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There’s no grand entrance. No spectacle of the prince returning home, no big announcement of a hero victorious. Only the gentle click as the door falls shut.
Haruka looks up from their place on the couch. They’d figured out a long time ago they can see the entryway if they tilt their head just so without getting up. Or at least, they can see the shadow of it. He hasn’t bothered to turn the light on yet. A minute. Two. He still stands in the dark.
“You alright?”
Seiya jumps in his place, flinching back further into the shadows. Teeth flash a bit too quick, a bit too practiced. “You look like a giraffe.”
Michiru mutes the TV next to them. She, at least, has the decency to turn completely to look at him, glowing backlit in electric haze. It’s late, Haruka notices belatedly. The dying blue light paints them all in muted grays and hides most of Seiya’s face. But the TV light catches the pink of his nose and the downward glint of his eyes. His hand rubs across his chest almost absently, his shoulders desperately curving inwards.
Shit .
Michiru sees it, too. She’s up in a fluid moment, gliding towards him on her own personal current. One hand stills the rubbing at his chest, her other reaching to his face. The world cuts away as they watch his shoulders shrink into his sweater even more, watch his head sink down to her touch, hear his shaky breath from across the room. Words, soft and meant only for the two of them, float on her soothing tone and Haruka sees him nod. Without her, he’d stay at the door the whole night. Somehow they all just know. So she leads him by the hand.
Any other night they’d have a quip. Some bright jab to make him roll his eyes. Any other night, Seiya wouldn’t need to be invited into Michiru’s arms and to settle both their heads in Haruka’s lap. Any other night he’d have launched himself into Haruka’s world. Crashing and crowing, throwing them off balance. Still keeping the distance of before but flirting on the edge of something more in the shameless way of life Seiya bathes in.
But tonight. Tonight they’re still. Soft. Fingers - string calloused and athlete rough - ghost along his skin and hair. This Haruka can do. This they know. They both coax his hands to relax, for the tight line of his shoulders to ease into something more like his usual slouch. Michiru presses her lips to his collar and Haruka hums something without melody. They give the television back its voice, the background murmur settling over the room.
“What happened?” Haruka asks after a long while. The man on the screen gives a dramatic speech about something - grocery stores or food stands maybe? - from literally on high. The man dramatically leaps with a flourishing cape - Seiya’s thousand yard stare seemingly focused. He’s stiff against Haruka’s leg. Stiff under their hand. Michiru picks up Haruka’s hum, a steady counter to the on-screen hero’s jingle. Breathe, love .
“Locker room,” Seiya finally answers after the commercial break. Someone lowers the sound again until all Haruka can hear is Michiru’s humming and the scratch of his voice. The tension in his shoulders could snap something - his spine, or maybe something far worse - and they’re almost afraid to touch him. Michiru presses another kiss under his jaw, smoothing out the collar of his sweater. He lets out a slow breath, but Haruka catches the extra swell below Michiru’s hand.
Shit
“I lost it.”
Haruka’s hand stalls mid-air on its journey to his hip. Tuneless humming cuts off abruptly as they both register what he means. Seiya’s gaze still bores a hole through the wall about the tv. A vein throbs behind his jaw and something shimmers suspiciously in the wells of his eyes. His muscles twitch, urging to shrink into the fabric of his sweater. It bunches awkwardly as he shifts. Hitches up and flashing skin. His hands scramble to pull it back before it traitorously exposes anything more.
“Hey…”
“I lost it.” The words seem to fall out of him like little pebbles, rattling in his mouth while he chokes on air. Michiru’s hands smooth the hem back into compliance as he gasps. “I lost it and then these… I dunno, jocks? Frat boys? Fucking…. Fuck... fuckdudes came in only wearing towels and grabbing at each other and making jokes and one noticed me and I just shoved my sweater on and left as fast as I could but I -”
“Hey.”
Until that moment, they hadn’t realized how quiet they had all been. Normal volume suddenly sounds like shouting across the room. But it keeps him from spiraling once his voice breaks. His eyes finally flash upwards to meet theirs. For a second, Haruka is actually worried he’ll cry. That’d be a new thing for the two of them honestly. Not bad . Just new. Broken sobs are much different when heard through the safety of a shared wall or door. But Haruka recognizes the shattered, self-loathing glint in those midnight blues. The one that holds back the unsure release. The one that desperately yearn for comfort. So they recalibrate.
His pulse hammers under their thumb, tilting his head into their touch. There’s a breath. Two. Then the kiss is wet with salt. Someone grabs Haruka’s fingers, joining the grip on his hair. It must hurt. It’s not at all a gentle hold. There’s teeth clattering and his nose presses awkwardly against Haruka’s. But the sob Seiya breathes against the corner of their mouth is a different pain. Familiar. And shared now as Haruka swallows it down.
The television sings a cereal commercial and Michiru hums to it off key when they come back into focus. The world spins on - the boy falls apart on the couch between the two of them. Bit by bit until all that’s left are pieces and tears and a soft, soft sweater. The world spins and outside the night brings stars. Stars Haruka has every plan to put him back together with now they know where they stand.