.

And, without realizing it, he whispered into the quiet hallway “…Thanks.”

The first time Kunigami opened his door while Chigiri was still standing there, it wasn’t intentional. It wasn’t out of curiosity or some new willingness to engage. It just... happened.

He had only meant to step out for groceries, nothing more, nothing less. Bread. Eggs. More instant noodles and coffee. The bare essentials, just enough to keep his body functioning. He had made a mental list on repeat while pulling on his hoodie, mentally rehearsing the path to the store like it would be a mission. In. Out. No eye contact. No delays. No distractions.

So when he opened his door, still half-asleep and wholly uninterested in the world beyond his apartment, he certainly didn’t expect to find a bright red ponytail and a whirlwind of chaotic energy crouched in front of his shoebox.

There, on the cold hallway floor, sat Chigiri—frowning in concentration as he struggled to press a neon pink sticky note onto the shoebox with one hand while balancing a small paper crane in the other. The sticky note had a tiny, messy doodle drawn in the corner: a crane and a fish holding hands under a cartoon sun.

Kunigami stared. Frozen in place. Caught mid-step.

Chigiri looked up at the sound of the door creaking open. His eyes widened slightly in surprise, like he hadn’t expected to be caught mid-mission.

“Oh,” he blinked, then gave a sheepish little smile that immediately turned into a beaming grin. “Good morning.”

Kunigami stood still, rooted in the doorway, as if unsure whether to step forward or slam the door shut. He stared down at Chigiri in disbelief, watching him try to smooth the sticky note onto the box as if this was a normal thing neighbor did.

Chigiri’s smile widened like the sun had personally greeted him. “Hi.”

Kunigami, still not saying a word, did the only thing his instincts told him to, he stepped over the pink crane and walked past Chigiri like he wasn’t even there.

No greeting. No acknowledgment.

Just silence.

Chigiri stood, unfazed, and dusted off his hoodie as he followed casually behind. “You’re going out!” he chirped, tone overly cheerful, like this was some kind of victory.

Kunigami didn’t respond. He kept walking, hands deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched slightly forward in that quiet defense he always carried.

Chigiri kept pace without missing a beat. “You know, I used to think maybe you were a hermit. Or a vampire. Or both.”

Still no answer.

“Or maybe you only leave the house to exact revenge on your enemies. You’ve got that look.”

Kunigami finally turned his head slightly, just enough to glance at him with tired, narrowed eyes. His voice was low, a little hoarse. “Why do you talk so much?”

Chigiri blinked at the question, then gave a soft, matter-of-fact answer. “Because I’m alive.”

Kunigami’s jaw tightened. His expression darkened.

“Good for you,” he muttered, the words sharp, bitter, meant to push him away.

But Chigiri didn’t flinch. He didn’t retreat or get offended. He simply smiled again, not in defiance but in warmth. “Actually, yeah. It is good,” he said, eyes bright and soft. “I love being alive. Especially on days like this.”

He pointed upward. “Have you seen the clouds today? They look like whipped cream. Kinda makes me want pancakes.”

Kunigami rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath, probably a curse, fully intending to just keep walking and leave Chigiri behind.

But then, Chigiri’s voice called again, playful and genuine. “Hey, do you want to meet Tony?”

Kunigami didn’t slow down.

Chigiri added quickly, “I promise he doesn’t talk as much as me. I mean, he’s a fish, but you know what I mean.”

That… made Kunigami pause.

Not because he cared.

But because what kind of guy names his goldfish Tony?

When Kunigami turned his head, he saw Chigiri already skipping back toward his apartment, waving enthusiastically. “Come on! I made pasta too! You should try it.”

Kunigami wanted to say no.

He wasn’t hungry. He didn’t care about fish or pasta or neighbors who smiled too much. He just wanted to go to the groceries to buy his food then lock himself again in his apartment.

But his feet moved anyway and Chigiri’s apartment was nothing like Kunigami’s.

It was chaotic. Cluttered. Alive.

But it was not dirty.

There was a kind of warmth to the space, even if there were books stacked in uneven towers on every surface, and mismatched furniture that looked like it had been rescued from several different thrift stores. Piles of folded laundry sat next to a collection of papers, colored markers, and jars of origami cranes spilling out like flower petals.

It was a mess.

But it was a loved mess.

Kunigami stood in the doorway awkwardly, hands stuffed in his hoodie pockets, taking it all in. “...You live like this?” he muttered, almost in disbelief.

Chigiri, already halfway through the kitchen, called over his shoulder, “Yup! It’s a mess. Like me. But charming, right?”

Kunigami didn’t answer right away.

His eyes landed on a wall covered in Polaroid photos, Chigiri with different people, all smiling and laughing. One showed him mid-cartwheel. Another had an older couple kissing his cheek. In the center of the wall, pinned like a headline, was a small piece of paper with neat handwriting.

“Live like it matters.”

He looked away quickly. The words made something in his chest twist.

“I guess it’s… warm,” Kunigami muttered.

Chigiri peeked out from the kitchen and gave him a thumbs-up. “That’s a weird compliment. But I’ll take it.”

The walls were painted soft cream. The ceiling had string lights shaped like stars that blinked gently in warm hues. A tapestry of a koi pond covered one entire wall, flowing like water under the glow of the lights. It didn’t smell like dust, it smelled like garlic, onions, something sweet.

And in the corner, by the window, sat a goldfish bowl.

Tony.

The fish floated lazily near the top of the water, fat and ridiculously orange, his tiny eyes blank yet somehow judging.

“This is him,” Chigiri said, crouching beside the bowl like he was introducing royalty. “Tony. He’s a little dramatic. We have that in common.”

Kunigami stared, unimpressed. “He looks dead.”

“He’s napping,” Chigiri said defensively. “You’ll hurt his feelings.”

“He’s a fish.”

“He’s an emotional support aquatic life-form,” Chigiri insisted, then whispered to the bowl, “Don’t listen to the grump, Tony.”

Kunigami shook his head. “You named your fish Tony.”

“It was either that or Chairman Mao.”

Kunigami muttered, “Tony’s fine.”

Chigiri laughed and moved to the table where he had already set out two plates of pasta. The dishes didn’t match, one had cartoon cats, the other was chipped but it made the table feel lived-in. There were two glass mugs filled with water, one of which had a cartoon panda doing yoga.

They sat across from each other. The meal passed in mostly silence.

Chigiri hummed to himself as he slurped noodles with all the table manners of a raccoon. Kunigami ate slower, almost cautiously. The pasta was good. Really good. After days of instant noodles and prepackaged junk, the warmth of it almost made his stomachache.

Halfway through the meal, Chigiri spoke again.

“So,” he said, twirling his fork between his fingers, “you don’t talk about yourself much.”

Kunigami’s expression closed off instantly. “Because there’s nothing to say.”

“There’s always something to say,” Chigiri replied with a shrug. “Like… favorite season? Least favorite condiment? Ideal apocalypse survival plan?”

Kunigami sighed. “Winter. I hate mustard. And I’d die in the first wave.”

Chigiri’s grin widened. “Progress.”

Kunigami gave a short exhale. Not quite a laugh. Not quite irritation either. “Your turn,” he muttered.

“Me?” Chigiri tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Spring. Love mustard. And I’d be the chaotic good wanderer who raids supermarkets and adopts squirrels.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“I prefer ‘endearing chaotic light in your darkness.’” Chigiri said, winking.

Kunigami paused, looking down at his plate, the humor fading from his face. “…Why are you doing this?”

Chigiri tilted his head. “Doing what?”

“This,” Kunigami said, gesturing around the apartment. “Feeding me. Talking to me. Folding those damn paper cranes. Being… nice.”

Chigiri was quiet for a moment. The smile on his face faltered, not gone, just softer. More serious. Then he said simply, “Because someone should.”

Kunigami’s chest tightened. “I’m not a charity case.”

“You’re not.”

“I don’t need saving.”

“I’m not trying to save you.”

Kunigami looked at him, something sharp flickering behind his eyes. “Then what are you trying to do?”

Chigiri held his gaze, calm and unwavering. “I’m just trying to remind you what living feels like.”

For a moment, Kunigami couldn’t speak. He couldn’t breathe. So, he looked away. Drained the last of his water like it would drown the lump in his throat. Changed the subject.

And Chigiri let him.

Later, as Kunigami stood to leave, Chigiri walked him to the door.

“Oh, wait—” Chigiri turned and grabbed something from the counter. He held it out with a small smile. “Almost forgot.”

It was another crane. This one yellow, with a tiny hand-drawn smiley face on one wing. Kunigami took it without hesitation.

“Goodbye, Rensuke,” Chigiri said gently.

Kunigami hesitated. Then, voice quiet, “Goodbye.”

And for the first time, he meant it. Not because he was leaving. But because he wanted to come back.

But peace, Kunigami had learned, never lasted long.

That night, sleep did not come easy. And when it finally arrived, it brought with it the past.

Kunigami dreamt dark, heavy dreams that curled around his lungs like chains. He saw a field again. Grass torn under cleats. The ache in his legs, the breath burning his throat, the weight of eyes watching from the sideline.

And then, the voice. The one he would never forget.

“You’re a good player, Kunigami. But you’re not great. Not enough to go pro.”

The words fell like stones, hitting the pit of his stomach over and over, relentless in their cold finality.

In the dream, his legs wouldn’t move fast enough. His muscles were strained, unresponsive. His limbs felt like they were underwater. Every step was a struggle. Every kick missed its mark. His teammates blurred in the distance, fading like phantoms into the mist. No one called for him. No one passed the ball. He was invisible. Irrelevant.

And then he fell.

Face to the ground. Lungs burning. Hands gripping at nothing. That same suffocating weight crushing his ribs like punishment.

He gasped for air. But it was like drowning.

Alone.

Useless.

Worthless.

“Rensuke!”

That voice didn’t belong in the dream.

It cut through the fog, sharp and clear like a lifeline tossed into the storm.

Kunigami woke with a start, his body lurching upright in bed. His chest heaved violently as he sucked in air, drenched in sweat. The room around him was dim, the only light coming from the streetlamp outside his window, its yellow glow fractured by the rain on the glass.

He pressed his trembling palms against his face, fingers dragging through his hair. The covers were tangled around his legs like restraints, and for a moment, he couldn’t move.

It was just a dream.

But it never felt like just a dream.

Because every time, it leaves a scar behind.

Kunigami curled into himself, burying his face into his knees, his breaths shallow and ragged. He hated how familiar this position had become. How easy it was to fold inward like this. Like collapse was his default.

The apartment around him was quiet.

But it’s not peaceful.

Empty.

The silence, once something he clung to, now felt oppressive. Like being locked in a room with nothing but the sound of his own regret.

He wished someone was there.

Not to talk. Not even to touch.

Just… there.

The rain had come out of nowhere, sudden and violent, like the sky had finally reached its breaking point. It slammed against the windows like fists, heavy and relentless. Lightning flashed, and thunder cracked close enough to shake the floors.

Kunigami had just returned from a walk. A stupid habit he’d picked up forcing himself to move, to prove to himself that his legs still worked, that his body hadn’t completely given up.

One foot in front of the other. That was the rule. Just keep going.

The walk was supposed to clear his head. But all it did was soak him to the bone.

By the time he reached the building, his hoodie clung to him like a second skin, and his fingers were too cold to work properly. He dug into his pocket, trying to find his keys, cursing under his breath as the rain blinded him.

Then click.

The door beside his own creaked open.

Chigiri stood there, wild-haired and barefoot, a towel haphazardly thrown over his head like some makeshift umbrella. His eyes lit up when he saw Kunigami, like thunder and lightning were background noise compared to this.

“Get in here, you’ll get struck!” Chigiri shouted over the storm, half-laughing, half-panicking. “Tony hates thunder. You can’t leave him alone with it!”

Kunigami stared at him. He wanted to say you’re insane. He wanted to say no.

But instead… he walked forward, water dripping from every corner of his body, and stepped inside. The door shut behind him with a soft thud, sealing them away from the storm.

Chigiri shoved the towel into his hands without waiting. “You’re soaked,” he said, frowning. “Seriously. You’re going to get sick.”

Kunigami rubbed the towel over his hair, not even pretending to dry himself properly. “I know.”

“You can’t afford to get ugly, Rensuke.”

Kunigami raised an eyebrow, lips twitching despite himself. “Not everyone can look like a cartoon character who fell into a paint bucket.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Chigiri grinned, padding toward the kitchen.

The storm outside intensified, the windows rattling against the wind. Tony swam in panicked circles, his round body bobbing near the surface like he was planning a prison break.

“I love weather like this,” Chigiri called out, rummaging through cabinets. “Makes me feel alive. Want tea?”

“Sure,” Kunigami muttered, already peeling off his soaked hoodie. His shirt clung to him, and the warmth of the apartment made him feel cold all over again. He wandered closer to the table, drawn toward the glow of the soft string lights overhead. The walls felt closer tonight. Not in a suffocating way. But like they were sheltering him.

Chigiri, meanwhile, was tearing open lemon cucumber packets with his teeth, humming under his breath like it was just another ordinary night.

Kunigami watched him quietly, wondering—not for the first time—how someone could make even the mundane feel meaningful.

He didn’t feel tired here.

The exhaustion that weighed on him like chains outside these walls… it lessened when he stepped into Chigiri’s world.

“So,” Chigiri said, placing a mug in front of him, “have you always been this brooding, or is it a recent upgrade?”

Kunigami raised an eyebrow, his voice dry. “You ask a lot of questions.”

“Yup. I’m nosy and charming. Comes with the package.”

There was a pause. Then Kunigami sat on the floor and leaned against the wall and exhaled, long and slow. “No. I haven’t always been like this.”

Chigiri didn’t respond right away.

Kunigami stared into the steam rising from his mug. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It gave him space to think. To remember.

“I used to play soccer,” he said finally, voice low and heavy.

Chigiri looked down at him, his posture shifting just slightly. “Oh?”

Kunigami nodded slowly. “I loved it. It made sense. I felt… powerful. Like I had a purpose. A reason to get up in the morning.” He took a shaky breath. “But one day, I messed up. One mistake. My coach told me I wasn’t good enough. That I’d never go pro.”

Chigiri’s expression didn’t change. He just listened.

“I believed him,” Kunigami muttered. “And after that… it all went to hell. My focus vanished. I kept making mistakes. I got benched. Eventually, I stopped getting called at all.”

“And you left it behind?”

“I didn’t leave,” Kunigami said bitterly. “It left me.”

A long silence followed. Then Chigiri sat beside him on the floor, crossing his legs and holding his tea close. “Do you miss it?”

Kunigami didn’t hesitate. “Every single damn day.”

Chigiri nodded, staring into his mug. “Then it’s not over.”

Kunigami looked at him, brow furrowed. “You really think that?”

“I do,” Chigiri said softly. “Things aren’t over unless you say they are. Not some coach. Not some company. Not your fear. Only you.”

“You sound so sure.”

“I have to be,” Chigiri said, smiling, but there was a hint of something fragile in it.

Kunigami studied him. “Why?”

Chigiri stared ahead for a moment, watching the rain slide down the windows. “Because the alternative is giving up,” he whispered.

And Kunigami felt that like a punch to the chest. “…What about you?” he asked, voice softer now. “You ever do sports?”

Chigiri shook his head. “Nah. I’m too dramatic for that. I do yoga. And I dance to ABBA in my underwear.”

Kunigami blinked. “You’re weird.”

“I know.”

A sound slipped from Kunigami’s chest. Half-sigh, half-laugh.

Then thunder cracked again, louder this time, and Tony did another angry lap around his bowl.

“I told you,” Chigiri said, nudging him with his shoulder. “Tony’s dramatic. He’s probably composing a monologue in his head.”

Kunigami’s lips twitched. “I think he wants to escape.”

“Don’t we all?”

And for a brief, suspended moment, Kunigami didn’t feel broken.

Chigiri leaned his head back, eyes drifting shut. “You know,” he murmured, “you’re different when you’re not glaring all the time.”

“And you talk too much.”

“That’s my entire personality.”

They stayed like that for a long while. Two people. One storm. No expectations. Just the quiet thrum of rain, the warmth of tea, and the breath between them. And Kunigami, watching the rise and fall of Chigiri’s chest, realized something he hadn’t dared to believe before.

It was almost midnight when Kunigami found himself sitting on the rooftop of their apartment building. The kind of night that wrapped around you like a heavy blanket, quiet, cool, and hauntingly still. The city below glowed softly in the distance, far enough from the noise to feel peaceful, but close enough that the lights still shimmered gently against the windows, like ghosts of movement and life.

He sat with his legs stretched out across the gravel, his body folded into the comfort of his hoodie, the fabric pulled low over his head as if he could hide from the world beneath it. Hands were buried deep in his pockets, except for one that held a slowly burning cigarette between his fingers. The smoke curled lazily into the air, sharp against the chill. He didn’t smoke often, he never had the urge to make it a habit but on nights like this, it gave him something to hold on to. The bitter scent was grounding. Real. Like the edge of something that reminded him he still existed.

He didn’t notice the rooftop door creak open behind him until he heard the unmistakable sound of soft slippers dragging across loose gravel. A sound that no one else could make quite like that.

“Seriously?” the redhead’s voice broke through the silence, hushed but amused. “I figured you’d be a ‘sit-alone-in-your-dark-room-and-brood’ type. But this rooftop loner vibe is... impressively cliché.”

Kunigami didn’t turn to face him. He was barely even moved. “I live in this building too,” he muttered, not quite a defense, but not an explanation either.

“So do I,” Chigiri replied with a shrug in his voice.

Without any hesitation, Chigiri sat down beside him, close enough to feel his presence, but not so close as to invade his space. He always seemed to know just how much distance Kunigami needed, even when Kunigami didn’t know it himself.

“I didn’t think anyone else used this spot,” Kunigami said quietly, his eyes still fixed on the horizon where the city lights blinked like distant stars.

“I sneak up here sometimes when I can’t sleep,” Chigiri murmured. “Tony can only handle so much emotional burden before he just... swims away from me.”

Kunigami let out a slow breath, the faintest ghost of a chuckle passing his lips as he flicked ash from the end of his cigarette. The wind was colder this high up, brushing against his skin like a warning. But it was cleaner too. The city didn’t feel as suffocating here.

“You always smoke when you’re thinking?” Chigiri asked, his gaze flickering toward the small glow of the cigarette.

“I don’t think,” Kunigami replied dryly. Then, after a pause, he stubbed it out against the gravel and stepped on it without ceremony.

Chigiri watched him and smiled softly, tilting his head. “Lie better.”

There was a long beat of silence, heavier this time.

And then Kunigami spoke, his voice low. “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”

The confession hung between them like fog.

Chigiri didn’t rush to fill it. He simply nodded. “That makes two of us.”

With that, he pulled something out from the pocket of his hoodie, a small notebook, clearly well-used. The cover was cluttered with faded stickers, pen marks, and a corner that had been folded too many times. It looked like it had been with him for years. Maybe longer.

He opened it slowly, with the kind of reverence usually reserved for sacred things.

Kunigami raised an eyebrow. “What’s that?”

“My list,” Chigiri answered, his tone light.

Kunigami looked at it again. “List of what?”

Chigiri turned his head slightly and gave a sideways smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes but tried. “Things I want to do before I die.”

The words hit like a stone in Kunigami’s chest.

He stiffened, his breath catching for a fraction of a second. He didn’t say anything, but Chigiri noticed. Kunigami knew he noticed. And yet, Chigiri didn’t pull back or apologize. He let the silence sit. Let the weight of his words hang in the air like rain before it falls.

“I call it a bucket list for the living,” Chigiri continued, softer now. “Because most people only start making these when it’s too late. I didn’t want to wait until then.”

Kunigami’s voice came out rough. “Why now?”

Chigiri glanced at him and shrugged, like the answer was obvious. “Why not?”

He flipped to a page in the middle and held it out so Kunigami could see. The page was filled with messy, looping handwriting.

It read:

1. Take a photo in a photo booth

2. Teach Tony how to swim in a circle

3. Give away 100 paper cranes

4. Fall in love

5. Sleep over at someone else’s apartment

6. Share a secret on a rooftop

7. Watch the sunrise at the beach

8. Dance with someone in the rain

Kunigami’s eyes scanned each line slowly, but they stopped at number four.

"Fall in love."

He stared at it for a long time. “Some of these are stupid,” he said, but his voice lacked any real bite.

Chigiri just grinned, completely unbothered. “All of them are stupid. That’s what makes them worth doing.”

Kunigami looked back down, eyes lingering again on number four. “Have you done any of them?”

Chigiri nodded. “A few. I once crashed at my friend’s house for a weekend. And this one—” he pointed to number six, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “It counts now.”

Kunigami blinked. “You think this qualifies?”

“You’re here. I’m here. You just shared something real. That’s rare. The city lights are trying their best. Close enough, don’t you think?” He laughed softly, the sound warm against the cold air.

The rooftop light above them flickered slightly, casting Chigiri’s face in soft amber hues. His eyes looked calmer in the dim light, not as vibrant as during the day, but deeper, more reflective.

He looked like someone who had learned how to live even while carrying invisible bruises.

“What about you?” Chigiri asked suddenly. “You got a list?”

Kunigami scoffed. “I’m not like you.”

Chigiri didn’t flinch. “That’s a shame,” he said, voice gentle but firm. “I think you’d be really good at it.”

“Good at what?”

Chigiri smiled. “Living.”

Kunigami looked away, his jaw tightening. “I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

“Then start with mine,” Chigiri said.

Kunigami’s eyes flicked toward him, uncertain. “What?”

“Pick one,” Chigiri offered. “Borrow it. Steal it. Rewrite the whole thing if you want. But do one of them. Try.”

Kunigami stared at the notebook, his fingers brushing against the edge of the paper like it might burn him.

“I’ll do it with you,” Chigiri added, a bit more shyly this time. “We can be stupid together.”

Kunigami shook his head slowly, but the corners of his mouth twitched. “…You’re unbelievable.”

“I get that a lot.”

They sat in silence after that. But it wasn’t empty. It was quiet in the way that meant something was beginning.

After a long pause, Kunigami let out a low breath and whispered, “Fine.”

Chigiri’s eyes lit up. “Really?”

“One,” Kunigami said, holding up a single finger. “Just one.”

“Okay, okay,” Chigiri grinned. “What one?”

Kunigami hesitated for a long moment. Then, without looking at him, he said, “I want to see fireworks while having a picnic.”

Chigiri blinked and then his entire face bloomed into a smile so bright it felt like sunrise. “That sounds perfect. There’s a summer festival next week, actually.”

“I didn’t say I’d go to a festival.”

“Booo,” Chigiri pouted dramatically. “You’re no fun.”

Kunigami rolled his eyes, but the smallest smile pulled at the edge of his mouth.

“In that case,” Chigiri clapped his hands together, “while we wait for that, let’s do something from my list!”

Kunigami sighed, already regretting this, but he nodded. “…Fine.”

They began the next morning, earlier than either of them was used to being awake. It was still dark when Kunigami dragged himself out of bed, half-regretting the agreement he'd made the night before. His limbs felt heavy, his mind foggy, and every fiber of his body wanted to crawl back under the blankets.

By the time they arrived at the beach, the sky was still cloaked in navy blue, with only the faintest trace of light creeping over the horizon. Kunigami grumbled under his breath with each step, complaining about the cold sand slipping into his shoes, about the chill in the wind that bit through his hoodie, and about how utterly ridiculous it was to be awake at this hour on purpose.

Chigiri, on the other hand, looked far too cheerful for someone who'd woken up before dawn. He walked barefoot, carrying a towel under one arm and a thermos in the other. His hoodie was pulled over his head, his long red hair loosely tied back in a messy ponytail that still managed to look effortlessly perfect. He laid the towel down on the sand without a word and sat cross-legged, his feet bare, his eyes already locked on the sky.

Kunigami sat beside him, not close enough to touch, but near enough that their shoulders shared the same silence.

The wind was cold, but there was something calming about the sound of waves crashing softly in the distance. The ocean stretched out endlessly ahead, a black sheet shimmering under the dim starlight, waiting to be set on fire by the sun.

They didn’t speak.

The sky began to shift slowly, minute by minute, dark blue bleeding into a soft lavender, then into pinks and oranges, and finally, into that gold-drenched glow that painted everything in quiet beauty. As the first sliver of the sun peeked above the water, casting long beams across the sand, Chigiri finally whispered, “It’s beautiful.”

But Kunigami wasn’t looking at the sun.

He turned his head slightly, eyes resting on Chigiri’s face, the peaceful curve of his smile, the glint of morning light reflected in his eyes, the way he breathed in like he was soaking in the world.

And Kunigami answered, softly but clearly, “Yeah.”

Later that same day, as they made their way back from a small café near the beach, Chigiri buzzing with leftover sunrise energy and Kunigami still clutching a half-drunk cup of black coffee they passed a run-down convenience store.

Out front, nestled between a rack of expired soda cans and a half-broken vending machine, sat a forgotten photo booth. The neon sign above it flickered with stubborn life, buzzing faintly against the hum of the street.

Chigiri stopped in his tracks, eyes lighting up. “Wait. Number one on the list.”

Before Kunigami could ask what he meant, Chigiri had already grabbed his wrist and dragged him toward the booth.

“What the hell—”

“No time! Magic waits for no man!”

They squeezed into the cramped booth. Chigiri immediately plopped down on Kunigami’s lap like it was the most normal thing in the world, legs tangled with his, their faces inches apart.

The camera gave them a three-second countdown.

First click: Kunigami blinked, caught completely off guard. Chigiri was already laughing, head tipped back, eyes closed in joy.

Second click: Chigiri threw up a peace sign, his grin stretching wide. Kunigami fought the smirk creeping onto his face but didn’t win.

Third click: Chigiri leaned into him, cheek resting against Kunigami’s shoulder, expression softer now.

Fourth click: Kunigami, without even realizing it, looked at him.

Just him.

As they stepped out, Chigiri took the photo strip and tucked it carefully into his notebook. He didn’t say anything about the way Kunigami had looked at him, but he noticed it.

They didn’t stop.

That afternoon, they tried to teach Tony how to swim in a perfect circle. It was ridiculous, obviously, but Chigiri was convinced the goldfish was responding. Kunigami just shook his head and muttered, “He’s literally a fish,” but stayed and watched anyway.

And then, they spent the remaining hours on the floor of Chigiri’s apartment, folding paper cranes with a mess of colored origami sheets between them.

Tony swam in wide, lazy loops in his bowl while Chigiri patiently guided Kunigami’s large, clumsy hands through each fold.

Kunigami scowled in frustration. “Why does this damn paper keep tearing?”

“Because you’re folding it like it insulted your whole life,” Chigiri laughed. “Gentle, Rensuke. It’s origami, not a hostage negotiation.”

Kunigami muttered under his breath but tried again.

Chigiri watched him, resting his chin on his palm, and smiled soft and quiet and full of something he didn’t say out loud. There was something beautiful in the way Kunigami focused, the way his brows knit together and his mouth tugged in concentration. It was the kind of look people wore when they were building something with care.

When Kunigami finally held up a (mostly straight) crane, Chigiri clapped with exaggerated pride. “Congratulations! Your paper son is only mildly deformed.”

“…Thanks, I guess.”

Days passed in small, significant moments.

Until one evening, Kunigami returned home to find a flyer folded, damp, and jammed halfway under his apartment door like someone had tried to shove it through during a rushed hallway sprint and just barely succeeded. He stood there for a moment, staring down at it in vague annoyance, debating whether it was worth the effort to pick up. For all he knew, it could’ve been one of those weekly community ads or another landlord notice about power maintenance.

Still, something about it tugged at him.

He bent down, picked it up, and unfolded it slowly. The corners were soggy, the paper wrinkled and soft from water damage, but scribbled in bold pink marker across the top, in unmistakable handwriting.

“We should go—for your list. And also, for Tony. –C.H.”

Kunigami blinked.

Below the message, printed in cheerful bubble letters, was a brightly colored flyer for the upcoming local summer fireworks festival.

"Fireworks by the riverbank! Live music. Food stalls. Pet-safe zone! Starts at 7PM. Bring your friends, bring your pets, bring your smiles."

Kunigami stared at the flyer a while longer, thumb brushing over the corner. The handwriting made it too personal, somehow. The kind of thing you couldn’t just ignore or throw away, even if part of you wanted to.

“For Tony?” he muttered aloud, a dry laugh escaping his throat.

That damn fish.

But twenty minutes later, Kunigami found himself lying back on the couch, holding his phone in his hand with his thumb hovering over the screen. He exhaled slowly before typing out a reply, hitting send before he could second-guess it.

Kunigami: Fish don’t care about fireworks.

The reply came not even a minute later.

Chigiri: Tony is cultured. I raised him well.

Kunigami snorted.

Kunigami: Tony is a goldfish.

Chigiri: Tony is my son.

He stared at the screen for a few more seconds, lips twitching into something between amusement and disbelief.

By 6:40 PM, Kunigami was standing out in the hallway, hoodie zipped all the way up, hands shoved deep into his pockets, heart thudding harder than he wanted to admit. He didn’t know why he was waiting so early, he never cared for punctuality when it came to social things, mostly because he avoided them but tonight felt... different.

Maybe it was because the thought of standing among all those people, of watching fireworks light up the sky by himself again, made something inside his chest coil tightly.

Or maybe it was because, as much as he hated to admit it, he didn’t mind seeing Chigiri smile.

Even if he pretended not to care.

The door across the hall creaked open, overly dramatic in a way that immediately gave away who it was. Kunigami turned his head just slightly and saw Chigiri standing there in the frame, hair tied back in a loose ponytail, wearing a soft red button-up that swayed lightly around his waist, and jeans that looked as comfortable as they were worn-in. Hanging from his bag strap was a ridiculous goldfish keychain that sparkled in the hallway light.

And in one hand, as if it were completely normal, he carried a small clear plastic bowl with none other than Tony swimming slow, judgmental laps inside.

“Ready?” Chigiri asked, grinning like the answer was supposed to be obvious.

Kunigami blinked once, eyebrows raising. “You’re seriously bringing the fish.”

Chigiri lifted the container slightly. “He’s my plus-one.”

Kunigami turned to walk. “I’m leaving.”

“Wait—wait!” Chigiri rushed after him, laughter bubbling behind his words. “You look nice, by the way.”

Kunigami paused mid-step, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye. “It’s just a hoodie.”

“Exactly,” Chigiri said, matter of fact. “And you wear the hell out of it.”

Kunigami looked away quickly, muttering something under his breath as he kept walking.

Chigiri smiled but didn’t push the moment further. He simply followed, steps light, almost bouncing.

The festival was more chaotic than Kunigami had expected.

The street was alive with movement and noise, children darted between stalls with glowing toys and candy-stained cheeks, dogs barked as their owners pulled them gently through the crowd, and music pulsed from unseen speakers. The smell of grilled skewers, fried batter, and sugar mixed thick in the humid evening air, sticking to clothes and skin.

Chigiri moved through it like he belonged, like the noise and the lights were old friends. He pulled Kunigami along without hesitation, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease.

“This way! I want dango,” he said, already halfway across the street.

Kunigami followed, exasperated. “You just ate a hot dog ten minutes ago.”

“That was Tony’s,” Chigiri replied without missing a beat.

Kunigami stopped. “You fed your fish a hot dog?”

“No,” Chigiri said innocently. “But I made him watch.”

Kunigami sighed and kept walking.

They passed food stalls, booths where kids folded paper animals with help from old ladies, stands selling glowing lanterns, and finally they reached the goldfish scooping station. Chigiri stopped in front of it, peering into the tank with wide eyes, the fluorescent lights catching the red in his hair.

“You know, this is technically fish abuse,” he whispered conspiratorially.

Kunigami stepped beside him. “Then don’t tell Tony.”

Chigiri turned his head, met his gaze, and said very seriously, “He thinks you’re his uncle now.”

Kunigami rolled his eyes. “I’m not.”

“You are,” Chigiri insisted. “We had a talk earlier. He respects you.”

“You’re insane.”

Kunigami huffed a quiet laugh, but there was a softness behind it that hadn’t been there weeks ago. A kind of easiness he hadn’t felt in years. Chigiri noticed it. He didn’t say anything, but the warmth of it hovered between them like something fragile and good.

Eventually, they found a quiet spot near the riverbank. The crowds thinned there, the music distant, the glow from the stalls softened into a warm haze. Chigiri spread out a picnic blanket, then carefully set Tony’s bowl in the center, nestling it between the folds of a towel like it was the most precious thing he owned.

They sat down, shoulder to shoulder, knees bent, arms brushing once in a while when either of them shifted.

The sky above was beginning to darken, deep purple streaks crawling across the horizon.

“You ever go to festivals before?” Chigiri asked after a long silence.

Kunigami hesitated. “Once. When I was a kid. My mom dressed me in this stupid yukata and dragged me to one. Made me try to catch a goldfish with one of those paper scoops.” He looked down at his hands, fingers curling slightly. “I dropped it on the way home. Cried about it the whole night.”

Chigiri giggled, soft and bright. “Goldfish karma.”

Kunigami shot him a look, but his lips twitched. “And you?” he asked, voice low.

“I used to go every year with my family,” Chigiri said, his voice quieter now. “It was kind of our tradition. Each of us picked a food stall and treated the rest. My mom loved candied apples. Dad always got grilled squid. My sister only ever got soda. Every single year.”

His smile faltered, just a little. “I stopped going after the accident.”

Kunigami turned slowly. “Accident?”

Chigiri didn’t look at him. He looked at the water.

“Three years ago,” he said softly. “Car crash. They were driving home from a weekend trip. I was supposed to be with them, but I stayed behind… for something stupid. They never made it.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t empty either. It held weight. Respect. Sorrow.

“I’m sorry,” Kunigami said quietly.

“Thanks.” Chigiri hugged his knees to his chest. “For a long time, I hated everything. I hated myself for not being in that car. And then I hated myself for being grateful I wasn’t. I went in circles. Blamed everyone. Everything. But that didn’t bring them back.”

Kunigami didn’t speak. He just listened.

“So, I started small,” Chigiri continued. “Folding paper cranes. Talking to Tony like an idiot. Making stupid lists. It made things hurt less. Made things mean something again. And now... I get to bother you.”

“You’re not annoying,” Kunigami said suddenly, and too genuinely to take back.

Chigiri blinked, startled. “Whoa. Are you okay?”

Kunigami looked away, cheeks faintly flushed. “Shut up.”

And then pop.

A firework burst into the sky above them. Gold and wide, like it had been painted with stars.

Chigiri gasped, eyes lighting up. “It’s starting.”

More followed, blues, reds, silvers, cascading ribbons of color across the sky. They crackled and shimmered, reflected in the river like ghosts of fire. The sound echoed in Kunigami’s chest.

Chigiri leaned back on his hands, head tilted upward, eyes full of wonder.

“God, I love fireworks,” he whispered. “They’re so loud. So beautiful. And so fast. Like they know they won’t last, so they burn as brightly as they can.”

Kunigami didn’t look at the fireworks.

He looked at him. “You really do love life,” he murmured.

Chigiri turned, caught off guard by the softness in his voice. “I do,” he said. “Every messy, beautiful, ridiculous part of it.”

Kunigami was quiet for a long time. Then, in a voice barely louder than the breeze, he said, “I don’t know how to do that anymore.”

“You don’t need to know how,” Chigiri replied, gentle and certain. “You just need to want to.”

Kunigami looked back up at the sky. He let out a long breath. “I think I’m starting to.”

As the final fireworks painted the night in a bloom of brilliant gold, Chigiri leaned his head against Kunigami’s shoulder. For a moment, Kunigami stiffened, unfamiliar with the contact, unsure of what to do with the quiet warmth suddenly pressed against him.

But slowly and hesitantly he relaxed. The ache in his chest didn't feel so heavy.

Maybe, he thought it was okay to feel this. Maybe it was okay to hope.

Even just a little.

The days after the fireworks felt... lighter.

Not because Kunigami suddenly transformed into someone else. He still walked with his hands deep in his hoodie pockets. He still avoided eye contact with his neighbors in the hallway. He still stared at the ceiling most nights, waiting for the ache in his chest to dissolve.

But something had shifted.

The silence in his apartment didn’t press quite so hard against his ribs anymore. And when the light came in through the window in the mornings, golden and lazy, it didn’t feel like an intrusion, it felt like a soft invitation. And that was new.

So when Chigiri showed up at his door and told him that he was invited to his friend’s birthday party, Kunigami didn’t shut the door in his face.

Though he absolutely wanted to.

“I’m not good with parties,” Kunigami muttered, standing in front of the bathroom mirror, towel still draped around his neck. His hair was damp, sticking stubbornly in every direction, and his hoodie clung slightly to his shoulders from the heat of his too-long shower.

He stared at his reflection with a tired frown, trying to decide if he looked more irritated or simply like he hadn’t slept well in months. Maybe it was both.

Behind him, sprawled across his bed like it belonged to him, Chigiri was folding another paper crane. This one was made of striped red-and-white paper, like a candy wrapper flattened out and repurposed for something more delicate.

“It’s not a party,” Chigiri replied lazily, lifting the almost-complete crane between two fingers to examine its wings. “Well… It’s just a few of his friends, a cake, and potentially one goldfish if I manage to sneak Tony into my bag without anyone noticing.”

Kunigami turned from the mirror with a dry look. “You’re not bringing the fish.”

“Tony deserves to see joy,” Chigiri argued, not even glancing up.

Kunigami blinked slowly. “...Your friend’s name is Joy?”

Chigiri smirked, finally making eye contact. “No, but he acts like one. Besides, he’s emotionally stable. That’s rare these days.”

Kunigami let out a quiet, exhausted groan as he rubbed the towel against his hair. “I already regret agreeing to this.”

“You’ll survive,” Chigiri said with a small grin, tucking the crane beside a small army of others on the nightstand. “It’s his birthday. And he’s my only friend who knows I’m a mess and still chooses to stick around.”

“That’s comforting.” Kunigami replied flatly.

Chigiri laughed, unfazed. “You’ll like him,” he promised, getting up from the bed and stretching. “And if not, you can sit in the corner, drink some juice, and glare at people like you usually do. It’s your superpower.”

Kunigami tugged his hoodie over his head, hiding the faint color rising in his cheeks. “I’m only going because you asked.”

Chigiri’s grin widened. “I know.” There was a beat. “I also baked the cake,” Chigiri added proudly.

Kunigami paused halfway through pulling up the zipper. “That’s... brave.”

Chigiri narrowed his eyes. “Shut up and help me with the frosting.”

Chigiri's friend’s apartment was only fifteen minutes away, but for Kunigami, it felt like traveling to a completely different world. The second he stepped through the door, he was hit with a sensory overload of colors, scents, and sounds. String lights hung from every corner of the ceiling like tangled stars, pulsing gently between warm hues. Paper chains ran across the walls, hand-twisted and clearly homemade. A small banner stretched over the living room wall with a message painted in uneven, joyful brushstrokes.

"You Survived Another Year, Woo!"

The place smelled like vanilla candles and something citrus, like someone had tried to bottle a mood and succeeded.

Kunigami barely had time to process it all before someone barreled into Chigiri like a missile.

“YOU’RE LATE!” the stranger yelled with a grin too big for his face. “I’VE AGED TEN MINUTES SINCE I TEXTED YOU!”

Chigiri staggered under the impact of the hug, laughing breathlessly. “We’re literally right on time!”

The stranger finally pulled back, yellow eyes flashing with curiosity as they flicked to Kunigami. He tilted his head, eyes scanning him like a puzzle.

“Oh?” he said, voice playful. “And who’s this tall drink of brooding?”

Kunigami straightened out of instinct. “Kunigami,” he said firmly.

“Is that your name or your vibe?” the stranger teased.

Chigiri quickly stepped in, placing a hand on his friend's shoulder like someone holding back a very excited dog. “Meguru, behave. He’s my plus-one.”

Bachira gasped theatrically. “You brought a plus-one?! You never bring anyone.”

Chigiri shrugged, eyes flicking toward Kunigami with something warm and private. “Trying new things.”

Bachira clutched his heart, swaying dramatically. “You’re growing.”

Kunigami turned toward Chigiri with a side-eyed glance. “This is the friend you said was emotionally stable?”

“I lied,” Chigiri whispered, biting back a grin.

The evening passed in a blur of sensory chaos and chaotic affection.

There was loud music with a playlist of early 2000s dance. The cake leaned slightly to the left, the frosting that they did was uneven and too sweet, but Bachira announced it was “made with love,” so everyone cheered anyway.

Kunigami remained mostly in the background, sitting stiffly on the edge of the couch with a paper cup full of apple juice that had dinosaurs printed on it. He didn’t talk much, didn’t move much.

He watched Chigiri laugh so hard he nearly slid off the couch and onto the carpet, clutching his stomach as tears gathered in the corners of his eyes.

He watched Bachira grab Chigiri by the wrist, drag him to the center of the living room, and twirl him like they were in the middle of some musical, both of them singing off-key, both of them radiant.

He watched Chigiri look back at him, more than once, smiling in that quiet way.

And Kunigami felt something strange.

It wasn’t jealousy, not really. Not quite.

It was... longing.

That ache in his chest that never seemed to disappear flared a little. Not with pain, but with awareness. Of how long he’d been alone. Of how much he’d taught himself not to want moments like these.

He’d forgotten what it was like to live beside people who weren’t pretending.

Later, when the cake was gone, and the music had played through the same song three times without anyone noticing, Chigiri nudged Kunigami toward the sliding glass door that led to the balcony.

“I know that face,” Chigiri murmured as they stepped into the cooler night air. “You’re overwhelmed.”

Kunigami sighed, leaning his arms against the balcony railing, the city lights flickering below them. “Your friend is a lot.”

“He really is,” Chigiri agreed.

“And the cake was… dry.”

Chigiri barked out a laugh. “Sorry I used oat flour. I was trying to be considerate.”

Kunigami gave a small shake of his head, but his voice was quieter this time. “But… it wasn’t awful.”

Chigiri glanced up at him, surprised. “That’s high praise, coming from you.”

“I didn’t hate it,” Kunigami admitted. “That’s something.”

Chigiri bumped their shoulders together gently. “You stayed longer than I thought you would.”

Kunigami was quiet for a moment. “You asked me to.”

Chigiri’s expression softened.

“You did great,” he said sincerely.

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You showed up,” Chigiri replied. “That’s everything.”

Kunigami looked down at him, truly looked, and for a second, he wondered what Chigiri saw in someone like him, someone hollowed out, weathered, and stubborn.

“You really believe that?” he asked.

“I do,” Chigiri said, without hesitation.

And in that still moment, something shifted in Kunigami again, another thread quietly pulled loose in the tightly wound knot of his grief. It didn’t unravel everything, but it loosened something. Just enough.

“I like seeing you like this,” Chigiri murmured then, so soft that it could’ve been carried away by the breeze. “Here. Present.”

Kunigami turned his head. “I’m not good at it.”

“You’re better than you think.”

A pause.

Then Chigiri leaned on the railing, gazing out at the glowing city, lights twinkling like far-off stars.

“Hey,” he asked, casually. “What do you want to do next?”

Kunigami blinked. “Next?”

“From the list,” Chigiri said. “You need to add more. You’re allowed to want things now.”

Kunigami stared down at the street below. “I haven’t thought about it.”

“You should,” Chigiri said, his voice almost dreamy. “Life doesn’t wait, you know.”

Kunigami turned to him. The boy who had wandered into his life with a loud voice and bright eyes and refused to leave. Who brought paper cranes and goldfish and unbearable honesty into the quiet, hopeless place he’d been existing in.

“I’ll think about it,” Kunigami said quietly.

Chigiri smiled.

And for the first time in a long, long time, Kunigami didn’t feel like he was clinging to someone else’s joy just to keep from drowning. He felt like he was learning how to swim now.

The building’s laundry room was buried deep in the far end of the basement, a place most tenants only visited out of necessity. The flickering overhead light had been broken for months, casting the room into a dull, sickly yellow glow. The concrete floors always felt like ice, even in the summer, and there was always the faint, unpleasant smell of mildew clinging to the walls.

It was nearly midnight when Kunigami trudged down the stairs, a half-empty laundry basket under one arm and his hoodie pulled tightly over his head. He hadn’t planned on doing laundry this late, but the pile of worn shirts in his room had reached a level of desperation even he couldn’t ignore. He figured it would be a quick cycle—wash, dry, done.

But the moment he turned the corner, he noticed something strange. A thin sliver of warm light leaking from the partially open laundry room door. It flickered, not like the broken bulbs overhead but more like candlelight.

Kunigami’s brow furrowed. He stepped closer, pushing the door open with a soft creak.

The hum of a dryer echoed faintly in the room.

And there, curled up against the metal machine with a blanket wrapped tightly around his shoulders, was Chigiri.

He was sitting cross-legged on the cold concrete floor, his head leaned back against the wall, breath rising and falling in slow, shallow waves. His eyes were closed, hair slightly messy, and in front of him sat a single tiny blue birthday candle, burnt down to a pool of wax next to three plain white paper cranes.

A weak flashlight flickered beside him like it was on its last breath.

Kunigami froze in the doorway, uncertain whether to speak or leave. But the sound of the hinges groaning under his weight stirred Chigiri.

“…Rensuke?”His voice was groggy, thick with exhaustion.

Kunigami stepped in slowly, shutting the door behind him to keep the hallway light from pouring in. “Why are you sleeping down here?”

Chigiri didn’t lift his head. He gave a lazy yawn and murmured, “Wasn’t sleeping. Just… meditating. Badly.”

Kunigami crouched beside him, arms crossed, his voice low. “You’re freezing.”

Chigiri shrugged under the blanket. “The blanket helps.”

“You could’ve gone upstairs.”

“I know.” He opened his eyes then, gaze soft and unfocused. “But I like it down here… on this night.”

There was something about the way he said it that made Kunigami pause.

“…What night?”

Chigiri didn’t answer right away. His eyes were fixed on the blue wax now hardened on the floor, his fingers twitching slightly near the corner of the blanket.

Finally, his voice came, quieter than before. “It’s the anniversary.”

Kunigami’s throat tightened. “The accident?”

A slow nod.

“I come down here every year,” Chigiri said, barely audible. “Just me and the machines. I lit one candle. Make a wish. Then I sit until the air stops feeling like it's swallowing me.”

Kunigami glanced at the three white cranes again. They were neater than the others he usually folded, stiff and pristine, like he’d put too much care into every line.

There was a slip of paper near the candle, creased from folding, but Kunigami couldn’t read the words from this angle.

He didn’t ask what it said.

Instead, he crouched lower, voice softer. “What do you wish for?”

Chigiri’s smile was small, tired. “The same thing every year.”

Kunigami waited.

Chigiri reached over and gently touched the tip of one of the crane’s wing. “I wish that, somewhere out there… someone who’s hurting worse than me can find peace.”

Something in Kunigami’s chest cracked, not a sharp pain, but a slow, spreading ache. A wound made visible.

“You make that wish… every year?”

Chigiri nodded. “Because someone always needs it. More than me.”

The words hung between them like dust in the air.

Without thinking, Kunigami sat down beside him. Their shoulders touched this time and enough to feel the other’s warmth through the blanket.

His voice came low. “I think it worked.”

Chigiri turned, startled.

“You wished for someone hurting to find peace,” Kunigami said, voice tight, “and I think… I was that someone.”

The silence that followed was heavy, not because it was awkward, but because it mattered. Because the words were still settling into the cracks between them.

Chigiri didn’t say anything. His eyes shone, not from the candlelight, but from something else he wasn’t letting fall.

“When I moved in,” Kunigami continued, “I wanted nothing to do with anyone… especially people like you. You were too bright. Too full of life. I didn’t know how to be around someone like that. Like you. It pissed me off.”

“Understandable,” Chigiri whispered, eyes glistening.

He exhaled shakily. “But now… I don’t want to go back. Not to the way things were. Not without the cranes. Or Tony. Or you.”

Chigiri gave a trembling laugh. “You say that now…”

“I mean it.”

There was another pause. Then, quieter than before, Kunigami asked, “Did you make the wish for me this year?”

Chigiri didn’t respond. But his fingers moved, brushing lightly against Kunigami’s hand. His touch was hesitant, gentle. Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to hold on. But Kunigami didn’t pull away. And in that quiet laundry room, surrounded by lint and hums and melted wax, they sat.

Kunigami didn’t hate it anymore. Those quiet knocks that came mid-morning or late at night. The soft, familiar rhythm of Chigiri’s knuckles against his door had once been something he ignored, something that annoyed him, something that reminded him of how far away he’d drifted from life. But now… it had become routine. Safe. Almost like a heartbeat he’d learned to recognize.

And lately, Chigiri lingered longer.

Some days, he’d flop onto Kunigami’s living room floor without a word, surrounded by colorful paper scraps and the soft rustle of folding. The television would be on, playing something neither of them were really watching. Kunigami would sit on the couch, his legs spread out, arms crossed, pretending he wasn’t glancing at Chigiri every ten seconds as the boy folded another crane with casual precision and quiet focus.

There was peace in that silence.

But that morning, it changed.

Kunigami had been getting ready to make coffee when he noticed something slipped under his door. At first, he assumed it was just another flyer, but as he picked it up, he realized it was a paper crane.

Lime green. A little uneven. But folded with the same familiar care.

Tucked into the wing, in a looping marker, there was a simple message.

"Meet me on the roof. Bring tea."

Kunigami had snorted under his breath, rolling his eyes even as a small tug of warmth rose in his chest. He grumbled about how he wasn’t anyone’s delivery boy, about how ridiculous this was, about how tea wasn’t even his thing but somehow, thirty minutes later, he found himself carefully pouring hot tea into a thermos and heading upstairs.

When he stepped onto the rooftop, the wind was cool, and the sky overcast with soft streaks of pale gold. Their blanket was already spread out near the far end.

Chigiri was already there.

He was sitting cross-legged, his red hair tied loosely behind him, notebook resting open in his lap. The breeze pulled gently at the pages. And thankfully, mercifully, Tony was not in attendance.

“You brought your list,” Kunigami said, settling down beside him and placing the thermos between them.

Chigiri smiled without looking up. “I added things.”

He turned the notebook toward Kunigami so he could read it clearly. At the top, scribbled in familiar bubble handwriting.

Hyoma’s List (v2)

9. Say goodbye to my family properly

10. Be kissed on a rooftop

Kunigami blinked, the last item sticking to his thoughts like honey. He tried not to react but his eyes lingered too long.

“…Subtle,” he muttered, voice lower than he intended.

Chigiri didn’t miss the way Kunigami's ears flushed slightly. But he didn’t tease him. Instead, he smiled, gaze fixed on the sky, the edge of melancholy tucked under the curve of his lips. “I figured if I’m going to live out the end of my story, I might as well do it with flair.”

Kunigami stiffened. His hand twitched beside the thermos. “Don’t talk like that.”

Chigiri’s tone was light, but his eyes betrayed something deeper. “Like what?”

“Like this is your end.” Kunigami’s words came out sharper than he meant. He didn’t know how to soften them.

There was a beat of silence.

Then Chigiri looked away, the breeze tugging a strand of hair across his cheek. “It’s not a sad ending if you make it beautiful.”

Kunigami couldn’t respond to that. The sentence was delicate and devastating, and it lodged somewhere deep inside him like a splinter beneath the skin. He wanted to say don’t you dare go anywhere, or you’re not allowed to vanish, or I just started breathing again, and it’s because of you.

But the words wouldn’t come. So instead, he asked, carefully, “Why that last one?”

Chigiri glanced down at the list, fingers brushing over the inked number ten.

“Because I’ve never been kissed in a way that felt like I mattered.”

The words were soft. Honest. And they gutted Kunigami.

“I’ve kissed people before,” Chigiri continued, gaze distant now. “Some flings, some attempts at something more. But it was always rushed. Or awkward. Or something I wanted to mean something more than it did. I just want one kiss that’s honest. Even if it’s the only one. Even if it doesn’t last.” He laughed quietly, but there was no humor in it. “Told you it was stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” Kunigami said, his voice rougher than he intended. “It’s not.”

Chigiri turned his head, surprised. “You’re the one who said it was stupid before,” he pointed out, his tone laced with mild amusement.

Kunigami looked away, heat rising in his neck. “Yeah, well… I was joking. I got it now. Wanting something real.”

The silence returned comfortably this time. The kind that lets thoughts stretch and settle.

Then Chigiri asked, “Do you have a list yet?”

Kunigami hesitated. Then, slowly, he reached into the pocket of his hoodie and pulled out a single folded piece of paper. It wasn’t clean or decorated. Just a torn notebook page with five items, scrawled in block letters. The edges were crumpled, as if it had been carried for too long in too many pockets.

He handed it to Chigiri.

The redhead took it carefully, like it was something fragile.

Rensuke’s List

1. Play soccer again

2. Call my mom

3. Apologize to my sisters

4. Laugh without faking it

5. Fall in love. Carefully.

Chigiri’s eyes stopped at number five. His breath caught. “You…”

Kunigami rushed to speak, suddenly flustered. “It doesn’t mean anything. I just wrote what I used to want. Before everything. I’m not saying it’s going to happen.”

But Chigiri wasn’t laughing.

Instead, he smiled genuinely. Not the teasing kind. Not even the soft one he wore when folding cranes. This one was different. It felt warmer. More real. It felt like sunlight hitting a window in the dead of winter.

“Number five’s a good one,” he said softly. “Even if it’s careful.”

Kunigami took the paper back, folding it slowly. “You’re the reason I even wrote it.”

Chigiri blinked, eyes wide. “Oh?”

“You’re making me want things again,” Kunigami said, voice low.

For a second, Chigiri didn’t seem to breathe. His lips parted like he wanted to respond but no sound came out.

Instead, he said, quieter now, “Can I add something to your list?”

Kunigami raised an eyebrow. “You can’t just—”

“Too late,” Chigiri interrupted, already pulling a pen from the spine of his notebook. He scribbled something beneath number five with a smile that was half mischievous, half hopeful.

When he handed it back, Kunigami read the words.

"6. Kiss someone on a rooftop."

He stared at it for a long moment. Then, slowly, he looked back at Chigiri.

“…You want to check that off now?”

Chigiri tilted his head, his expression soft and unsure. But his eyes were shimmering, bright as firelight. “Do you?” he asked quietly.

Kunigami didn’t speak.

Instead, he leaned forward, slowly and carefully, like he was still learning how to reach for things again. Like he was afraid it might slip through his fingers. Chigiri didn’t move. He barely blinked.

When their lips met, it was something gentler. Deeper.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t performative or filled with breathless urgency.

It was warm.

It was a kiss that said thank you.

It tasted like morning tea and unsaid things.

When they pulled away, foreheads still pressed together, breaths mingling in the rooftop air. Chigiri whispered, “Number four… and ten.”

Kunigami smiled faintly, eyes closed. “Number five… and six.”

And for the first time in a very long time, it didn’t hurt to want something.

But at that moment, Kunigami didn’t know they were slowly running out of time.