Chapter Text
“Okay, hear me out,” Shuichi said, voice scratchy from too little sleep and too much coffee. “What if—just what if—I went back to school and got another degree?”
Angie didn’t look up from where she was lining up paint bottles by hue and frequency of divine vibes. “Mmm. And what would this new degree be in, exactly?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Shuichi mumbled, rubbing his temple. “Something useful. Architecture. Psychology. Pottery science.”
“That’s not real.”
“I could make it real.”
Angie smiled softly, still not looking up. “Shuichi, sweetie, you stayed up all night again, didn’t you?”
“No.”
She glanced at him.
“…Maybe.”
She set the last paint bottle down and finally turned around, clasping her hands behind her back. “And this sudden urge to academically rebirth yourself… came after?”
“A nightmare about being chased by Kokichi through a university campus,” Shuichi muttered, staring blankly at the counter. “He had a megaphone. I couldn’t outrun him.”
Before Angie could respond, the front door flew open with the enthusiasm of someone who had definitely never known a quiet entrance.
“SAIHARA-CHAN!” Kokichi bellowed, hair a little windswept, hoodie only half-zipped, and phone raised above his head like a victory banner. “Put down your overpriced emotional vintage brush set! I found us a free pottery class!”
Shuichi flinched so hard he nearly knocked over the tip jar.
Angie blinked, tilting her head. “That was fast.”
“What was fast?” Shuichi asked, already looking exhausted.
“The universe answering your ridiculous request,” she said with a smile.
Kokichi dashed up to the counter, practically vibrating. “It starts in an hour. No fees. No RSVP. Just mud, a spinning wheel, and a very bored instructor named Seiji. You have to come with me.”
“I—what? Why?”
“Because I can’t be trusted alone with slippery clay and impulse control issues!” Kokichi said brightly. “Also, we get to keep whatever we make, and I fully intend to sculpt a cup shaped like your face.”
Shuichi glared at him. “Do you ever walk into a room like a normal person?”
“Only funerals,” Kokichi replied without missing a beat. “So, are you coming or what?”
Shuichi hesitated. Glanced at Angie. She smiled and raised a single, sage-like finger. “Go forth and mold, young ones.”
He sighed. “Fine. But if you make me touch anything weird, I’m leaving.”
Kokichi grinned. “It’s just a pottery class, Saihara-chan. Everything is weird.”
The studio was tucked between a yoga center and an aggressively fluorescent frozen yogurt shop, as if the building itself couldn’t decide whether it was a place of peace or gastrointestinal danger.
Inside, the room smelled faintly of damp earth, clay, and lavender cleaning wipes with one to ten people scattered around. There were a dozen pottery wheels, scattered stools, and a whiteboard at the front that read:
“Welcome to Pottery with Seiji :)”
The smiley face looked like it had seen better days.
Kokichi stepped in like he owned the place. “I love it here,” he declared. “The vibe says: ‘We won’t judge your questionable life choices as long as you shape them into something round.’”
Shuichi hovered just behind him, still looking like he wasn’t entirely convinced this wasn’t a trap. “Do we… need supplies?”
Seiji, the instructor—mid-thirties, beanie, dead-eyed but emotionally present—peeked up from a lump of clay he was stabbing with a plastic knife. “Clay’s in the back. Wheels are clean. No politics.”
“What about emotions?” Kokichi asked.
The older man stared down at him. “No promises.”
Both men claimed a wheel near the window. Kokichi immediately began stacking blobs of clay on top of each other like a cartoon snowman.
Shuichi sighed. “We’re supposed to make something functional, Kokichi.”
“I am!” he said, gesturing to his growing tower. “This is a… well, a vase-slash-cup-slash-conversation starter.”
“It looks like a cursed beehive.”
“Exactly.”
Despite himself, Shuichi started working too. His hands were slower, more careful—sculpting something that vaguely resembled a bowl. Or maybe a lopsided plate. He couldn’t tell. At some point, Kokichi poked his fingers into the side of Shuichi’s piece, creating two dents.
Shuichi glared.
Kokichi grinned. “Now it has dimples. It’s cute.”
“You’re going to lose a hand.”
“And then I’ll sculpt my new one out of clay. Problem solved.”
Eventually, the class winded down, and they stood side by side, both covered in clay smears. Kokichi’s project had somehow evolved into a deformed mug with Shuichi’s initials on it, a dramatic crack down one side.
“Behold,” Kokichi announced to no one, “my tribute to my favorite disaster. You.”
Shuichi stared at it, then laughed. It came out unexpectedly warm.
“I hate that I like it,” he muttered.
“I get that a lot,” Kokichi said with a wink.
They left the studio with dried clay under their nails, Shuichi carrying a semi-functional bowl, Kokichi juggling his cracked disaster mug like it was an Oscar.
“So,” Kokichi said as they stepped into the evening air, “next stop: my place. We’re finishing that painting.”
Shuichi hesitated, the light from the sunset catching Kokichi’s profile in just the right way. He nodded.
“Yeah. Let’s do it.”
By the time they reached his building, the sky had cooled into that in-between blue—the color right before evening folds into night. The city was quieter here. Less chaotic. It made everything feel slower. Softer. Ouma held the door open with his foot, gesturing dramatically. “Welcome, once again, to the House of Memories.”
“Is that what you’re calling it now?”
“I change the name weekly. Last week it was ‘The Paint Splatter Penthouse.’”
“You live on the third floor.”
“Semantics.”
Shuichi stepped inside. He’d been here before—more times than he could count—but something felt different this time. Maybe it was the fading light pouring in through the windows. Or the quiet. Or the fact that the mess wasn’t quite as messy as usual, like Kokichi had straightened up just enough to make the place feel intentional.
The two-canvas painting still sat near the back wall, propped up and waiting.
Shuichi’s eyes lingered on it.
Kokichi noticed.
“No pressure,” he said casually, kicking off his shoes. “We don’t have to finish it tonight. But it’s been, like, months. So. You know. Might be fun.”
“Yeah,” Shuichi said, toeing his shoes off. “It might.”
They moved around each other without needing to speak. Shuichi set his pottery bowl carefully on the side table. Kokichi placed his cracked mug next to it, smirking at the ridiculous pairing like they were some kind of mismatched art duo.
“Want music?” Kokichi asked, already heading toward his speakers.
“Something not loud.”
“You’re no fun.”
“Something with instruments, Kokichi.”
“Ugh. Fine. I’ll spare you my techno-polka playlist.”
He put something on. Mellow. Wordless. Gentle guitar and soft static.
Shuichi sat cross-legged in front of the canvas while Kokichi pulled out their old paints—some dried, some still good, some probably never going to be used.
The second canvas stared back at them. Practically blank in the middle, except for the earliest brushstrokes from all those nights ago.
Kokichi handed Shuichi a palette without a word.
They sat side by side, the silence stretching comfortably between them as they both stared at the unfinished half.
“Do you remember what we were going for?” Shuichi finally asked, dipping a brush into soft blues.
Kokichi tilted his head. “I think the goal was chaos. And maybe some subtle emotional breakdowns hidden in swirls.”
Shuichi huffed a quiet laugh. “So, chaos with intention.”
“Exactly.”
They began to paint.
Not with the same rhythm as before. This time, it was slower. More hesitant. They were older now—months older, changed in tiny ways neither of them fully understood.
Their brushes moved. Sometimes in sync, sometimes clashing. The colors didn’t blend quite the way they used to. But they kept going.
Kokichi painted in soft, deliberate arcs, his strokes surprisingly careful for someone who once poured an entire bottle of orange paint onto a canvas “just to see what would happen.” He leaned forward occasionally, eyes narrowed in focus, tongue poking slightly out of the corner of his mouth.
Shuichi glanced over once, then looked away.
The room was filled with the quiet scratch of brushes against canvas. The music drifted lazily in the background—low, melodic, unobtrusive. The kind of sound that filled silence without interrupting it.
Shuichi reached for a pale gray. Added it to a space Kokichi had left blank.
He didn’t ask permission.
Kokichi didn’t complain.
Time stretched. Unmarked. Comfortable.
Shuichi didn’t know how long they’d been working. The light outside had dimmed further, the golden hour bleeding into indigo, and still they kept painting—occasionally switching brushes or mixing colors, sometimes reaching for the same shade at the same time and bumping hands.
Neither of them said anything when it happened.
Kokichi hummed once—just a little sound under his breath—and reached for a streak of purple, adding it to a section Shuichi hadn’t touched yet.
Shuichi didn’t recognize the color. It wasn’t quite any of the shades Kokichi usually gravitated toward.
“It’s muddy,” Shuichi said softly.
Kokichi glanced at him. “It’s honest.”
Shuichi didn’t argue. He just nodded and added a smear of soft green nearby. Their styles clashed gently—not enough to fight, but enough to notice.
The silence felt different now.
Not heavy. Not uncomfortable.
Just… full.
Like there was something waiting beneath it.
Shuichi leaned back a little, brush still in hand. “It’s different from what I thought it’d be.”
Kokichi didn’t look up. “What did you think it’d be?”
“I don’t know. Something… cleaner, maybe. Less messy.”
Kokichi smirked faintly. “We’re not exactly minimalists, Saihara-chan.”
“No,” Shuichi said. “We’re not.”
Another beat of silence.
Then Kokichi set his brush down.
“You hungry?” he asked, almost too casually.
Shuichi blinked. “Kind of.”
Kokichi stood and stretched, his shirt lifting just slightly as he reached for the ceiling. “I’ve got frozen dumplings or… frozen regrets.”
“Do the dumplings require less effort?”
“Absolutely.”
They left the painting propped up against the wall and wandered to the kitchen. The overhead light hummed softly. Shuichi leaned against the counter, watching Kokichi toss a bag of dumplings onto the stove with the grace of someone who should not be near fire.
“I still don’t understand how you live like this,” Shuichi said.
Kokichi opened the cabinet and pulled out two mismatched bowls. “By not thinking too hard and occasionally bribing my landlord with coupons.”
Shuichi smiled without thinking. “Of course.”
The dumplings hissed in the pan. Kokichi leaned back against the counter next to him, shoulder brushing Shuichi’s just faintly.
The dumplings sizzled softly, the only real sound in the apartment now besides the occasional shift of their weight against the counter. Kokichi didn’t pull away from where his shoulder met Shuichi’s. Shuichi didn’t either. The contact was minimal. Barely anything. But it felt grounded. Real.
“You remember that time you almost burned your hand because you thought the stove was off?” Shuichi murmured after a moment, his voice low.
Kokichi rolled his eyes. “Almost is the key word, Saihara-chan. I survived. Thrived, even.”
“You ran your hand under cold water for twenty minutes while accusing the stove of betrayal.”
“That stove lied to me.” He paused. “It glowed in that ominous way like it was planning something.”
Shuichi snorted quietly. “It was just hot.”
“Well,” Kokichi said, waving a hand lazily, “it was a hot liar.”
Shuichi chuckled under his breath, the sound soft and fleeting. It made Kokichi glance over at him, just for a second. He looked at Shuichi’s profile—the relaxed line of his mouth, the faint curve of his nose, the way his lashes flickered slightly when he blinked.
Kokichi didn’t say anything.
Shuichi turned his head to the side ever so slightly, noticing the glance. “What?” he asked, the tone still light.
Kokichi shook his head. “Nothing. Just thinking.”
“Dangerous.”
“I do it so rarely,” he said dramatically, then turned back to check the dumplings.
Shuichi watched him move—watched the way Kokichi always acted like nothing could touch him, like he was always a little too slippery for the world to catch.
And still, somehow, he was right here.
The smell of food filled the air, warm and a little oily. Kokichi plated them without ceremony—one bowl in each hand—and held one out. Shuichi took it, fingers brushing his. “You really do live off frozen food,” he said.
“I’m a man of simple tastes.”
“I don’t think anything about you is simple.”
Kokichi paused then shrugged it off, heading back toward the living room. “That sounds like a compliment, Saihara~! You’re getting bold.”
He followed, quietly.
They sat side by side again, cross-legged in front of the unfinished painting. The lights were dim now, just the soft overhead lamp casting yellow over everything. Kokichi ate like he was starving. Shuichi ate slower, stealing glances every so often.
Neither of them acknowledged the fact that neither of them had moved their bowls far from where their knees touched.
The canvas stood before them—still waiting. Still unresolved.
Kokichi set his bowl down and sighed. “You wanna… get some air or something after this?”
Shuichi looked up. “Where?”
Kokichi didn’t meet his eyes.
“Somewhere quiet. I know a spot.”
Shuichi nodded slowly.
“Okay.”
They finished their food slowly, and for once, Kokichi didn’t rush to fill the silence with nonsense. The room felt lived-in—quiet but warm, like they’d stepped into the past without realizing it.
After a while, Kokichi stretched with a groan, flopping backward onto the couch and letting his arm dangle dramatically off the edge.
“My spine is forty-seven years old,” he declared. “I demand compensation.”
Shuichi let out a quiet laugh, standing to gather their bowls and set them in the sink before returning to drop onto the couch beside him. They didn’t turn on the TV. Neither reached for their phones. It was just… them.
For a few minutes, neither spoke.
Then Kokichi shifted, head leaning back against the cushion. “You know… I still can’t believe we went to the same high school and didn’t meet until way later.”
Shuichi leaned into the couch, eyes half-lidded. “Well, I only transferred senior year. I kept to myself.”
“Painfully so,” Kokichi said. “You probably vaporized anytime someone tried to talk to you.”
“Not far off.”
Kokichi squinted at him. “Wait—hold on. There was this rumor senior year about a transfer student. Everyone talked about him for, like, a week straight. Is that—was that you?”
Shuichi blinked. “What kind of rumors?”
“Oh, they were wild,” Kokichi said, grinning now. “Someone said you were a prodigy detective who solved a murder in middle school and had to transfer because the school was cursed. Another person said you were a foreign exchange student from Switzerland and couldn’t speak Japanese, but were fluent in Latin.”
Shuichi stared at him.
Kokichi continued. “One girl swore you were in the witness protection program and had fake fingerprints. And my personal favorite—someone said you wore gloves because you had a rare skin condition where if you touched someone too long, you’d see into their soul and reveal their deepest regret.”
Shuichi buried his face in his hands. “Oh my God.”
Kokichi cackled. “I knew it had to be you! The gloves, the mystery, the dramatic silence—it all makes sense!”
“I wasn’t being dramatic,” Shuichi groaned. “I was just awkward and terrified of social interaction.”
“Exactly! That’s the most powerful combo!”
Shuichi let out a soft, tired laugh, leaning his head back against the couch too. “That’s ridiculous.”
“No, it’s amazing. I can’t believe I was scared of you for, like, two whole weeks. I thought you could curse people.”
“I can’t!”
“Yeah, well. Try telling that to everyone who believed the soul-touch rumor. You were a full cryptid, Shuichi.”
He shook his head, but there was something like warmth behind his eyes. “Did you really believe all that?”
Kokichi smirked. “No. I thought the gloves were just your sad little emotional security blanket.”
He glanced down at him, smiling. “You’re not entirely wrong.”
They sat like that for a while—heads tilted back, conversation drifting into faint laughter, like they’d known each other far longer than they had. There was something deeply gentle about it. Safe, even. Like all the versions of themselves that had been misunderstood or misremembered by others finally had someone to laugh about it with.
Kokichi turned his head slightly.
Shuichi already had his eyes closed.
“…Uhm,” Kokichi said after a moment, quieter now. “You ever think about how weird it is? That we didn’t meet back then. Not really.”
Shuichi cracked one eye open. “Why?”
Kokichi’s voice dropped to something smaller. “Just thinkin’. Maybe if we had, things would’ve been different.”
Shuichi looked at him for a long second. His voice was softer when he answered.
“Maybe.”
Kokichi shifted beside him, pulling his legs up onto the couch and tucking them underneath him. “You know,” he said suddenly, voice still soft, “I used to make up rumors on purpose.”
Shuichi cracked an eye. “About other people?”
“No,” Kokichi smirked faintly. “About me. Way more fun that way.”
Shuichi snorted. “Of course you did.”
“One time, I told someone I was born with a third eye but it closed after I read too many cursed manga.”
“That’s not even slightly believable.”
“I know! They believed it anyway!”
Shuichi shook his head, lips twitching. “What else?”
Kokichi looked up toward the ceiling, thinking. “Let’s see… I said my parents were international jewel thieves once. Claimed I was related to royalty. Told my homeroom teacher I could astral project.”
“You are so exhausting.”
“Thank you.”
Shuichi looked over, a little slower this time. “Why did you do it?”
Kokichi didn’t answer right away.
He shrugged, leaning his cheek against the back of the couch.
“I guess it was easier than people asking real questions.”
That quiet settled again. Shuichi didn’t feel the need to break it, and Kokichi didn’t elaborate. They both knew what he meant. Neither of them had said it aloud.
Shuichi tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling like it had answers.
“I used to wish I could disappear,” he murmured. “Back then.”
Kokichi turned slightly toward him.
Shuichi went on, voice steady in the way that meant he’d already made peace with it. “Everything felt too loud. Too crowded. Like I’d gotten dropped into the middle of someone else’s life, and I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to play along or try to sneak out the side door.”
Kokichi was quiet.
Then, just as soft: “I probably would’ve followed you through that door.”
Shuichi’s eyes flicked to him.
Kokichi shrugged again. “I don’t know. I wasn’t exactly good at school. Or people. But I was good at disappearing.”
They both went quiet again.
The kind of quiet that feels like something might crack if you move too fast.
Eventually, Shuichi shifted, resting his arm on the couch behind Kokichi, elbow bent, fingers absentmindedly brushing along the edge of the fabric. Not touching him. Just… close.
“Let’s get out of here,” Ouma finally said after a beat, standing up before he could ask any further questions.
—
They didn’t rush.
There was no flurry of movement, no dramatic push out the door. Just the soft shuffle of shoes slipping back on, the rustle of jackets pulled from the back of chairs. Kokichi tossed on a hoodie—black and loose and still faintly smelling of old acrylics. Shuichi zipped up his coat halfway and grabbed his phone from the coffee table, only to leave it face-down without checking it.
Kokichi opened the door first, stepping into the cool air of early night. He didn’t say anything as Shuichi followed, locking the door behind him. The hallway was quiet. The kind of quiet that felt suspended—like the world had paused for just them.
They took the stairs instead of the elevator, each footstep echoing faintly off the worn concrete. Outside, the city had hushed to a low, breathing hum. Cars passed in the distance. A breeze carried the faint smell of salt and water.
Kokichi didn’t say where they were going. Shuichi didn’t ask.
They walked shoulder to shoulder, occasionally brushing against each other on narrow sidewalks. Neither pulled away.
Kokichi kicked a pebble once, watched it skitter ahead of them like it had somewhere important to be. “It’s not far,” he murmured.
Shuichi nodded.
They passed a closed flower stand, the petals behind the glass lit faintly by a forgotten bulb. A corner café turning chairs upside-down on tables. Someone walking their dog in a yellow raincoat even though it hadn’t rained.
The streets got quieter. Less city. More space.
Eventually, they turned down a path lined with crooked fences and sleepy trees, and just past the last bend, the ocean opened up in front of them.
The beach was small—more of a crescent-shaped cove tucked behind rows of old houses and quiet dunes. The sand glittered under the moonlight, untouched except for a single driftwood log and a couple broken shells near the shore.
Shuichi stopped for a moment, letting the breeze hit him. It was cooler here—sharper, clean.
Kokichi walked ahead a few steps, then turned and looked back.
There was something unreadable in his expression.
“This okay?” he asked.
Shuichi looked at him and nodded, taking in the view. The waves crashed against one another like they were trying to prove something far off in the distance. He waited a moment or too, just… listening to it.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “It’s perfect.”
The sand gave under their steps, soft and uneven, crunching slightly beneath their shoes. The tide was low up here, waves pulling back in long, lazy sweeps like the ocean had nowhere better to be tonight.
Kokichi walked with his hands in his hoodie pockets, occasionally glancing at the horizon like it might wink back at him. Shuichi kept close, watching their shadows stretch and blend in the silver moonlight.
They didn’t speak for a while.
Then Kokichi said, “I used to come here sometimes. Back in high school. When I wanted to disappear without really disappearing.”
Shuichi looked over. “Alone?”
“Yeah. Usually. Sometimes I’d sneak out late, sit here ‘til like two in the morning. Made up stories in my head about all the houses behind us. Pretended they were full of spies. Or ghosts. Or weird artists who painted with seaweed.”
Shuichi huffed a soft laugh. “Of course you did.”
Kokichi smiled faintly. “It felt safer that way. Pretending people had secret lives. That everyone was hiding something interesting instead of something sad.”
Shuichi nodded slowly, gaze fixed on the water. “I used to imagine things too. Not about people, really—just about… what things could’ve been like.”
“Like what?”
“Like… if I hadn’t transferred so late. If I’d been braver. If I hadn’t spent most of that year trying to make myself invisible.”
Kokichi kicked at a patch of sand. “You weren’t invisible. People noticed. They just didn’t get it right.”
“Yeah,” Shuichi said quietly. “You told me all the rumors, remember?”
Kokichi grinned, then looked back at the waves. “You know what’s funny? None of those rumors ever said you were kind.”
Shuichi glanced over. “Kind?”
“Yeah. Thoughtful. Quiet in a way that isn’t empty. Just… quiet.”
Shuichi blinked.
“I didn’t expect that,” Kokichi said. “When I first met you. I thought you’d be cold. Or fake. You had that look. Physically here but mentally elsewhere, like you preferred it that way and wouldn’t let anyone in. But you weren’t. You were just… good.” He paused, licking his lips. “Good to me.”
Shuichi swallowed, the words sticking somewhere soft inside him. “That’s… not what most people think of me.”
“Well, most people suck,” Kokichi muttered. “Or they’re too busy looking at gloves and rumors and made-up nonsense to actually notice what’s there.”
They walked a little further, their footsteps almost overlapping in the sand.
“Anything ever happen to you,” Kokichi asked suddenly, “that just… made you happy in a way you couldn’t explain?”
Shuichi thought for a moment. “Yeah. A few things.”
“Like?”
“There was a night when I was sixteen,” he said slowly, “when I stayed up past three a.m. reading a book I’d already read twice before. I’d forgotten how it ended, and when I finished it, I looked outside and saw snow falling. The street was completely quiet. No cars. No people. Just white.”
He paused.
“It felt like the world had made space just for me. Like it was okay to exist.”
Kokichi didn’t say anything right away.
Then: “That’s really nice, Saihara.”
Shuichi turned toward him. “What about you?”
Kokichi was quiet for a second longer. Then he smiled, small and real.
“There was this one summer,” he said, “when I stole this ancient inflatable pool from my neighbor’s garage. It was like, half-deflated and covered in weird stains. But I patched it with duct tape, filled it up with a hose, and sat in it for hours in the backyard.”
Shuichi blinked. “That… actually sounds kind of gross.”
“It was!” Kokichi laughed. “But I had this orange soda and these giant sunglasses, and I pretended I was some washed-up celebrity hiding from the press. And for some reason, that day felt perfect. Like I didn’t need anything else.”
Shuichi smiled.
They kept walking.
The water lapped at the shore a few feet away. The wind picked up slightly, tugging at their jackets. And still, neither of them stepped apart.
Eventually, their steps began to slow.
There wasn’t a conscious decision to stop—it honestly just happened. Their pace faded into stillness, and they found themselves standing in the soft dip of the beach where the sand was cool and flat, the moon reflecting long and low across the water.
Kokichi plopped down first, crossing his legs in the sand with a soft grunt. “I feel like my bones are sixty and my spine is a cautionary tale.”
Shuichi sat beside him, brushing sand from his palms. “I thought you were forty-seven earlier.”
“I aged during the walk.”
“Understandable.”
They sat shoulder to shoulder, watching the ocean breathe in and out.
Kokichi pulled his hoodie tighter around himself, arms wrapped loosely over his knees. “You ever miss being a kid?”
Shuichi tilted his head, thinking. “I miss not worrying. About the future. Or people. Or whether or not I’m doing anything right.”
Kokichi nodded. “Yeah. That part.”
They were quiet again, but this time it was softer. Reflective. The kind of silence that felt like it had hands of its own, holding them still.
Shuichi broke it gently. “You have any good memories from back then? Like, really good ones?”
Kokichi leaned his chin on his knee. “Mm. Yeah. There was this time in middle school—maybe sixth grade? I cut class for the first time ever. Just snuck out through the side gate and wandered around town. I ended up at this really boring office park with vending machines and like, one sad tree.”
He smiled faintly.
“But I found this cat. Just sitting in the middle of the parking lot, like it owned the place. I sat with it for like two hours. Didn’t even check the time. Missed the rest of school. But for some reason, it felt like I’d escaped something big. Like the world didn’t expect anything from me, just for a little while.”
Shuichi watched him in the dim moonlight, his voice quieter now. “What happened to the cat?”
“No idea,” Kokichi shrugged. “Never saw it again. But I left my sandwich there. That has to count for something.”
Shuichi smiled.
He looked out toward the ocean. The waves were pulling further out now, leaving glistening stretches of wet sand behind. A piece of seaweed drifted lazily in the tide.
“I used to love walking through the neighborhood when it rained,” Shuichi said. “Everyone else would go inside, but I’d take these long walks and pretend I was the last person in the world. Just me and the sound of water. I think I felt braver in the rain.”
Kokichi tilted his head. “You do have big ‘main character in a quiet indie movie’ energy.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You should.”
A breeze passed, lifting the ends of their sleeves and brushing through Shuichi’s hair.
Kokichi leaned back on his hands, eyes following the moon’s reflection as it shimmered across the water. “It’s weird,” he said after a while, “how time feels different when you’re with someone who actually sees you.”
Shuichi glanced over, brow lifted. “Sees you?”
“Yeah,” Kokichi said simply, like it was obvious. “Like—not just tolerates you or gets entertained by you, but sees you. The version you don’t even know how to explain.”
Shuichi didn’t answer right away. He looked out at the ocean again, watching the dark water swell and fall like breathing.
“I think I’ve spent most of my life trying to figure out what version of me people actually want,” he said softly. “And then trying to be that.”
Kokichi let the silence stretch just enough before responding.
“Well,” he said, voice quiet but warm, “I like this version.”
Shuichi looked at him.
Kokichi was already looking back, and for a moment, neither of them moved. The kind of moment where words would only cheapen something, where time seemed to press in gently around them like even the ocean was holding its breath.
Then Kokichi smiled—crooked and playful, but softer than usual.
“You’re a lot less annoying than I expected,” he added.
Shuichi snorted. “You’re a lot more complicated than I expected.”
“I am a man of depth, mystery, and expired coupons.”
“You’re a man of five mood swings and a hoodie you’ve owned since age sixteen.”
“Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Shuichi.”
They both laughed, but it faded slowly—leaving behind only that hum of something more.
Something still unnamed.
Shuichi drew his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them as the breeze rolled past again. The stars overhead had sharpened, clearer now in the stretch of open sky.
He looked sideways at Kokichi.
“I’m glad we met when we did,” he said, voice low.
Kokichi tilted his head. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Kokichi didn’t look away.
“Agreed.”
They stayed like that for a while—just breathing beside each other, eyes shifting between the stars above and the water ahead.
The world felt quiet. Not the absence of sound, but the kind of stillness that makes you aware of everything else: the wind tugging at fabric, the dull roar of the tide, the closeness of someone sitting inches from you and not moving away.
Kokichi leaned back again, elbows in the sand. His head tilted lazily toward the sky, his hair a soft mess of shadow and moonlight. The wind pushed it into his face, and he made no effort to fix it.
Shuichi turned to look at him.
And Kokichi looked back.
The glance lasted longer than usual.
A stillness stretched between them—not awkward, not tense, just… full. Like the moment had teeth but hadn’t decided whether to bite.
Neither of them said anything.
The ocean whispered behind them.
Kokichi’s expression didn’t shift, but something in his eyes softened—just a flicker, like maybe he knew what was happening.
Shuichi’s hand twitched slightly in the sand.
And then—very slowly—he started to lean forward.
Not dramatically. Not suddenly. Just enough to close that last, final distance. The one they’d always pretended wasn’t there. Kokichi’s breath caught—barely—but Shuichi heard it.
And just before Shuichi could reach him—
Kokichi pulled back.
Only a little. A subtle flinch, like instinct. Like…fear.
His eyes widened, not with alarm, but with something that felt close.
And then his voice broke through the quiet.
“Shuichi, I—No.”
It landed like a soft crash. “I.. I don’t like you.” He choked on an inhale, blinking rapidly. He stayed quiet for another second, finding the right words to use before eventually landing on being straight. That he doesn’t like men. Speaking to him so slowly like he was afraid to offend him.
No malice. No panic. Just truth.
The kind that makes everything fall still.
Shuichi froze.
His hand curled slightly in the sand, withdrawing just enough to leave space between them again. His breath caught in his throat, and for a second, all the warmth from earlier felt impossibly far away.
He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
Kokichi looked down.
He opened his mouth to say something else. Closed it. Opened it again.
“I didn’t mean—this hasn’t been a joke,” he said quickly. “I care about you. I really care about you. I just… I didn’t think—”
Shuichi finally shook his head. Not harshly. Just once.
“It’s okay,” he said, quiet and steady. “You don’t have to explain.”
Kokichi blinked, pained. “But I want to.”
Shuichi smiled.
It wasn’t bitter. Or fake.
Just small. Quiet.
Tired.
“You don’t owe me anything,” he said. “Really.”
Kokichi sat frozen, unsure of what to do with his hands or his expression. Like he wanted to fix something but didn’t know what had broken.
They sat in silence again, but it wasn’t soft this time.
It was the kind of silence that fills in all the spaces where a future could’ve gone.
Shuichi turned his eyes back to the ocean, watching the tide start to rise again.
And Kokichi, after a moment, stood. “I think I’m gonna head back,” he said, voice low.
Shuichi didn’t look at him. He just nodded.
Kokichi hesitated.
Then, quietly: “I’m so sorry.”
Shuichi didn’t answer.
And Kokichi walked away. He didn’t watch him leave.
He heard the sand shift under his boots. Heard the awkward pause—the kind that always meant Kokichi was glancing back over his shoulder, debating one last joke or excuse or word to fill the silence. But nothing came. Just footsteps growing softer. And then gone.
And still, Shuichi didn’t move.
The wind picked up again, brushing cold across his arms, but he barely felt it. The warmth from earlier had already left with Kokichi. Or maybe it hadn’t been real to begin with.
His eyes stayed on the horizon, watching the tide rise slowly over the footprints they’d made together.
The ocean never hesitated. It always moved forward.
He wished he could say the same.
It wasn’t anger that filled him—not really. No burning resentment, no venom curling beneath his ribs. He couldn’t be angry at someone for being honest. Kokichi hadn’t lied. He hadn’t manipulated. He hadn’t tried to hurt him.
He had just… been himself.
And Shuichi had been the one to misread it.
Or maybe not misread—maybe hope. Just enough to make the distance between them feel like it could close.
He drew in a slow breath, salt air sticking in the back of his throat.
God, he felt stupid. Not because he had feelings. Not because he’d leaned in. But because for a brief, flickering moment, he truly believed Kokichi would meet him halfway.
He’d let himself believe that maybe—just maybe—Kokichi’s constant presence, his jokes, his brushes of fingers, the late nights, the teasing… maybe it had all been something.
But it hadn’t. That didn’t make Kokichi cruel. It just made Shuichi wrong. Was he… terrible for feeling like this? Towards a man?
God.
He closed his eyes, pressing his palms to the sand behind him, feeling the earth cold beneath his fingers. The wind tugged at his hair. His jaw tightened.
Why had he let himself want this?
Why did he let it get so far?
Maybe it had been building slowly for a long time. In every shared brush of paint, every half-finished conversation, every stupid moment Kokichi had made him laugh when he didn’t want to. It had crept in quietly, like something familiar, like warmth.
And he hadn’t noticed it until it was already there—full and terrifying.
Maybe, in a way, he’d wanted to believe the universe was soft enough to let this happen. That someone like Kokichi—chaotic and sharp and endlessly complicated—could look at him and see more than just kindness or quietness. That he might see something worth loving.
Shuichi’s hands curled into the sand, and he let out a shaky breath. His eyes burned.
But he didn’t cry.
Not here. Not over this.
Instead, he let himself feel the ache of it. The quiet disappointment. The way a good thing could still leave a mark when it ended.
Because that’s what it was, wasn’t it?
An end.
Not explosive. Not dramatic.
Just soft and inevitable.
He sat there until his legs felt numb and his fingers ached from the cold.
And when he finally stood, brushing the sand from his pants, he didn’t look back at the spot where Kokichi had been.
There was no point.
He’d already memorized it.
—
Kokichi didn’t run.
But he wanted to.
His legs moved on their own, slow at first, then faster, crunching the sand beneath each step as he made his way back toward the trail. Back toward the city. Back toward anything that wasn’t the weight of what had just happened.
The moment replayed in his head like a broken projector—Shuichi leaning in, the soft shift of breath, the closing space between them. It had been so gentle, so quiet, so real, and Kokichi had—
Pulled away.
And said it.
He didn’t regret the truth. Not that part. He was straight. That wasn’t the lie.
But maybe everything before that moment—every teasing touch, every late-night message, every look that lasted a second too long—maybe those were.
Not lies, exactly. But carelessly shaped things. Things with edges.
He hadn’t meant to lead Shuichi on.
He hadn’t even realized it was possible.
But the look on Shuichi’s face when he pulled back—that soft, small smile, the way he didn’t even flinch, like he’d already prepared for rejection—it hurt.
And that surprised him.
He stuffed his hands deep into the pockets of his hoodie, walking faster now, almost to the street, almost to the comfort of noise and pavement and places where his breath didn’t feel so loud in his ears.
Fuck, what the hell was he thinking?
All this time, he’d thought their closeness was just theirs—their weird little bond, their rhythm, the inside jokes, the paint-splattered chaos. He thought Shuichi got it. That he knew none of it meant anything more than friendship.
That was Kokichi’s fault.
He’d made it fun. He’d made it easy. He made himself easy to be close to.
Because he liked it.
He liked Shuichi.
He liked making him laugh. Liked watching his guard fall just a little when he teased him. Liked the quiet comfort of their shared silences, the way Shuichi never demanded anything from him—not even understanding.
He liked the painting thing. That dumb, unfinished canvas. He liked their dumb pottery class. He liked being in his apartment and hearing Shuichi’s voice from the kitchen. He liked the way Shuichi muttered his name like a half-sigh, half-warning. He liked the way Shuichi sometimes looked at him when he didn’t think Kokichi would notice.
But it hadn’t meant anything more. Not to him. Not in the way it clearly had to Shuichi.
Now it just felt like all of it had been carefully stitched together into something dangerous.
He turned down a quiet street and passed the corner store they used to meet at sometimes—where Shuichi would roll his eyes while Kokichi bought sour candy and novelty gum and called it “dinner.”
His stomach turned.
He kept walking.
Did he really not notice?
Or had he noticed, and just let it slide because it felt good to be wanted like that? To be seen so clearly by someone who never asked him to perform or be funny or clever or anything but just… him?
The truth crept in slowly, like cold in his chest.
There had been moments.
Moments that should’ve made it obvious.
Like the time he fell asleep on Shuichi’s couch and woke up with a blanket draped over him and a note that said “Don’t fall off, idiot.”
Or the time Shuichi complimented his painting—not one of the dumb chaotic ones, but the real one. The one he’d hidden behind books. And Kokichi hadn’t known how to respond, so he joked and changed the subject.
Or the time Shuichi walked into the shop after being gone for a few days, and Kokichi had felt his entire chest lift like oxygen had walked in.
That should’ve meant something. That had to mean something. But it didn’t. Not in the way Shuichi hoped.
So now there was no taking it back.
He stopped walking somewhere halfway between nowhere and a place he should’ve recognized. A streetlamp buzzed overhead. The wind blew past again. He stood there, hands clenched in his pockets, throat tight.
“Fuck,” he whispered to no one.
He didn’t cry. He couldn’t.
He stayed grounded, gut hollowed out, realizing maybe for the first time that he wasn’t the only one who could get hurt.
He’d always known how to protect himself. How to dodge and laugh and shift the tone. Shuichi had let him in. And he’d stepped inside like it was a joke.
And now he didn’t know how to leave without breaking something.
He got home without remembering how.
The apartment was still warm. Still had their bowls on the counter. Their clay mugs from earlier. The painting was still there—two canvases, side by side.
One nearly complete.
The other still waiting.
Kokichi stared at it from the doorway. His stomach twisted.
He thought about all the nights they’d sat there painting, elbow to elbow, laughing. Thought about how Shuichi always looked so serious at first, and then always softened. How sometimes their hands would brush when they switched palettes. How Kokichi once dipped his fingers into Shuichi’s color mix just to annoy him, and Shuichi had looked at him like he liked it.
How had he not seen it?
How had he seen everything else and missed this?
Kokichi sat on the couch, hoodie still on, fingers twitching in his lap.
He couldn’t go back to the shop tomorrow.
He knew that immediately.
Not yet.
Not while it still felt like this.
Maybe not ever.
He wasn’t scared of facing Shuichi—not really. But he was scared of ruining what was left. Scared that seeing him again would only dig it deeper.
He wished he could fix it. He wished the moment hadn’t happened. He wished he had known sooner. But none of that mattered now. Because the moment had happened. And no one ever really comes back from that kind of moment unchanged.
He fell asleep on the couch without turning off the lights.
And when he woke up the next morning, everything felt colder.
It had been seven days.
Shuichi knew because he kept counting them without meaning to. Not out loud. Not deliberately. But in that quiet, mechanical way a person starts tallying the absence of something they hadn’t realized was constant.
The shop had gone back to normal, more or less.
Same bells over the door. Same quiet hum of ventilation. Same predictable rhythm of customers. Angie still floated through the aisles like a paint-scented ghost, humming to herself and rearranging displays that didn’t need rearranging.
But Kokichi hadn’t come in.
Not once.
No surprise visits. No chaos. No dumb jokes about palette names. No stupid sticker wars. No knocking things slightly out of alignment just to get under Shuichi’s skin.
It was quiet.
Too quiet.
And Shuichi hadn’t said anything about it.
Not even when Angie gave him that soft, knowing look the second day. Not when she offered to close for him. Not when she pulled out an old paintbrush with a chipped handle and said, “I miss the mess, don’t you?”
He just smiled, nodded, and kept ringing up customers.
But today—something felt different.
There was a box of new inventory by the counter. One Kokichi would’ve immediately tried to sneak into and pretend he lived inside. Shuichi opened it alone.
There was a sticker on the wall near the back that Kokichi had left behind—still crooked. Shuichi didn’t fix it.
He sat behind the register, fingers still and unmoving, staring at the space by the front window where Kokichi used to sit while waiting for him to go on break.
There was a brush in the supply rack he hadn’t touched since they painted together last.
The unfinished canvas was still at his apartment.
And suddenly—
God, it hit.
The shape of the absence.
Not loud. Not sharp.
Just quiet.
Heavy.
He turned his head toward the front of the shop, half-expecting—half-hoping—to see that ridiculous purple hoodie stroll through the door, to hear some awful pun or lazy excuse.
But no one came in.
No one had for the last ten minutes.
No one would.
He stood slowly, moving toward the back where the paint stock was shelved. He ran his fingers along the rows, letting his hand drift down the aisles without any real purpose.
Then he stopped in front of a familiar color.
Purple. The exact one Kokichi had always picked when pretending to be “mysterious and regal.”
His hand hovered over it.
And in the silence, the understanding came—not as a thought, but as a lesson.
The second canvas was never finished. Perhaps it was never supposed to be. Too many colors, not enough room.
Kokichi never came back to the shop after that.