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It’s a chilly night, and Yuta’s got a blanket wrapped around his shoulders as he curls up on his balcony. His breath curls into the air, little wisps mixing with the steam rising from the cup of hot chocolate in his hands. He’d quietly watched his dad stumble out the front door hours ago, and between that and Hinata staying overnight in school for event prep, he has the whole apartment to himself.
Usually, he’d use this rare opportunity to watch a few episodes of anime or finish up his schoolwork in blessed peace, but for some reason tonight he simply can’t. He’d tried; soon enough, he’d found his mind drifting in and out of focus, thinking about everything and nothing, and figured that he may as well accept the silent evening for what it is.
(Silent, because he refuses to acknowledge the tension brimming right under the surface, slowly, steadily, surely coming to a boil that’s long overdue.)
So, he’d made himself comfortable in the corner of their miniscule balcony, overlooking the dingy suburbs. The book he’d brought as an afterthought lays forgotten next to him. Tucked underneath his warm blanket, he blearily gazes at the swirling stars above- dotting the night sky with their glistening shine, idols in their own right, beckoning him to join them in the comfort of darkness and oblivion.
His eyes fall to the horizon; lined with misshapen houses and interrupted by the occasional puffs of thick smoke from gaping chimney-mouths. If he squints enough, he can almost see the silhouette of Yumenosaki, a deep-set shadow imprinted in the backdrop of the night sky. It’s glowing- pulsing and twinkling white-hot with turbulent youthful potential, a shooting star that Yuta can’t seem to grab on to.
(He lets himself submerge in thoughts of his brother, rocketing towards the future, leaving behind stardust and the ashes of things abandoned in favor of more, more, more. It’s comforting to think that even if he’s gasping and choking on the debris, the exhaust fumes, the dust of their his ultimately futile efforts, at least the one dearest to his heart can land himself in his rightful spot in the clear skies.)
(An airplane trundles by, red lights blinking their hello to Yuta. He slowly blinks back.)
Time passes. He’s not sure how long he sits there- long enough that his hot chocolate isn’t hot anymore, that time itself doesn’t feel like it moves or exists. Like it’s only him, alone, in his self-constructed bubble high above the rest of the world. It’s quiet up here- smells like burnt out cigarettes, the dying embers falling from the apartment above like thousand-degree comets and drying on his skin and staining his soul a dirty gray. There’s not a living being in sight. Nobody else exists, up here. Not even himself.
His phone vibrates short, staccato beats against his thigh. Yuta ignores it in favor of drowning in the thick, suffocating atmosphere he’d built around himself. Cup empty, eyes empty, head an empty waste of space- the only tangible things now are the stars, the ghosts of sensations long past, the miniature clouds he heaves from his lungs in shorter, faster bursts. It was bearable, then it wasn’t-
(The bubble bursts.)
and before he realises it his hands are gripping the edge of the iron railings in front of him, the ground as far below him as the skies are above him, 8 floors up and 8 floors down, and he thinks that aiming for both are really just one and the same- his foot lands on the rails, knuckles a bloodless white. Whether he ends up six feet under or high among the stars, he thinks, it’s the same damn thing. He’ll reach the same destination either way.
(What does it matter if he’s gone? He wasn’t wanted or needed; he’s just an add-on, a two-for-one nobody wanted, a tasteless copy. Maybe, if he returns to the stars he’d come from, his other half will finally be the whole he could never be, not since Yuta had taken that from him.)
He lifts his arm, stretches it to the stars even if his body obediently bends to the will of gravity and tilts downwards. Squinting, it almost looks as if the distance isn’t so far anymore. Like they’re on the cusp of his grasp.
He leans further forward-
-only for hands to grab at his waist, his hands, his legs. Frantic voices filter through the cotton and dyed fabric in between his ears, yet nothing sticks. What he registers is only that he’s being pulled away, from the bright lights, the fading shadows, the dream he’s been trying for so hard so long to reach-
“Yuta!”
He doesn’t register that he’s crying until he ends up inhaling salt and subsequently choking. The slow, steady fall of his tears leave trails of salt on his skin, like engine exhaust trails from jets passing by at speeds faster than his breath. His sweat-slick palms finally slip from their death grip on the railing, and he crashes to the floor.
He’s cushioned. It doesn’t hurt.
(Even though he knows he deserves it.)
It’s a night of realizations, apparently, because the tremors running through the hands secured around his limbs and gripping his heart forces him to acknowledge the almost furious quivering of his own extremities. His breath seeps out in rapid bursts.
Wet spots on his back, his left sleeve. They chill him to the bone in the night air, even moreso than the glacier-heavy weight of what he’d tried to do. Even in the dim of the moonlight, the flashes of maroon and violet hair is unmistakable. Unavoidable.
Unforgettable.
He summons all the energy left in his aching body and pushes himself upright. The octopus limbs coiled around him don’t loosen one bit- in fact, they tighten further, squeezing him close, as though through brute strength they can keep him grounded to his balcony even as the rest of him takes flight.
His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. He swallows once, twice.
A shaky breath out.
He doesn’t break the silence. Tsukasa does.
(Panting and glaring at him from beneath wet lashes, with a little bit of imagination Yuta can pretend that they’re still in school, post-practice, competing to see who reaches the gates first.
Tsukasa clearly doesn’t have that same train of thought in mind.)
“What were you thinking?” He swings his legs over Yuta’s, and thumps Yuta’s chest hard. “You- you idiot! You almost- you could’ve, you would have fallen, all the way down and, and-”
Pastel hands grip the collar of Yuta’s thin nightshirt, shaking him back and forth. He’s hiccuping, now, breath stuttering from rage, grief, despair. Yuta slowly blinks.
“Hinata mentioned it, hell we noticed it, asked you about it even, but we didn’t expect you to- to try this! If- if you’d fallen and left me, left us, what- how are we supposed to go on? How- what are we supposed to-”
His head bows as his body is weighted down from the force of his sobs. His forehead rests against Yuta’s shoulder. It grows damp. He does not continue.
A tiny, impossibly brittle voice floats up from behind him. Shinobu’s voice is trembling like the rest of him, fragile notes hanging in the air, a haunting melody Yuta has no desire to hear again.
“What are we supposed to do without you?”
Yuta says nothing. Shinobu keeps going.
“Hinata, he- he asked us to come visit, since you’ll either be alone at home, or with your father, and he didn’t want that. So we called, before we left, and, um, you didn’t answer. Even after we did leave, we kept calling, because we- we didn’t wanna intrude, but you didn’t answer, you never answered-”
His voice cracks on the last word. Takes a breath, and continues, in an even smaller voice.
“We got worried and rushed over. About, um, two blocks away, maybe? We saw you at your balcony, we started wondering why, then we saw that your hands were on the railing- so we ran. For you.”
An exhale into his back, from where Shinobu still has his face pressed in.
“Thank God we made it in time.”
(It’s so soft, so unlike the carefree boy he fell in love with, that Yuta’s not sure if he’s meant to hear it. He pretends he doesn’t, if only to save himself further agony for being the entire reason Shinobu’s in this state in the first place.)
They stay quiet, for a while after; as the two catch their breath and wind down, as Yuta attempts to clear the fog clouding his brain and stave off the sheer exhaustion threatening to pull him under.
Moonlight from high above casts an ethereal glow on the ones he loves, painting haloes and shooting stars in their hair and on their skin. The bulk of the thick atmosphere he’d constructed around himself has left. He tries to speak, has to swallow once because his throat is excessively dry, but the other two still freeze. Anticipating what he has to say. Bracing themselves for the worst.
It’s nothing important. Yuta wouldn’t do that to them, not immediately. “Do you guys… wanna take a nap?” Never mind that it’s the middle of the night. A nap sounds good.
They lift their heads, and they’re the most beautiful beings Yuta’s ever laid eyes on. It’s a wonder they’re with him- the mess, the inferior copy, the unwanted failure. A look is shared between them , over his shoulder, and Yuta’s too tired to decipher it. He’ll deal with the consequences later; right now, all he wants is his bed, and to hold both his lovers close.
They manage small, delicate smiles for him. It’s almost enough bring Yuta to tears again. Slowly they stand, tugging him up with them. He stumbles, and they catch him without complaint. With their support he makes it back into the apartment, headed straight for his bedroom. He collapses on his bed, face first, and feels the bed sink on either side of him.
He’s out before they’d even pulled the covers over him.
Good night, loves.