Work Text:
The afternoon light filtered through the dorm's windows, catching dust motes that danced like tiny stars. Yuma lay sprawled across the couch, one arm draped over his eyes, his usual boundless energy contained in the tight line of his jaw. On any other day, he would be pointing out shapes in the floating specks, maybe trying to make Jo laugh by pretending to catch them. But today the silence in the room felt heavy, weighted with unspoken pain.
Jo sat in the corner of the couch, sketchbook balanced on his knee. Though his pencil moved across the page in absent patterns, his artist's eye kept catching on the changes in his friend. Over the past weeks since the dental work began, he'd watched Yuma's expressions shift like watercolours bleeding together - his brilliant smile dimming to careful, closed-lipped responses, hiding the new lower braces that caused him so much pain. His laugh had become softer, shorter, as if afraid of the movement. During filming, Yuma would turn away from the camera now, something he'd never done before. Jo missed seeing his snaggletooth peek out during his bright grins, but what hurt more was watching Yuma try to pretend the constant ache wasn't wearing him down.
"Does it hurt very much?" Jo's voice was soft, barely disturbing the quiet.
Yuma made a noncommittal sound, then winced at even that small movement. "M'fine," he mumbled, the words slightly muffled by his careful jaw movements.
"Liar," Jo said, but his tone held such gentle affection that it took any sting from the word. "You keep rubbing your temple when you think we're not watching. And you haven't finished a meal properly in days."
Yuma lowered his arm, surprise flickering across his features. "You noticed that?"
"I notice everything about you," Jo said simply. He hesitated for a moment, then set his sketchbook aside decisively. "Wait here."
He returned with a glass of water and pain medication, movements careful and quiet. "These will help."
Yuma eyed the pills warily. "They make me sleepy."
"Good," Jo said firmly. "You need rest. And I'm not going anywhere. I'll watch over you."
Yuma's eyes flickered up to meet his, something vulnerable passing across his features. "You don't have to. I know you wanted to work on your sketches today."
"I am working," Jo said softly. "I'm memorising how the light changes your face. How you fold in on yourself when it hurts. How brave you are, even now." His voice dropped lower. "Let me do this for you, the way you've always done for me."
After a moment's hesitation, Yuma took the medication. Jo watched him struggle slightly with swallowing, his heart aching at how even this simple action caused pain. Without thinking, his hand moved to rest lightly between Yuma's shoulder blades, offering what comfort he could.
"Here," Jo said softly, settling back onto the couch and patting his chest. "Lean back."
Yuma blinked at him, uncertainty flickering in his large dark eyes.
"Let me help," Jo insisted quietly. "Please?"
For a moment, Yuma seemed to struggle with himself – the desire to maintain his usual bright, capable image warring with the simple need for comfort. Then, slowly, he shifted until he was leaning back against Jo's chest.
Jo's arms came around him naturally, one hand moving to gently massage the tense muscles at the base of Yuma's neck. "Is this okay?"
Yuma made a small sound of assent, letting his eyes close. Some of the tension began to ease from his shoulders as Jo's fingers worked careful circles against his neck.
"You don't have to pretend it doesn't hurt," Jo murmured. "Not with me. You're always protecting me, being bright enough for both of us. But you don't have to right now."
Yuma's breath caught slightly at the observation. "You noticed that too?"
"Of course." Jo's voice was soft but certain. "How you draw attention when I'm uncomfortable. How you answer questions before they reach me. How you make everyone laugh so they don't notice my silence." His fingers continued their gentle circles on Yuma's neck. "I used to think I needed to be twenty, a proper adult, before I could offer you the same care you've always shown me. Now I understand — you've been protecting me all this time. Let me protect you too."
"I just..." Yuma's voice wavered slightly. "You have so much to say, if people would just give you time to find the words. I know how it feels when everyone's watching, waiting." He paused, both of them remembering the past two years, their shared journey from awkward teenagers to working idols. "I thought if I could be bright enough..." His voice trailed off. "I hate feeling weak like this."
"You're not weak," Jo said softly. "You're one of the strongest people I know. But even strong people need to rest sometimes." His voice grew gentler still. "Let me be your quiet place now, like you've always been mine."
Yuma was quiet for a long moment, letting Jo's gentle touch ease some of the ache. When he spoke again, his voice was barely audible. "I miss smiling."
Jo's chest ached at the confession. "I know," he said softly. "But you will again. And when you do..." He tightened his arms slightly around Yuma, voice dropping to almost a whisper. "It'll be like watching the sun rise. Until then, I'll be here, waiting for that light to return."
"Jo?" Yuma's voice was growing heavy with approaching sleep. "Thank you. For seeing me."
"I've been watching you since the day we met," Jo said softly, his words half-lost in Yuma's hair. "Now that I'm older... now that I understand more... I realise how important this is. Our connection." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "I don't want to be formal anymore. I want to be closer, if that's okay."
"Mmm," Yuma hummed, already drifting. "Always okay. With you."
Jo found himself humming softly – an old lullaby his mother used to sing, though he couldn't remember all the words. His free hand had started absently playing with Yuma's hair, fingertips gentle against his scalp. It was the kind of casual intimacy that would have made him shy away just months ago, but now it felt as natural as breathing.
Yuma stirred slightly, making a small sound of contentment. "That's nice," he murmured, his words growing softer at the edges. "The humming."
"Mm," Jo acknowledged, not stopping. He could feel some of the remaining tension melting from Yuma's shoulders as he continued the quiet melody.
The afternoon light had shifted to early evening shades, painting Yuma's features in gentle shadows that made Jo's artist's fingers itch for his sketchbook. But he remained still, content to be this quiet anchor for his friend. Some moments didn't need to be captured on paper to be remembered perfectly.