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It happens so suddenly that Hajime doesn’t even have time to prepare himself. One moment, he’s mindlessly scrolling, half-distracted by the hum of his TV in the background, and the next, he’s staring at a notification that makes his stomach drop.
Tooru made a post.
He doesn’t know why he even got the notification. They unfollowed each other months ago. Blocked, unblocked, removed, re-added, then removed again in a cycle of petty post-breakup dramatics. Maybe Instagram’s algorithm had a sick sense of humor, or maybe it was fate being unnecessarily cruel. Either way, Hajime hesitates for only a second before clicking it.
He doesn’t check Tooru’s page anymore. Or at least, that’s what he tells himself. He doesn’t sit around wondering what Tooru is up to, doesn’t check to see if he’s online, doesn’t fight the urge to text him because he already knows how that’ll end. The last six messages he sent that night — his last desperate attempts — still sit there, delivered and unread.
The post takes an agonizing moment to load. Maybe this is a sign, he thinks. Maybe the universe is giving him an out, telling him to close the app, to move on, to stop picking at wounds that haven’t even started healing yet. And for a second, he listens. He’s about to swipe away, let it go, pretend he never saw it. But then it loads and his heart drops.
It’s just another one of Tooru’s “weekly dumps” — a collection of pictures meant to give a curated peek into his life. Hajime has seen these before, back when they were still together, back when Tooru would send him previews before posting. A mix of food, city lights, a mirror selfie, something stupid their friends did. But this time, Hajime barely registers the first few slides because by the fourth image — smack in the middle of seven — he sees it.
Tooru, smiling, his hand clasped in someone else’s.
The other guy isn’t familiar. He’s not one of their mutual friends, not someone Hajime can place in the catalog of people they used to hang out with. He’s just there — standing behind the camera, holding Tooru’s hand, making Tooru look so effortlessly happy. Hajime stares at the picture for what feels like hours, analyzing every little detail. The way Tooru’s eyes crinkle at the corners, the way his shoulders are relaxed, the way his fingers fit so naturally with someone else’s.
Hajime feels sick. He wants to throw up. He wants to cry. He wants to get completely wasted and call Tooru, tell him he’s making a mistake, tell him that he’s better than this random guy, tell him — tell him what? That Hajime still loves him? That it’s not fair? That Tooru was supposed to be miserable too? Because that’s the worst part. Tooru looks happy. He looks better.
Hajime tells himself not to check the comments, but he does anyway. He scrolls through them, searching for something, for anything, and then he finds it. A single heart. A bright, ugly red heart, left by the guy in the photo. Tooru’s reply is the same ugly, big, fat, red heart right back. Hajime might actually throw up now.
Tooru has changed. His hair is shorter. He looks taller somehow. He’s glowing. He doesn’t use the blue heart anymore — their blue heart. Tooru always used blue with Hajime. Said it was because blue was their favorite color. Except Tooru liked the pastel shade, while Hajime preferred the bright, electric one. It was their thing, something small but meaningful, something Hajime never thought Tooru would let go of. But now, he’s using the color across from blue on the spectrum.
Red.
Hajime hopes, stupidly, that it’s just because Tooru is going colorblind. Or maybe — maybe this is a good thing. Because that blue was theirs. And this, this ugly red, is for them.
He exits Instagram and tosses his phone aside, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. He tells himself to move on, to focus on something else, anything else. But it sticks in his head, faint but persistent, like a dull headache he can’t shake off. Tooru was always like that — a beautiful, aching headache. Loud and obnoxious, but soft-spoken when it was just the two of them. Annoying and dramatic, but tender and gentle after a nap. Clingy and over-the-top, but Hajime loved him for it. Loved the way Tooru would crawl into his lap unprompted, the way he’d run his fingers through Hajime’s hair, the way he’d steal all the blankets in his sleep but still reach out for Hajime anyway.
He loved Tooru. Loved him through the pain, through the fights, through the nights spent yelling at each other until one of them walked out. Tooru always came back, though. He always did. Except this time, he didn’t.
Some of his things are still here. Hajime doesn’t know why. He came by one day when Hajime wasn’t home, packed up, and left without a word. Yet, he missed things — forgot things. Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe he left them on purpose. Maybe it’s a cruel joke, or maybe he was just in a hurry, desperate to leave before Hajime could get home and force an awkward goodbye.
It doesn’t matter.
The things are still here. Hajime opens his drawer and finds Tooru’s old clips, the ones he used when he did his skincare routine. At night, he climbs into bed and sees Tooru’s stuffed frog lying on the other side, untouched. He doesn’t move it. He doesn’t know if it’s because he doesn’t want to or because he can’t. It’s pathetic, really. He should let go. He should box it all up, get rid of the memories, and move on as Tooru did.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he closes his eyes and tries to sleep. But Tooru is still there, in his dreams, warm and bright, smiling like the sun. Hajime wakes up in a cold sweat, heart aching in ways he doesn’t know how to fix. He doesn’t go back to sleep after that.
He feels kind of dazed. Not just sad, but numb. It's as if time has stopped — trapping him in a moment of agonizing pain — and yet, because time isn’t moving, he can’t fully feel it. It’s a strange sensation, one he hasn't experienced in a long time. He never really got over it, never fully healed; he just shoved his feelings so far down that they became undetectable, then convinced himself he had moved on. And for a while, he had believed it. The emotional manipulation he inflicted on himself actually worked — until now. Until one post shattered the illusion and sent Hajime spiraling down the same abyss he thought he had climbed out of when Tooru first left.
There’s nothing he can do. Tooru is happy. Tooru is good. Tooru is healed. Tooru has always been good — always been the best thing in Hajime’s life, even when Hajime wasn’t his best self. Something had been weighing on Tooru back then, battles he must have felt he needed to fight alone. That’s what Hajime told himself, anyway. Because Tooru was still perfect, just a little broken inside. But to Hajime, that didn’t make him any less perfect. He never has been and never will be, anything less than perfect in Hajime’s eyes. That’s not something he can convince himself to unthink.
He wonders what Tooru is doing right now. Maybe he’s practicing volleyball, standing beneath the bright sun, his pretty smile shining as he does what he loves most. Maybe he’s with his new boyfriend — on a date, walking around hand in hand, stealing kisses in the soft evening light. That thought hits Hajime like a truck. His heart clenches, and his eyes burn. He doesn’t know what to do with the ache. Talking about it isn’t an option — talking about it would mean acknowledging it, and it would mean finally letting go of everything he’s kept bottled up. And he can’t let Tooru go yet. He’s never been good at showing or expressing his feelings, and maybe that’s why they broke up. Maybe it was his fault. Maybe he never deserved Tooru in the first place. Because to him, Tooru is perfect. So, so perfect.
He wishes he had fought harder that last time. Their final conversation replays in his head like a song stuck on an infinite loop, the melody tormenting him. Or maybe it’s like a broken record, the little people in his brain having fallen asleep on the repeat button, and he needs to slam his head against a wall just to make it stop. He should have made Tooru stay. Should have forced him to talk, should have convinced him to work things out. He should have never let it get that far, should have swallowed his reckless pride, and stopped Tooru before he walked out that door for good. He should have called more, should have chased after him, should have been better. Should have, should have, should have. But he hadn’t. And now, all he can do is sit with the weight of that regret, feeling everything and nothing at once.
Hajime moves through his days as if nothing has changed. Maybe a week passes, or a month, or a year — he’s lost count by now. Time is an indistinct blur, slipping past him without definition. But even as the days stretch on, Tooru remains lodged in the back of his mind, an ever-present ghost haunting his every step. Tooru never really leaves.
It’s fine. Hajime tells himself he’s okay. He’s been living with it for months now; he can continue living with it. He spends time with his friends — their friends — and it’s good. No one mentions Tooru. No one dares to say his name. It’s an unspoken rule, and Hajime convinces himself that it’s cool. He’s cool. He’s good.
Except he notices the cautious glances, the way conversations shift around him like they’re afraid of setting something off. Their voices are careful, measured, as if navigating a field of tripwires. Hajime notices all of it, but he never brings it up. He doesn’t talk about his feelings. He goes home every night feeling hollow, as if he’s been walking in circles only to end up right where he started.
The gym is supposed to help. It’s always been his escape, a place where he can drown himself in routine, in motion, in controlled pain. But it doesn’t work. His body goes through the motions, but his mind stays restless. The overhead speakers play some melancholic song he’s heard on the radio a hundred times, and even with his headphones blasting music at full volume, it seeps in, needling into his brain like an unwanted guest. It makes him feel sick. He leaves earlier than planned, unsatisfied, feeling like he’s losing even the things that once brought him comfort.
He decides he needs a change of pace. He needs out. Out of his apartment, out of his own head. He texts Issei and Takahiro, and they send him the address to a bar.
He dresses well — well enough to turn a few heads. It’s a calculated move, even if he tells himself it isn’t. Attention doesn’t matter to him, not really, unless it comes from a particular person. He downs shot after shot, forcing himself to embrace the burn, to drown out the thoughts that cling stubbornly to his skull. The bar is loud, buzzing with chatter and laughter, and for a moment, he lets himself get lost in it.
The bar is warm, too warm, the heat pressing against Hajime’s skin like an unwanted embrace. The air is thick with the scent of alcohol, sweat, and something sickly sweet — spilled liquor, maybe, or cheap perfume. The bass thrums through his body, reverberating in his bones, but he barely registers it. The world feels distant, blurred at the edges, like a dream slipping through his fingers.
Then, through the haze, he sees him.
A figure by the bar. Tall, broad-shouldered, brunet. The cut of his profile is sharp, familiar, aching. It snags at Hajime’s memory like a fishhook, catching deep in the flesh of something he thought had long healed over. He squints, his vision muddled from too many drinks, his breath uneven.
It’s nothing. A stranger. A trick of the light.
“Hajime,” Takahiro says, his voice an uneasy whisper. “I know you don’t want to hear this—”
Hajime isn’t listening. He’s already noticed the way Takahiro and Issei have been stealing glances at him, the way they murmur to each other like conspirators. They think he doesn’t notice, but he does. He always does. Maybe it’s some cruel irony, an inheritance from Tooru — the ability to read people too well, to decipher even the things they don’t say.
“What?” His voice is rough, sharp. He barely recognizes it as his own. Maybe he’s sick. Maybe he should leave before he makes a mistake. He’s about to push himself up when Issei moves away from the table, heading toward the bar. Hajime watches him go, something uneasy curling in his gut.
Then he hears it.
“Tooru, what the hell are you doing here, man?”
Hajime’s head whips around so fast it nearly makes him dizzy. His body reacts before his mind can catch up, an instinct, a gravitational pull that’s impossible to fight. Next to him, Takahiro makes a strangled sound, his hands flying up to cover his mouth, his face going pale. Issei’s usual easy grin falters, shifting into something cautious as Tooru speaks.
“Let me see Makki! I’ll come to your table.”
Issei steps forward, murmuring something low, probably trying to steer him away, but Tooru has always been stubborn. Always insistent. He slips past Issei’s grip like water through fingers, his stride determined, relentless. Takahiro bolts upright, plastering on a forced, too-bright smile, practically sprinting to intercept him.
“Tooru, wait—”
But it’s useless.
Tooru laughs, breezing past their feeble attempts to stop him. “Why are you guys so weird about this? It’s been forever. Let’s catch up.” His voice is light, easy, as if nothing ever happened. As if the past isn’t standing between them, thick as a storm cloud. As if he hasn’t cracked Hajime open and left him hollow.
Then, he reaches the table. And Hajime looks at him.
Amber eyes. Warm, unmistakable, devastating. The kind of eyes Hajime used to know better than his own reflection. The kind of eyes that once held entire universes between them. Now, they just look at him with something fragile, something afraid.
He feels his stomach drop.
“Iwa-chan.”
The name slams into him like a punch to the gut, knocking the breath clean from his lungs. It’s stupid. Juvenile. Something Tooru made up when they were kids, something that belonged to them. A relic from another lifetime. Hearing it now, after everything, feels like someone has reached inside his chest and twisted.
He should leave. He should push past him, walk out the door, pretend this never happened. But instead, his mouth betrays him.
“Oikawa.”
The moment stretches, drawn thin. Tooru blinks, his teeth catching on his bottom lip, a nervous habit Hajime remembers too well. He shifts on his feet, fingers twitching, like he wants to reach for his hair but stops himself. His throat bobs as he swallows hard. He’s debating something — stay or go? Fight or flight? What’s the right answer?
Hajime doesn’t know. Maybe there isn’t one.
“How’ve you been?” Tooru’s voice is quiet, careful. There’s a tremor there, so slight that most wouldn’t hear it.
But Hajime does. Because Hajime has always known Tooru better than Tooru knows himself.
The way he shifts his weight, the way he blinks a little too much, the way his hands curl into loose fists at his sides. He’s afraid. He’s bracing himself. Hajime should say something simple, something easy. But nothing about this is easy.
“Fine.” The lie is thick on his tongue. “You?”
Tooru grimaces, exhales slowly. His eyes crinkle, but not in amusement — not in anger. In something that aches. Hajime knows what’s coming before it happens, before Tooru’s voice wavers, before his lashes flutter too fast, before his eyes shine a little too brightly. Hajime wonders if he was ever meant to move on. Or if he’s only thinking that because Tooru is standing right in front of him, breathing, tangible, real.
He should go. He should be the mature one, the responsible one. He should smile, nod, toss some cash on the table, walk away. Instead, his mouth moves before his mind can stop it.
“Can we talk?”
The words feel heavier than they should. The second they leave his lips, regret crashes into him. Takahiro’s jaw drops, Issei’s eyebrows shoot up, but Hajime doesn’t look at them. He only looks at Tooru. Only cares about him.
Tooru’s expression cracks. His breath stutters, his lashes damp. His lips part, tremble, press together again. Hajime knows what he’s thinking, knows every thought running through his head. He’s spent too long memorizing him.
Tooru inhales, sharp and unsteady. “Yeah.”
And just like that, the air shifts. The world tilts. The music, the chatter, the bar — it all fades into nothing.
Hajime stands, his knees unsteady, his pulse thrumming at the base of his throat. He gestures toward the exit, and Tooru moves without hesitation, stepping past him, into the cool night air. They walk in silence, side by side, like ghosts. Like the past itself has wrapped its fingers around their throats, refusing to let go.
At the table, Takahiro exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face before rubbing at his temples. Issei leans back, arms crossed, staring at the door they just left through.
When Hajime exits, the cold doesn’t just bite — it sinks its teeth in, gnaws through fabric, burrows into Hajime’s skin like it’s trying to carve something out of him. The wind howls, rattling the street signs, whipping through his hair, but none of it registers when his eyes land on Tooru.
Time has been kind to him in the cruelest way.
The wind plays with his hair, lifting strands that catch the light like spun gold. The chill stains his cheeks a delicate pink, his ears a striking red, the color standing out against the cold night. His lips, plush and bitten, tremble just slightly. And Hajime — he hates this, hates that even after everything, after the nights spent trying to scrub Tooru from his system, his body still reacts like this. Like he’s been waiting for him. Like Tooru is home.
They walk without speaking, their steps in sync like muscle memory, like the universe itself refuses to let them fall out of rhythm. The laughter and music from the bar fade into a distant hum, swallowed by the hush of the city. The streetlights buzz faintly, flickering overhead, painting Tooru in a soft, golden glow. The light catches on his cheekbones, dips into the hollows beneath his eyes, traces every familiar line and curve of his face, and Hajime has to blink hard because it’s too much. Because Tooru looks ethereal — like something out of a dream, like a ghost from another life.
He looks like the moon — achingly beautiful, glowing with borrowed light, always just out of reach.
Tooru turns to him, and Hajime sees it — feels it. The sadness in his eyes, the weight of everything left unsaid pressing into the space between them. But beneath it, buried under layers of hurt and time and distance, is something raw, something devastating.
Tooru still looks at him like he’s his entire world.
And Hajime can’t fucking breathe.
“What’d you want to say?” Tooru’s voice is quiet, barely there, a whisper on the wind. Fragile enough to break if Hajime touches it wrong.
Hajime doesn’t know. He could tell Tooru everything — about the nights spent staring at the ceiling, about the way the loneliness clawed at his ribs, about the moments he almost called, almost begged, almost ran after him. He could be selfish. He could be cruel. He could say nothing at all.
Instead, his mouth moves on its own. “I… saw you got a boyfriend?” It’s stupid. It’s not what he wanted to say, not even close, but it spills out anyway, jagged and misplaced. He regrets it instantly.
Tooru’s expression shifts, his nose scrunching, his gaze darting away. “We broke up.” It’s flat. Emotionless. Like the words have been scrubbed clean of feeling so they don’t cut too deep. But they do.
Hajime watches him, watches the way his fingers curl into his sleeves, the way he fixes his eyes on something — anything — that isn’t him. He should feel relieved, should feel like this is some kind of second chance, but all he feels is heavier. Like he’s drowning in something thick and inescapable.
“Is that all you wanted to say?” Tooru huffs, crossing his arms over his chest, like he’s trying to hold himself together.
“No, Tooru, I just—” Hajime exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. And then, like a dam breaking, it all comes rushing out. “You just left me.” His voice is raw, fraying at the edges. “You even came by the apartment — our apartment — got your things, and never came back. You— fuck, Tooru, you didn’t even tell me. Why? What did I do? I know I fucked up, but god, you can’t just leave me hanging like that.”
Tooru’s face crumples. Not in annoyance, not in anger, but in that way that means he’s about to cry. His breath stutters, his lip quivers, and then a single tear escapes, slipping down his cheek before he can catch it. He wipes it away quickly, sniffling, swallowing hard.
“Hajime,” he whispers.
And Hajime aches.
Because it’s been so long since he’s heard his name like that — from Tooru’s lips, wrapped in something soft and familiar, something that sounds like love. It hurts. It hurts because it feels like being found after being lost for so long, because warmth blooms in his chest despite everything, because Tooru is standing there breaking apart in front of him, and Hajime still wants to reach for him.
Tooru exhales shakily, and when he laughs, it’s wrong. Dry, brittle, empty. Not the kind of laugh that used to light up the world, but the kind that sounds like something breaking.
“Y’know, it’s kinda funny… because we broke up because of you.”
The words hit like a punch to the gut. Hajime doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t even know what that means, not really, but the weight of it presses down on him, suffocating.
Tooru drags in a breath, his smile watery and wavering. “He said I needed to get over you before we could really move forward.” His voice is fragile, breaking in places. “It was stupid of me to think I could… that I could’ve been whole with someone else when half of me was still with you.”
He looks at Hajime then, really looks at him, and it’s devastating. His gaze is full of longing, of pain, of every unsaid word, every missed chance, every ache that never faded. His lips curve into the saddest, softest smile. Hajime feels something inside him crack open all over again.
It keeps happening. Over and over, like a cruel joke — like the universe is pressing replay on his worst nightmare just to watch him suffer. Every time, it starts the same way: a fragile hope, a glimmer of something whole, something intact, something worth holding onto — only to shatter in his hands, jagged and merciless, cutting him open in places he thought had already scarred over.
Hajime feels it before he understands it. The ache that swells inside him, curling tight around his ribs, seeping into his bones, leaving him breathless. He doesn't know what to do with it, doesn't know how to hold himself together beneath the weight of it. His hands are shaking. His pulse is a frantic, uneven thing beneath his skin. He can't breathe.
“Then why?” He chokes out, his voice cracking, fraying at the edges. It’s barely more than a whisper, rough and unsteady, a desperate, pleading thing. His throat is dry. His mouth tastes like regret. His eyes burn with unshed tears, and fuck, he feels like breaking — like collapsing right here on the pavement and letting it take him. “Why’d you leave me like that?”
Tooru shifts on his feet, and Hajime watches the movement like it holds the answer, like it will tell him something Tooru won’t. His gaze flickers upward, searching the sky, just like he always does. Tooru has always loved the stars. Always loved things just out of reach, things he could look at but never touch. Maybe that’s what they were, too — something beautiful, something bright, but never meant to last.
He looks beautiful now. Even in this moment, even with heartbreak weighing down on them like an anchor, even with the way his lips tremble, with the way his hands clench like he’s trying to hold himself together. The streetlights paint him in soft gold, in fleeting shadows, in something ethereal, unreal. Like he isn’t even here, like he’s already slipping away.
“Because I was hurt,” Tooru finally says, voice so quiet Hajime almost doesn’t hear it. “You hurt me, and I hurt you, and we were tearing each other apart, Hajime.” His voice wavers, but he doesn’t look away from the sky. Maybe it’s easier that way. Maybe it’s too hard to look at him. “I couldn’t stay if it meant making you hate me.”
Hajime’s breath catches in his throat. The words dig in, sharp and unforgiving, tearing him open from the inside out. His pulse is a roaring thing, and he can’t hold it in anymore. It spills out of him, raw and unfiltered, all the words he’s been swallowing down for months, all the pain festering beneath his skin.
“I would’ve fought for us, Tooru,” he says, voice breaking under the weight of it. “Fuck, I would’ve changed myself— I would’ve been better for you. I would’ve done anything. I would’ve fought for you to stay.” His chest feels too tight, his ribs a cage barely holding in everything that’s threatening to spill out. “I loved— love you. I still fucking love you, Tooru, and it hurts. It hurts so bad. Every day without you is killing me.”
His hands curl into fists at his sides, fingernails biting into his palms. His throat aches. His eyes burn. “And you just left me,” he breathes. “Like we were nothing. Like it didn’t matter. Like after everything, I didn’t matter to you.” He’s gasping now, barely able to force the words past the lump in his throat. “Why?”
Tooru flinches. But then — something else flares in his eyes, something sharp, something wounded.
“You don’t think I would’ve stayed if I was able to?” he snaps, his voice cracking on the words. “God, Hajime, I loved you more than anything, and I fucking hated myself for hurting you. I hated myself for ruining everything.” His hands tremble at his sides. “I was the problem. I was the reason we needed to break up. You were too good for me, and all I did was drag you down—”
“You keep saying you weren’t good enough, but you were!” Hajime interrupts, voice trembling, hoarse. “You loved me, and that was everything . You were fucking everything, Tooru! We could’ve made it work. We could’ve fixed things. We could’ve been better!” His voice is rising again, breaking again. He’s gasping for air. His vision is blurring. His heart feels like it’s caving in on itself.
People are staring now. A passing couple slows their steps. A man across the street lingers by a lamppost, glancing over. Hajime doesn’t care. Because Tooru is looking at him with so much pain, so much longing, so much fucking love that Hajime thinks he might actually die from it. It’s unbearable.
Yet he still can’t look away.
“Tooru, I don’t know what to do without you,” Hajime breathes, his voice raw, unsteady. “I want this. I want you. But you’re— fuck, you can’t—”
He doesn’t even know what he’s trying to say. The words crumble on his tongue before he can finish. But Tooru steps closer, close enough that Hajime can feel his warmth, even in the freezing air, even through the ache settling deep in his bones.
“I’m what?” Tooru demands, voice thick with emotion. His cheeks are wet now, streaked with silent tears, glistening under the streetlights. He wipes at his face with the sleeve of his coat, sniffling like a child. “This is exactly what I’m talking about, Hajime. We can’t be together. Not like this.”
He swallows hard. And then, it happens — Hajime watches it break inside him. Watches the way something fractures, the way something shatters in Tooru’s chest, in his throat, in the quiver of his lips.
“It’s me,” Tooru whispers. “I’m the problem. I ruined us.”
Hajime feels his own breath stutter, feels something inside him scream that it’s not true, that it was never true, that he’ll never believe it. But he can’t speak.
And Tooru keeps going.
“I love you so much that I don’t even know what to do with myself.” His voice is barely a whisper now, something fragile, something breaking. “But we can’t go back. I love you, Hajime. You know that. You’ve always known that.” He draws in a trembling breath. “But that doesn’t change anything.”
Hajime watches him take a step back. Then another.
It’s happening again.
Suddenly, he’s not here, standing beneath flickering streetlights with Tooru’s breath fogging in the cold between them. He’s back in their apartment, in that awful, suffocating silence, standing in the wreckage of them, of everything they built, of everything he thought they were. He’s back to watching Tooru walk away, to watching him disappear into the night with a pitiful, final goodbye.
And just like then, he knows Tooru is leaving. And just like then, he doesn’t know how to stop him.
He had spent that entire night staring at the door, waiting for it to open again. It never did.
The silence had been deafening, pressing in on him like the weight of the universe, suffocating, endless. He hadn’t slept. He hadn’t eaten. He had done nothing because there was nothing to do. Because Tooru was gone, and without him, there was only the hollow ache of absence.
And he can’t — he won’t — let it happen again.
“Tooru, please,” Hajime chokes out, the words stumbling out of his throat like they’re bleeding. “We can fix this. We can fix everything. We just have to try. Please—” His voice breaks, his breath shuddering. “I can’t lose you again.”
Desperation overrides reason. His fingers curl around Tooru’s wrist, holding on like it’s the only thing tethering him to the earth, like if he lets go, the ground will crack open beneath him and swallow him whole. Tooru freezes. His breath catches, sharp and shallow, his chest barely rising. His lips part, but no sound comes out, just a quivering inhale, as though Hajime has stolen the air from his lungs. And fuck — he’s so heartbreakingly beautiful like this.
The dim streetlights cast him in gold and shadow, a contrast that makes him look untouchable. The tears on his cheeks shimmer like shattered glass, catching the light, carving invisible wounds into Hajime’s heart. His shoulders tremble, his fingers twitch like he wants to reach out, like he wants to pull Hajime closer but can’t.
Like he’s too afraid.
“I can’t be the one who makes you hate me,” Tooru whispers, voice raw and ragged, barely holding itself together.
The words sink into Hajime’s bones like ice. “No,” he breathes, shaking his head, tugging harder at Tooru’s wrist, pulling him back, grounding him, making him look at him. “No, Tooru. Don’t— don’t say that.”
He needs him to understand. Needs him to see. Because even now, even with his world in ruins, Hajime still thinks Tooru is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. And he always will be.
The space between them is so fragile, so delicate, like one wrong move will shatter everything. Hajime loosens his grip and reaches up, slow, careful, reverent. His hands find Tooru’s jaw, thumbs smoothing over damp skin, wiping away tears that refuse to stop falling.
And Tooru leans into him like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. Like it’s instinct, like Hajime is home. Hajime tucks a loose strand of hair behind Tooru’s ear, and smiles — soft, familiar, boyish. The kind of smile that used to make Tooru’s breath hitch, the kind that made him feel like the world was a little bit brighter just because Hajime was in it.
And Tooru — he remembers. He remembers what it felt like to love him.
“Hajime,” he whispers, his voice breaking on the syllables, his lips trembling.
And Hajime knows. Knows that if he leaned in, if he just tried, he could kiss him. He could taste the salt of his tears, could press their mouths together until there was no more space, no more doubt, no more aching loneliness. He could remind him. He could make him stay.
But then Tooru blinks, and something shifts, something wilts inside of him.
“No, I– I can’t,” he exhales, shaking his head. “We’re not good for each other.”
But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away. Keeps leaning into Hajime’s touch, keeps staring at him like he wants to believe otherwise. Like he wants to stay.
And that’s what destroys Hajime the most.
Time stretches, slows, like the world itself is holding its breath. The air around them thickens, becomes heavy, and Hajime is drowning in the quiet intimacy of it all. He wants to remember this moment, to burn it into his mind and soul, like a scar that never fades. He wants to memorize the way Tooru’s skin feels under his fingers, the heat of him radiating through the space between them, the way his lashes cling to his damp cheeks, still wet from tears he hasn’t let fall. He wants to keep this — keep him — to keep the feel of Tooru close, because Tooru is here. He’s real. And Hajime is selfish enough to want him to stay. To never leave.
And fuck, he’s so heartbreakingly beautiful like this, bathed in the glow of the stars, of the shitty yellow streetlights, of the cold night that does nothing to dim the warmth in his features. Crystalline tears carve their way down his face, catching the light, glistening like they belong there. Like Tooru was made for sorrow.
He whispers, his voice low and raw, a shaky breath caught between them. "We can make this work. You know we can. You’re just scared."
It’s desperate, the words a fragile thread, one that could snap at any moment. And god, they’re so close. Hajime can feel the heat of Tooru’s breath, the flutter of his chest beneath his fingertips. He swears, if he leans forward just a little, just a breath — their lips would meet. He could kiss him. The thought burns through him like wildfire, and suddenly he wants nothing more than to press himself against Tooru, to feel every inch of him again, like he’s losing time. To relearn every line of his body, every curve, every detail, until it’s etched into him forever. He wants to lose himself in this, in him — even if it means breaking again. Because the thought of waking up without Tooru, of existing without him — that’s the kind of emptiness that will tear him apart from the inside. It’s not just pain. It’s suffocating.
"Hajime," Tooru breathes out, his voice breaking, the sound like glass shattering in the silence between them. He shakes his head, pleading, the desperation in his eyes too much to ignore. "You’re drunk. You don’t even know what you’re saying. Please, this is better for both of us." His voice cracks, and Hajime feels it like a knife twisting inside him. He knows. He knows the truth in Tooru’s words. But even so, even knowing how broken they both are, he can’t stop.
When Hajime moves, when his left hand slips from Tooru’s jaw to his waist, to his hip, everything changes. Tooru’s breath hitches, his body going stiff, the tension in his shoulders telling Hajime everything he needs to know. For just a second, the walls he’s built around himself seem to weaken, the cracks showing through. He’s afraid. They both are.
"Tell me no," Hajime says, his voice shaking, raw with the weight of all his unsaid fears. "Tell me no right now, and I’ll walk away. I’ll leave this. Leave us alone. Just– just tell me no."
But they’re so close. The air between them electric, charged with something unspoken and fragile. They’re teetering on the edge of something huge, something that could break them, but Hajime doesn’t care. He’s willing to risk it all. He needs this. He needs him . Without Tooru, his world is a hollow, empty shell. There’s a piece of him that’s been torn out, an ache in his chest that only Tooru can fill. Tooru is the other half. He’s always been. And a life without him — a life where they’re not together — it’s not a life at all. It’s nothing. Just a shadow of what could be.
"I need you," Hajime whispers, his voice barely there, as though the words are too heavy to speak. "I need you like I need air. I can’t breathe without you. You... you’re the one I can’t be anything without. Without you, there’s nothing."
Tooru stands there, quiet, his eyes haunted with a storm of conflicting emotions. Hajime knows him — knows that look. He sees the turmoil, the internal battle that’s waging inside him. He knows what Tooru wants. He can see it in the way his lips tremble, the way his hands move restlessly, as if reaching for something he’s too afraid to take. The past is a weight too heavy for Tooru to shake off. The wounds are too fresh. The fear is too deep.
But Hajime sees him. Sees him — not as broken, but as afraid. Afraid to take the leap. Afraid to trust again. Afraid to love with everything, to let go of all the pain and let it become something else. Something real.
"Please," Hajime breathes, his voice cracking under the weight of his heart. He steps closer, drawn to Tooru like gravity. "Please, Tooru. Just say it. Just tell me no. And I’ll walk away. I’ll leave you alone. But if you– if you don’t... I swear, I’ll never leave you again. I’ll stay. Always. For you."
The words hang in the air between them, a promise, a plea, a desperate vow. Hajime’s chest aches with it, with the desperate need for Tooru to reach out, to take him, to let them finally be. But the silence between them is the loudest thing Hajime has ever heard. And for a moment, all he can hear is the frantic thrum of his own heartbeat, pounding louder than anything else. He waits. He breathes. He hopes.
And then Tooru shuts his eyes. Hard. The way his eyelids press together, like he’s trying to block out the entire world, like he’s trying to bury everything he’s been holding in. The fear, the hurt, the words left unsaid. Hajime’s breath catches in his chest, something dark and heavy curling in his stomach. He stands there, frozen, heart thundering, not sure if Tooru’s about to break apart right in front of him, if the weight of everything will finally crush him. But then — just as quickly as it came — Tooru moves.
His lips, soft and trembling, find Hajime’s. It's a kiss that steals the air from his lungs, that consumes everything. All the anger, the fear, the years of silence — all of it collapses between them, collapsing into that single, desperate touch. Hajime’s hands shake as they find Tooru’s body, clutching him like he’s the only real thing in this world, like if he lets go, everything will shatter. And maybe it will.
But that kiss — it’s not just any kiss. It’s the weight of every word they’ve never said, every apology they never had a chance to make. It’s every scar they’ve hidden, every wound they’ve tried to forget. It’s all the love they’ve carried in the quiet, in the spaces between their words, in the moments they never thought they could say out loud. Tooru kisses him like he's starving, like this is the only thing that could ever fill him up again, like he’s been waiting, wanting this for longer than either of them could admit.
And Hajime — Hajime is lost in it. He melts into Tooru, his arms wrapping around him like a lifeline, like holding on is the only thing keeping him tethered to anything real. His chest aches, his heart splinters, but he can’t stop. He doesn’t want to stop. There’s a quiet desperation in his kiss, in the way his hands tighten on Tooru, as if this is the last time he’ll ever get to touch him like this. And maybe it is. Maybe this is all they have left.
Tooru’s lips are still soft, still tasting like the cherry he’s never quite been able to forget. But deeper, now. Deeper, his tongue seeks — claims. It’s a promise. It’s a declaration. They can survive this. They can survive everything that’s been tearing them apart. They’re stronger than this. They were always meant to be more than the broken pieces of themselves. More than the ghosts of their past.
In that kiss, Hajime feels something shift deep inside him. It’s raw, it’s painful, but it’s real. It’s more than the warmth of Tooru’s lips. It’s the heat of being seen, of being wanted, of knowing that no matter the distance or the silence or the miles between them, they were never meant to be apart. In that moment, Hajime finally feels alive again. He feels himself in a way he hasn’t in years.
Tears prick at the edges of his vision, but he doesn’t know if they’re his or Tooru’s. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters except the way they fit together, the way they always fit together, even when they didn’t understand it, even when they tried to ignore it. In that kiss, Hajime feels whole. Like something inside him — something broken, something lost — has been found. Something that was always there. Something that was always meant to be.
Tooru doesn’t even know it. Doesn’t know the depths of how much Hajime loves him. How much he’s always loved him. How much he’d do to make sure they don’t slip through each other’s fingers again. It doesn’t matter, though. Because Hajime knows. He knows the truth. He loves him. All of him. With every broken piece, with every breath. With everything.
And Hajime — Hajime will never let him go. No matter the distance, no matter the time, no matter the universe that tries to tear them apart. Hajime would tear through the fabric of existence itself just to keep him close, just to make sure he never fades away again. The thought of losing Tooru is unbearable, it’s maddening, it’s like a raw wound that will never close. The idea of him slipping through his fingers — of being with someone else — rips at Hajime’s very soul. It makes his blood burn, it makes him want to scream, to beg, to do whatever it takes to make sure that never happens.
Because it’s always been Tooru. Always. From the beginning, from the first time their paths crossed, from the first time Hajime had ever let himself feel something. And even if fate tries to pull them apart, even if time slips away and the world changes around them — Hajime will find him again. In this life, in the next, in any life. There’s no version of this world where Tooru isn’t by his side. No world worth living in without him.
And Hajime will fight for that. For them. Always.