Chapter Text
Morning came the way it always did after a battle; reluctantly.
Grey light bled over the camp, softening the edges of tents but doing nothing to warm the cold that had settled into Guren’s bones. Soldiers moved quietly, speaking in low tones as if afraid their voices might disturb something fragile.
Or someone.
Shinya hadn’t shown up to the morning briefing.
Guren had noticed instantly.
He also pretended he didn’t.
He delivered the orders with the same clipped precision as always, ignoring the way his voice echoed too much in the empty space where Shinya should’ve been standing – slightly behind his shoulder, arms crossed, eyes bright and watchful.
After dismissing the squad, Guren exhaled into the quiet and rubbed his temples.
“You’re looking for him.”
The voice came from behind. Sergeant Narumi approached, hands tucked in his pockets, expression neutral.
“No,” Guren said too quickly.
Narumi raised a brow. “You scanned the entire perimeter while talking about supply lines.
Guren’s jaw tightened. “He’s a Major General. I expect him to be at briefings.”
“And you expect him everywhere else too.”
Guren didn’t answer. Silence settled again – thick, weighted.
Narumi sighed. “He’s doing weapons inventory. Said he needed some space.”
Guren’s chest tightened, sharp and immediate. “Space,” he repeated.
“Yeah.” Narumi hesitated. “From what, he didn’t say.”
But Guren knew.
And that knowledge sat in him like a splinter buried too deep to pull out.
★★★★
He stood with his back to the entrance, clipboard in hand, silver hair tied loosely at the nap of his neck. Sunlight streaked across his shoulders, outlining the slow rise and fall of his breathing.
He looked almost peaceful.
Guren knew better.
He walked in without announcing himself. Shinya didn’t turn.
“Inventory doesn’t normally require you to avoid people,” Guren said.
Shinya’s hand stilled, pen hovering above the page. A long moment passed.
Then, quietly, “Some people, maybe.”
Guren exhaled; the sound was sharper than he meant it to be. “Shinya–”
“No.” Shinya finally turned, eyes cool, expression controlled in that brittle way Guren hated. “Don’t say my name like you’re going to apologise.”
“I’m not.”
“Good,” Shinya said. “Beacuse you won’t mean it.”
Guren’s mouth opened – and closed.
Shinya set the clipboard aside. “What do you want from me?”
The question shouldn't have hurt; but it carved through Guren’s ribs like a slow, practiced cut.
“I want you to do your job,” Guren said.
“That’s not what you came here for.”
Guren looked away. “I came because you weren’t at briefing.”
“Ah.” Shinya nodded once. “So the only time you come looking for me is when I fail you.”
“That’s not–”
Shinya stepped forward. Not close enough to touch. Just close enough to force Guren to feel the distance he’d created.
“You break me in a hundred small ways,” Shinya murmured, “and then you get annoyed when I bleed in your direction.”
Guren closed his eyes.
He wished Shinya would yell.
He wished he would throw something.
He wished he would do anything but speak quietly – quiet hurt so much more.
“You’re overreacting,” Guren said, soft but wrong.
Shinya laughed.
It wasn’t a good sound.
It wasn’t a kind sound.
“You think this is overreacting?” Shinya whispered. “Guren… you ignore me until you need me. You push me away until you get scared I’ll leave. You cling to me without ever holding on.”
Guren flinched.
“And I let you,” Shinya said. “Over and over.”
Guren’s voice dropped. “I never asked you to.”
“And yet,” Shinya breathed, “You expect it.”
That landed like a blade tip. Not slashing – just pressing. Threatening.
Guren swallowed. “I don’t… I don’t expect anything from you.”
Shinya stepped closer.
This time Guren stepped back.
Shinya tried to smile, but it wavered. “And there it is.”
“There what is?” Guren forced the words out.
“You don’t even have to look at me to hurt me,” Shinya said softly. “Just existing in the same space is enough.”
Guren hated that the words didn’t sound like an accusation.
They sounded like confession.
He turned away. “This conversation is pointless.”
Shinya didn’t move. “Yeah. Talking to you usually is.”
Guren winced.
Then – because retreat was the only thing he was good at – he left.
He didn’t see the way Shinya’s fingers curled into fists the moment the tent flap closed.
He didn’t see the quiet, desperate exhale.
He didn’t see Shinya whisper to the empty air.
“Why do I keep doing this to myself?”
★★★★
Guren trained alone.
Shinya avoided him.
Neither addressed the gaping wound of a conversation they’d carved into each other that morning.
Guren spent hours hacking at a practice dummy until his hands blistered and bled. The rhythm of blade meeting wood should have soothed him. But it didn’t.
He kept replaying Shinya’s voice in his head.
You cling to me without ever holding on.
He swung harder.
You break me in small ways.
Harder.
And I let you.
Harder.
Eventually, the dummy collapsed.
Guren stared down at it, chest heaving, breaths ragged. Sweat dripped from his chin, mingling with the thin line of blood across his knuckles.
He pressed his forehead against the splintered wood and exhaled a single, broken word.
“Shinya…”
★★★★
He spent the afternoon training recruits, laughing too loudly at their jokes, offering correction with too much energy. Anyone watching would assume he was fine.
But the more he pushed himself, the more frayed he became.
At dusk, he finally retreated to the outskirts of camp, sitting atop a rusted Jeep half-consumed with vines. He stared at the dying sunset, kicking one boot absently against the bumper.
He felt hollow.
He felt furious.
He felt tired.
Mostly, he felt stupid.
Stupid for caring.
Stupid for wanting.
Stupid for letting Guren draw blood from him without ever using a sword.
“You’re an idiot,” he whispered to himself. “A hopeless, pathetic-”
Footsteps.
Shinya froze.
He didn’t look, but he knew the gait instantly.
Guren.
Of course.
Because the universe had a sense of humor, and it was cruel.
Guren approached slowly, as if afraid he might spook Shinya into running.
Shinya didn’t move, didn’t turn.
“Shinya,” Guren said quietly.
“No.” Shinya’s voice was strained. “Not tonight. Please.”
Guren stopped.
They stood in silence, the space between them colder than the air.
“I didn’t come to fight,” Guren said.
“Then what did you come for?” Shinya asked. It wasn’t sharp. It was worse. It was weary.
Guren swallowed. His voice felt thin. “I don’t know.”
Shinya finally looked at him.
Guren was standing a few feet away, shoulders tense, eyes shadowed. He looked like a soldier facing down something far worse than vampires.
He looked scared.
And Shinya hated that it still made his heart tighten.
“You always come find me when you don’t know what you want,” Shinya said softly.
Guren exhaled shakily. “I know.”
“And you expect me to stay.”
“I don’t.”
“You do.” Shinya swung his legs off the Jeep and stood. “You act like I’m something guaranteed. Like no matter how many times you tear me open, I’ll be waiting for you to try again.”
Guren’s voice cracked. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“But you do.”
Guren flinched.
Shinya stepped forward until they were an arms length apart.
“But the worst part?” Shinya whispered. “You don’t even need to try.”
The wind picked up, tangling Shinya’s hair and tugging Guren’s coat. The sun had died completely now, replaced by a darkness that swallowed everything except the thin, painful thread stretched between them.
Guren opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Shinya nodded, a small, tragic motion.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “That’s what I thought.”
He walked past Guren.
Guren didn’t move.
He couldn't.
He stood there until Shinya’s footsteps disappeared, and only then did he whisper – too late, too soft, to no one:
“I don’t know how to stop.”
★★★★
Shinya lay awake, replaying every word Guren hadn’t said.
Guren lay awake replaying every word he should have said.
Between their tents stretched only a few dozen feet of cold earth.
Between their hearts, miles of quiet bleeding things.