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The gymnasium was empty. Not because it had to be. Just because everyone else had left, like they’d all silently agreed to go. Rin hadn’t followed. He hadn’t even said anything. He’d stayed behind, leaning against the wall, eyes lost in the grain of the wooden floor.
Hiori had come in without a word.
He didn’t ask if Rin had stayed on purpose.
He just sat down across from him, on the floor, legs crossed, arms resting on his knees.
They didn’t speak for a long time.
The sunlight came in at an angle through the high windows, carving out soft squares of pale light. And in that light, dust floated slowly. So slowly it became hypnotic. As if time itself was hesitating.
Rin blinked.
Something in his body wasn’t syncing.
Like a dissonance between what he saw and what he felt.
“You ever feel like you’re not really here?” he asked. His voice was rough, pulled from deep inside his throat.
Hiori lifted his head, like he’d just come back from somewhere else.
“All the time.”
He paused.
“I think I’ve spent more time watching myself live than actually living.”
Rin closed his eyes. He understood. Too well.
The light carved strange edges around them. They looked like sketches, not quite finished. Versions of themselves waiting for something.
“I think I’m tired of existing the right way.”
Hiori didn’t answer right away.
He stood up slowly, walked over, and lay down beside Rin, on his back, his head almost brushing Rin’s shoulder.
They stayed like that, eyes on the ceiling.
“You know,” Hiori whispered, “when I was a kid, I thought I was a ghost. Because I’d talk, and no one would answer. I’d laugh, but it was always offbeat.”
Rin turned his head toward him.
“I thought I was broken. Like a robot with the wires all wrong.”
He paused.
“I don’t care anymore. I think. Maybe.”
Hiori nodded slowly.
“Maybe we’re just… wired differently. Like radios that pick up weird frequencies.”
Another silence. Long. Deep.
But it wasn’t empty.
It was a language.
One spoken in breath, in nearness, in heartbeats. A language no one had taught them, but they both understood somehow.
“Do you ever…” Rin started. The words caught.
So he tried again.
“Do you ever watch people laughing, and wonder how they do it?”
“All the time.”
Rin let out a breath. Not quite a laugh. But almost. A release. A flicker of raw truth.
Hiori shifted, very slowly, until their shoulders finally touched.
It wasn’t just contact.
It was an anchor.
“But with you,” Hiori murmured, “I don’t have to pretend.”
And Rin felt something in his chest. Not a heartbeat. Not pain.
Something floating.
Like a soft kind of derealization. But shared.
A fog made for two.
He didn’t answer. He closed his eyes.
They left the gym later, slowly. No words needed.
Hiori grabbed his phone from the corner—off, like usual—and Rin pulled up his hood like he was cold, though the night air was soft.
They wandered through a space between buildings. Not really a path. Not really a place to be. But for them, it was enough.
The air smelled like warm bark and damp metal.
The streetlights hesitated before turning on.
They sat on an old metal bench that creaked a little, between two overgrown bushes.
It wasn’t special.
But it was perfect.
“I think I like places no one looks at,” Hiori said.
He didn’t look at Rin.
He was staring at a strip of sky between rooftops, pale blue-grey, crossed by a timid star.
“Me too.”
Their hands were resting on opposite ends of the bench.
Close enough for tension.
Not close enough to touch.
A pause.
Then Hiori spoke again, voice low:
“Have you ever wanted to just… stop? Just so you can feel the world breathe around you?”
Rin tilted his head slightly, not fully grasping.
Hiori continued:
“Not die. Just… stop talking. Stop running. Stop thinking. Just sit there. Until the world moves on and forgets you exist.”
Rin closed his eyes.
There was a strange tightness in his throat. Not tears. A knot. An old one.
“You want to disappear?”
“No.”
A pause.
“I just want to exist differently. Without having to translate myself all the time.”
Their fingers brushed.
Just for a second.
But it was enough to send Rin’s heart skipping.
He moved his hand slowly.
Not toward Hiori.
But not far.
Then he whispered:
“I think I don’t know how to be in the world.
But with you, I feel… less out of place.”
Hiori finally looked at him.
Long. Still.
Then he did something simple:
He slid his fingers into Rin’s. Gently. Not to grab. Just one beside the other.
Like two puzzle pieces never meant to snap in, only align.
Rin didn’t move.
But something inside him calmed.
Like gravity had finally adjusted to fit.
Isagi passed nearby, loud with Bachira and Chigiri, on their way to the dining hall.
One of them called out—was it Isagi? Bachira? Rin couldn’t tell.
Then they forgot.
Moved on.
The two of them stayed.
Side by side.
Silent.
Invisible.
And in that exact moment, if you’d seen them from a distance, you wouldn’t have noticed anything remarkable.
Just two boys on a bench, heads low, eyes unfocused.
But inside them, the universe had rearranged itself.
A parallel space.
Not magical.
Just… possible.
And that’s where their connection lived.
Not in words.
Not in gestures.
But in that shared sense that the world was a little too sharp, a little too fast—and that together, they could slow it down.
Just a little.
Just enough to breathe.
They hadn’t planned to stay out this late.
But no one had asked where they were going.
So they kept walking, slowly, through empty buildings and warm walls.
The kind of night where the air seems to hold its breath, afraid to break something.
Hiori pushed open an old emergency door.
An unused room, maybe a storage space.
The place hadn’t served a purpose in a long time—peeling paint, the scent of dust thick but almost comforting.
Worn-out mats piled in a corner.
A cracked window letting in the gray glow of the moon.
They stepped inside without thinking.
Like they already knew this was where the night was meant to end.
Hiori sat down against the wall, legs stretched out in front of him.
Rin followed, a little closer than usual.
Their shoulders nearly brushed, not quite.
There was nothing to do.
And that was good.
After a few minutes, Hiori spoke—softly:
“Do you think we feel things the same way? You and me.”
Rin turned slightly.
Hiori’s gaze was distant, unfocused—but not empty.
“I don’t really know.
I have a hard time knowing what I feel at all, so…”
He gave a quiet, broken smile.
“But with me, it’s clearer?” Hiori whispered, barely audible.
Rin took his time answering.
He stared up at the cracked ceiling, at the shadows shifting from the torn tarp in the window.
The silence wasn’t empty.
It was full.
“Yeah. A little clearer.”
Hiori closed his eyes.
“I don’t think I’ve ever felt this way about anyone.
Something that doesn’t hurt.
That just… makes a sound inside me.
But gently. Like a steady heartbeat.”
Rin watched him in the dark.
Hiori looked calm, but his fingers were clenching his jeans a little too tightly.
“I’ve been hurt a lot.
But this isn’t the same.
It doesn’t burn.
It settles.
It waits.”
They unrolled two dusty mats on the floor.
Not comfortable.
But perfect.
Outside the world.
Outside of time.
They lay down side by side.
Now their shoulders touched.
Slowly.
Like it made sense.
The contact didn’t say I love you.
It said I’m here.
Time passed.
Then—
“Are you asleep?” Hiori murmured.
Rin shook his head.
He was staring at the shadows on the ceiling.
“I’m scared I’ll miss this moment if I fall asleep.”
Hiori turned slightly toward him.
“And what if that’s what being in love is?
Just… wanting to stay awake a little longer,
so you can be there when the other person breathes?”
Rin’s heart thudded.
Too loud.
He didn’t have the right words.
So he turned toward him instead.
They were close.
So close.
And in that suspended void, that almost-silence, that almost-touch…
something lit up.
Not a sudden want.
A quiet need.
Rin lifted one hesitant hand,
and placed it softly against Hiori’s cheek.
The gesture was fragile, clumsy.
But Hiori didn’t pull away.
He closed his eyes.
And his hand reached up to cover Rin’s.
“I want to kiss you,” Hiori said quietly, like a confession.
“But I don’t want to wake you.”
Rin smiled. Small. A little broken.
“Well, I'm not asleep.”
So they moved closer.
Slowly.
Carefully.
As if every inch could change everything.
And when their lips finally brushed,
it wasn’t an explosion.
It was something weightless.
A light touch that unraveled something old and tightly bound.
They stayed like that.
Forehead to forehead.
Breaths shared.
Nothing else mattered.
And in that forgotten space between two walls,
two boys—softly dented by the world—
found a place where love wasn’t a battle.
Just a breath.