Chapter Text
Zenitsu had rehearsed everything.
The words had been lined up neatly in his head—what he would say, how he would say it, where he would pause so it didn’t sound like begging. He had practiced it so many times that the sentences no longer felt like his own. They were ready. Polished. Disposable.
The phone rang.
Once.
Twice.
Then—
“Hello.”
Kaigaku’s voice came through, flat and reluctant, like he’d picked up against his better judgment.
Zenitsu’s mind went blank.
Every sentence he had memorized vanished at once, wiped clean as if someone had reached in and erased them. His mouth opened, but nothing came out.
“…You there?” Kaigaku said.
“Y—yeah,” Zenitsu managed. His voice sounded distant, like it was coming from somewhere behind him. “I didn’t think you’d—”
There was a sharp exhale on the other end.
“…I’m sorry.”
The words were abrupt. Unpolished. Almost forced.
Zenitsu froze.
For a second, he was sure he’d misheard.
“I said,” Kaigaku repeated, more stiffly this time, “I’m sorry.”
Zenitsu couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard that from him.
He genuinely couldn’t. Not once since they were kids. Not after arguments, not after silences, not after things that should have been apologized for.
His heart slammed hard enough to make him dizzy.
“I—” he started, then stopped. Nothing followed.
Kaigaku clicked his tongue, irritated—at himself, more than anything.
“…About that night,” he continued, words tumbling out awkwardly. “The rain. I didn’t pick up. And the calls after that. I know I should’ve.” A pause. “I’ve been busy. Not in a good way. I should’ve said something.”
Zenitsu stared at the wet pavement beneath his feet, rain pooling around his shoes. His fingers felt numb. Different liquids mixed on his face., rainwater, tears that welled up in his eyes at some point. He couldn’t distinguish. But it didn’t really matter right now.
“Oh,” he said faintly.
That was all he could manage.
Silence stretched between them, thick and uncomfortable.
“…You still there?” Kaigaku asked.
“Yeah,” Zenitsu said. “I’m just—”
He wasn’t sure what he was. Shocked. Unsteady. Completely unprepared.
Another pause. Then Kaigaku spoke again, even more reluctantly.
“Hey. Do you remember that song?”
Zenitsu blinked.
“The… song?”
“The one you mentioned,” Kaigaku said. “About… kissing through the phone.”
Zenitsu’s breath caught.
“…Yeah,” he said. “I remember.”
Kaigaku sounded miserable.
“I still think it’s stupid,” he muttered. “Really stupid.”
Zenitsu waited, heart pounding.
“But,” Kaigaku’s voice turned lower, barely audible.
There was a faint shift of movement on the line. Fabric. A breath taken too close to the microphone.
Then—
A sound.
Soft. Brief. Almost nothing.
A quiet press of lips, filtered through static and distance.
But Zenitsu heard it.
He heard it.
The world tilted violently.
Every careful decision he’d made over the past months—every quiet resolve to leave, to disappear, to stop hoping—collapsed at once.
To hell with all of it.
To hell with distance.
To hell with silence.
“Kaigaku,” he said, breathless, laughing and shaking at the same time. Maybe still crying too, he heard himself sniffing.
“I’m coming over.”
“What—wait—” Kaigaku started.
“I don’t care,” Zenitsu said, already moving, already turning toward the street. “I’ll explain when I get there.”
“Zenitsu—”
The call cut off as Zenitsu broke into a run, rain soaking him through, heart blazing hot in his chest.
For the first time in months, the distance didn’t matter.
He was going to see him.
Right now.
Zenitsu didn’t remember hanging up.
One moment Kaigaku’s voice was still in his ear, sharp and flustered and real, and the next the line went dead as Zenitsu broke into a run, rain slicing into his face, lungs burning as if they were finally being used for something important.
He ran without checking directions.
He knew the way by heart.
Streetlights streaked past in broken lines. Cars hissed over wet asphalt, spraying cold water onto the sidewalk. His shoes soaked through within minutes, but he didn’t slow down. His phone was clenched tight in his hand, still warm, like proof that the call hadn’t been a hallucination.
I’m sorry.
The words replayed over and over in his head, unreal every single time.
Kaigaku didn’t apologize.
He never had.
Zenitsu laughed breathlessly as he ran, the sound ripped out of him by rain and wind. His chest hurt, but it was the good kind—the kind that meant something inside him had cracked open instead of closing shut.
He nearly slipped turning the corner onto Kaigaku’s street.
The building loomed ahead, lights scattered unevenly across dark windows. Kaigaku’s place was on the third floor. Zenitsu didn’t bother with the elevator. He took the stairs two at a time, heart hammering so hard he thought he might throw up.
By the time he reached the door, he was shaking.
He raised his hand. Hesitated.
Then knocked.
Once.
Twice.
There was movement inside. A pause. Footsteps.
The door opened.
Kaigaku stood there in a dark T-shirt, hair slightly damp as if he’d just run a hand through it too many times. His expression shifted the instant he saw Zenitsu—shock first, then something dangerously close to panic.
“You—” Kaigaku started. “What the hell are you—”
Zenitsu didn’t let him finish.
He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around him.
It wasn’t graceful. He knocked into Kaigaku’s shoulder, pressed his face clumsily into his chest, rain soaking straight through Kaigaku’s shirt. For half a second, Kaigaku stiffened like he didn’t know where to put his hands.
Then he exhaled.
And held on.
It was tight. Awkward. Desperate.
Zenitsu felt it in the way Kaigaku’s fingers dug into the back of his jacket, like he was afraid Zenitsu might vanish if he loosened his grip even a little.
“I came over,” Zenitsu said, muffled. “I told you I would.”
“I didn’t think you meant now,” Kaigaku muttered.
Zenitsu pulled back just enough to look at him. Rain dripped from his hair onto the floor between them.
“I meant now.”
Kaigaku stared at him, jaw tight. Then he swore under his breath and shut the door behind them.
The apartment was dim, lit only by a lamp in the corner and the faint glow from the kitchen. It smelled like coffee gone cold and rain and something familiar Zenitsu couldn’t place.
They stood there, too close, neither of them letting go completely.
“You’re soaked,” Kaigaku said finally.
“So are you,” Zenitsu replied.
Kaigaku glanced down, as if only just noticing. He huffed a quiet, humorless laugh.
“…You heard it, right?” he said.
Zenitsu nodded.
“You really—” He stopped. His throat tightened. “You really said you were sorry.”
Kaigaku looked away.
“Don’t make a big deal out of it.”
Zenitsu smiled, small and unsteady.
“I’m making a huge deal out of it,” he said. “I thought I imagined it.”
Kaigaku clicked his tongue, embarrassed.
“I wasn’t good at saying it,” he admitted. “I’m still not. I kept thinking I’d call you back when things slowed down. They never did.” A pause. “That’s on me.”
Zenitsu felt something warm bloom behind his ribs.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
Kaigaku frowned at him.
“…For what?”
“For answering,” Zenitsu said. “For apologizing. For that—” He gestured vaguely, then flushed. “The thing on the phone.”
Kaigaku groaned.
“I told you it was stupid.”
“It was,” Zenitsu said. “That’s why it mattered.”
Kaigaku looked at him for a long moment, then reached up and wiped rain from Zenitsu’s cheek with his thumb. The touch was careful, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed.
“Next time,” Kaigaku said, voice low, “don’t do that through a phone.”
Zenitsu’s breath caught.
“…Next time?”
Kaigaku’s gaze flicked away again, but he didn’t take his hand back.
“I mean,” he said stiffly, “if you’re going to do something embarrassing, at least do it properly...”
Before Kaiguku could finished his word, the man stood in front of him interrupt him, shut that mouth, which would never be honest, by pressing his lips hard on his aniki’s.
When their lips separated, Kaigaku’s whole face turned into a mature peach. He lifted his arm to cover up his shy face and look away. But he didn’t push Zenitsu away. Zenitsu could see the pale skin of his aniki infusing with enticing pink hues and heard his pounding heart clearly, like evidences, all pointed out that man who ceaselessly sneaked in his dream had the same feeling to him too.
Zenitsu laughed, the sound breaking out of him before he could stop it. It was messy and loud and entirely unrestrained.
“Okay,” he said. “Deal.”
They stood there a little longer, rain still dripping from Zenitsu’s clothes onto the floor, neither of them rushing to fix it.
Outside, the storm began to soften.
It didn’t erase what had come before.
It didn’t undo the silence, or the missed calls, or the months of distance.
But Zenitsu was here.
Kaigaku was holding onto him.
And for now, that was enough.