Chapter Text
Kosei arrived like sunlight through a cracked window—unexpected, warm, and a little too bright.
He wasn't like the others, Makoto thought. He was a boy, just two years older than he was, with dark, wavy hair that framed his face, and his eyes were a shade of green akin to a precious gem.
He talked easily, laughed loudly, and carried with him a leather-bound book so worn at the edges it looked like it might fall apart in his hands. The colour was faded, the pages dog-eared and scribbled with notes in the margins, as if it had lived a hundred lives before ever reaching the orphanage.
Makoto had watched him from a distance at first, as he always did. He thought Kosei would be like everyone else—here one day and gone the next. But the boy stayed.
He didn't barge into Makoto's silence. He lingered beside it.
Kosei told stories to the younger kids after dinner, huddled in a circle near the radiator. His voice danced through the air—soft when it needed to be, animated when it didn't. He read from the book like it was a map to someplace better. Someplace far from Tier D.
Makoto never joined the circle, but he listened from the hallway just outside, back pressed to the wall, sketchpad balanced on his knees.
Occasionally, he'd draw what he heard—a boy who lived on a planet with a single rose, a moving castle passing through mountain landscapes, a city in the sky, and so much more. Kosei's stories painted pictures in his mind, and Makoto's pencil gave them shape.
One night, as the story ended and the group dispersed, Makoto turned to leave—only to find Kosei standing a few steps away, watching him.
"You're the one who draws, right?" Kosei asked, not unkindly, but simply trying to remember correctly. "Makoto?"
Makoto froze, gripping the edge of his sketchbook tighter, and didn't reply.
Kosei stepped closer, crouching a little to meet his eyes. "You don't have to talk. I just wanted to say that, uh... that I like your drawings. You got the landscape right from last night's story."
Makoto blinked, his heart thudded in his chest like it had been caught doing something wrong.
But after a pause, he flipped the sketchpad around—slowly—and held it out.
Kosei's smile lit up his whole face. "Whoa… That's better than I imagined."
Makoto looked down, shoulders curling in.
"Hey," Kosei said gently. "It's okay. You don't have to say anything. I get it."
He sat down beside him, just close enough to share space, but not to touch.
"I talk too much anyway," Kosei added with a grin as he glanced over towards him, opening his book. "You can draw, and I'll read. Deal?"
Makoto hesitated, then, softly, gave the smallest of nods.
And just like that, something shifted—not loud, not sudden. Just a quiet place where two boys could exist without being asked to change.
And Kosei kept his word. He didn't push.
He still told his stories every evening—still lit up the room like a fire that never went out—but he always made time to sit beside Makoto afterward.
Usually they didn't say a word. Sometimes Kosei just read while Makoto drew, the silence between them becoming a rhythm all its own.
But Kosei didn't stop there.
It started at breakfast.
One morning, Makoto arrived at the long dining table to find Kosei already sitting in the spot he usually took—not across, not nearby, but right next to him. Their shoulders didn't touch, but they were close.
Kosei greeted him with a grin and a soft, "Morning," like it was normal. Like he'd always sat next to him.
Makoto didn't reply. He just sat down, stiff and unsure, eyes flicking to the side. Kosei didn't mind. He buttered his roll and started telling a story to the kid across the table about a goose that escaped a butcher and wreaked havoc.
Makoto didn't laugh, but his lips twitched. Just barely.
The next day, Kosei was there again. And the next.
Soon, it wasn't just meals.
He started swapping chores with other kids—often offering favours.
Makoto noticed. He noticed everything.
He'd glance over and find Kosei sweeping nearby with theatrical effort, occasionally making up stories under his breath like the broom was enchanted and trying to escape.
When Makoto knelt to scrub the baseboards, Kosei would settle in beside him, quietly humming or offering to do the corners.
He never asked why Makoto didn't talk.
He never called him weird.
He simply stayed.
It unsettled Makoto at first—having someone orbit so close. But over time, the tension in his shoulders eased.
The silence between them didn't feel heavy anymore.
It felt safe .