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Everything in the room felt just slightly wrong. The angles didn’t quite add up, the silence was too deep, and the space itself felt like it was waiting for something. His vision snagged on things that weren’t really there, shapes that vanished the moment he tried to focus. Despite the softness of the bed, the air carried a weight, thick and unmoving, pressing down like an unspoken presence. Shadows pooled in the corners—not quite shaped, but not formless either.
The room was empty, yet not enough. It held nothing but the soft press of a mattress beneath his fingertips and a window somewhere far away. Seishiro wasn’t sure if it was actually there, but his mind had already decided it must be. He imagined it shut, not the way a normal window would be, but sealed. No cracks, no seams, just a smooth, suffocating barrier, as though the outside world had never existed beyond it.
Seishiro didn’t know what was beyond the room. Or what was inside it. He hadn’t thought that far, and he didn’t want to. Yet his body ached to move, as if staying here for even another second might actually kill him. The air was too tight, pressing against his ribs, his lungs stiff. He didn’t dare let his mind wander past these walls.
His hand twitched, then stretched out to his side. It was hard to move, but something—something unseen—pushed him to do it. His throat burned, his voice cracked when he spoke. “Reo?”
A dead pause. The room was vast, but his voice didn’t echo. It sounded too close, too quiet. Like the voice in his head. “Reo, are you there?”
There was a faint shift beside him, something he hadn’t even realized was still there.
“I’m here, Nagi.”
Suddenly, Seishiro could move again. He could see better too. As if the presence of another person made this place feel slightly more real. He turned his head, blinking as he tried to adjust.
Reo was lying beside him, body facing him, but his gaze was downcast. One hand rested lightly on the sheets between them. His expression was unreadable. He was here, but not really. There was something distant about him, like he was floating just beyond reach. Like he didn’t want to be.
“I thought you left.” Seishiro’s voice came out smaller than he expected. He hoped he was speaking to Reo, though he wasn’t sure. Either way, the air filled his lungs now, in a way it never had before.
“Where would I go?”
It was Reo’s voice. Definitely. But Seishiro wasn’t sure if he was actually speaking. Unlike his own voice, Reo’s felt real. Close. Solid in a way Seishiro wasn’t.
“Where do you want to go?”
“I want to stay here.” The response was immediate. And Seishiro knew it was true—of course it was. Reo wasn’t bored yet. Even in the dead quiet, even if they were the only two in this room, Reo stayed.
“Me too.”
Seishiro never took his eyes off him, afraid that if he looked away, Reo might disappear again. He wanted to cling to this for as long as Reo let him.
Reo’s voice softened. “It doesn’t seem like it.”
A flicker of emotion crossed his face, barely there, his brows knitting together, only for a second. He stayed calm, quiet, like he’d already made up his mind.
“Why do you say that?”
“There’s nothing here, Nagi. Just me.” Reo traced circles into the mattress. “It’s too quiet. Too dull. There should be something else, but there’s not.”
“I don’t need anything else.”
Reo didn’t respond. Because he couldn’t change Seishiro’s mind. Even if he tried. Even if he wanted to.
Seishiro spoke again. “I thought you said you wanted to stay here.”
“I do.” Reo closed his eyes. He looked peaceful that way, as if picturing something better. “But in a different version of this place. A timeline where there’s more to look at.”
Seishiro tried to imagine it. But he couldn’t. “How long would we have to wait?”
Reo opened his eyes, but his gaze was still lowered. “You need to unfreeze time for that.”
“But it’s nice like this.” Seishiro protested. He didn’t want to move forward.
Reo finally looked at him. But it wasn’t the look Seishiro wanted.
“You can’t breathe, Seishiro.”
“My heart’s working fine.”
“Your body isn’t.”
That stopped Seishiro cold. He stared at Reo’s face, trying to blur him away, but he couldn’t. So he looked up instead, finally tearing his gaze away. Because Reo was right.
His mind drifted elsewhere. Somewhere dark. Though he didn’t know that for sure.
“Can you check outside?” Seishiro asked, once the air shifted enough for him to force another thought out.
Reo frowned. “What for?”
“I don’t know if it’s nighttime.” It seemed obvious, with how dark the room was. But that wasn’t what Reo questioned.
“Can’t you do it?”
Seishiro would. If he could move. But he couldn’t. Something held him down, something heavy pressing on his chest, making his lungs weak. Something he couldn’t shake. Something everyone had, at least about something in life.
“I’m scared to leave.”
Fear.
“So you want me to leave?” Reo asked, his voice flat. He always assumed the worst, it was the only way his brain could fill the gaps. Something he couldn’t stop.
“No, I don’t.” It was a given. If Reo wanted to go, he could. But Seishiro would never ask him to.
Even so, Reo would never stop wondering. “Then why ask me to check outside?”
“I thought you’d know the answer without looking.”
“I don’t.”
“You always do.”
Seishiro had never needed to think too hard. Reo always knew things for him. Even when Reo didn’t want him to rely on his mind, Seishiro couldn’t help it.
“Not right now.”
Reo said things even when he wasn’t sure if they were true. Seishiro never understood why that was enough for him to believe.
It was quiet for a while. Seishiro doesn’t know how long. Time isn’t real here, at least not in a way that makes sense. The silence breathes, stretches, curls around him. Then, when the air grows tight again, he speaks.
“Is the window open?” He doesn’t know where that came from, only that it did.
Reo doesn’t question it. “I don’t think so. Why?”
“It’s cold.” It slips from his lips like an afterthought, but the chill lingers, nestling beneath his skin. He’s always cold. Reo makes it better. Just a little.
“You can close it if you want.”
“I don’t think it exists.”
Reo glances behind him, shifting. But there’s nothing. No frame, no glass, no wall—just an empty stretch of dark. He doesn’t even know if there’s a floor beneath the bed.
“That’s weird,” he muses. “I thought it did.”
He turns back, resting his head against the pillow, gaze drifting to Seishiro’s shoulder.
“Can you check?” Seishiro asks, trusting him, relying on him, again.
“I can’t.” Some things, even Reo can’t do. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to.
The air shifts. A weight presses against Seishiro’s chest.
“Because you’re not real?”
It feels wrong to say. Reo is here. Right beside him. He can hear his quiet breaths in the stillness, the faint rustle of sheets as he moves. He can feel his warmth, fragile and fleeting, just inches away.
“Where did you get that idea?” Reo’s voice is calm, curious.
“You don’t feel real.”
“How would you know?” Reo tilts his head, watching him. There’s something unreadable in his gaze, something almost tender. “You haven’t touched me yet.”
Seishiro wants to. The moment Reo speaks, he shifts closer, drawn to him without thinking. “Can you hold my hand?”
“I can do that.” That, at least, is within Reo’s power. If it means staying here, in this bed, in this place where time and space unravel—he can do it.
Reo rolls onto his back, reaching out. His fingers search in the dark until they find Seishiro’s, slipping between them, interlocking.
Seishiro exhales, eyes falling shut. Reo is here. He has proof now.
“Your hand is warm,” Reo murmurs, uncertain. “Are you sure you’re cold?”
“Not anymore.”
Silence swells again, stretching into something heavy. Whenever the room goes quiet, Seishiro feels it, that subtle shift, like the air itself is unraveling. Like something has changed again. For better or worse, he doesn’t know. But the tension lingers, thick and unshakable.
“I don’t think this place is good for me.”
He speaks before he can stop himself. The truth, raw and undeniable, finally slipping through the cracks.
“I told you that,” Reo breathes. His eyes are half-lidded now, voice soft, distant. He’s known it for a while. Maybe not at first, but being trapped in your own head, unable to leave, can’t be good for anyone.
“I should go.” Tell me to stay.
Something in Reo shifts. His eyes snap open, sharp with urgency. “You can’t.”
Seishiro turns to face him.
“But you said I should.” At some point, somewhere—maybe he did.
“Did I?” Reo frowns. His brows knit together, expression unreadable. “I don’t remember saying that.”
“You told me to move forward.”
“That’s different.”
“It’s too late for that.” Seishiro bites back.
“So you want to leave?”
He doesn’t. Not really. There was a time when he did, when the weight of this place crushed him, when he felt trapped, when everything felt wrong. But he grew used to it. And now, he never wanted to go back.
But luck has never been kind to him.
“I think I have to.”
A dream he once wished for came true too late, at the wrong time, in the wrong place. And he can’t take it back.
“I don’t want you to.”
Reo’s voice trembles, just for a second. His brows draw together, eyes glistening with something unspoken. He looks like he’s about to cry. Seishiro hates that look. But he doesn’t look away. Neither of them do.
“You should go back.” Seishiro’s voice is softer now. It’s what Reo needs to hear. What he’s not ready to accept.
“But then you’ll have nothing left.”
“That’s not true.” Seishiro doesn’t hesitate. He knows his own mind. Knows what waits for him beyond this place. “Even if you’re not physically here, I’ll find a way back to you.”
Reo’s breath catches. When he speaks again, it’s hesitant, like he’s afraid to believe—afraid to hope, only to be shattered again.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure, Reo.”
Seishiro has never been sure of anything. But this—this, he knows.
No matter how far Reo drifts, no matter how deep the dark pulls him—
He will always find his way back.
Seishiro and Reo are still looking at each other. It should have become awkward by now, but it doesn’t. Seishiro isn’t finished yet, his eyes trace every freckle, every detail of Reo’s face as if memorizing them. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever get the chance again.
Reo’s blinks last longer each time, his lashes fluttering against his cheeks. The wind moves his bangs for just a second before stillness settles over them again.
“How long have we been here?” Seishiro’s voice is hushed, barely audible. He doesn’t want Reo to fall asleep yet.
“I don’t know. What time is it?” Reo sounds just as tired, but he makes the effort to respond.
“I think it’s time for me to leave.” It’s getting harder to hold his thoughts back. Everything is becoming clearer—too clear. It should have been obvious from the start.
“Please don’t.” Reo presses his lips together, his eyes squeezing shut as if bracing for something unbearable. Like he’s about to break again. Like he still hasn’t learned. Like he still doesn’t want Seishiro to leave, even if he promises to come back.
Because breaking their first promise—to stay together—was enough to leave Reo unable to believe again.
“Don’t make the same mistakes I did.” Seishiro’s voice is steady, firm. Afraid Reo will fall in the same hole he did.
“You don’t have the right to tell me that.” Reo’s voice sharpens, his teeth gritting before he forces it back down. “You’re the one who repeated my mistakes.”
That’s right. Because Reo was in that hole once. He even created it. He climbed out, only for Seishiro to fall into the very same one.
“I know.” The words scrape his throat, but he forces them out.
Reo’s grip on his hand tightens. He moves closer. “So let me hold you.”
“My hand is starting to hurt.” Reo’s grip is too tight, just like last time.
“You always say that.” His voice softens into something almost pleading, almost desperate. Like he doesn’t want to hear it, even if he already knows.
“Because it’s true.” Seishiro exhales. “Isn’t yours hurting too, Reo?”
Reo doesn’t answer. His lips press into a thin line before he adjusts his position instead. “My chest feels tight.”
Silence settles between them. At some point, Reo turns his head away. His hand is still warm against Seishiro’s, proof that he’s there. But Seishiro never looked away to begin with.
The air feels thinner.
“Hey, Reo?”
“I’m here, Seishiro.” Reo looks at him again, blinking too slowly before his gaze softens.
“Am I still your treasure?” The words slip out before Seishiro can stop them, before he can brace for the answer.
Reo hesitates. It’s so brief it shouldn’t mean anything, but it does.
“You are.”
“But I lost.” Seishiro doesn’t believe him.
Reo closes his eyes. He doesn’t argue.
Seishiro keeps his open. Watching. Until he decides to accept it.
“How long?” Reo speaks, proving he’s still awake.
“What?”
“How long will you take to get back?”
Seishiro watches his eyes, makes sure they haven’t changed color before answering. “As soon as I can.”
“Then I’ll wait.”
Seishiro blinks. “Here?”
“Wherever you want.”
He thinks about it before deciding. “I want you to go back the way you came.”
“Then I’ll wait there.” Reo’s resolve is unwavering.
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
His breathing is soft, steady. Seishiro listens. Makes sure he’s still here.
The air shifts for the last time.
“Can I hug you?” If it were Reo, he wouldn’t have asked. He never needed permission for something as simple as physical touch.
Seishiro is different.
In another place, another time, Reo would have been surprised. But here, he isn’t. “Of course.”
Seishiro lets go of his hand, turning on his side as he reaches for Reo’s waist, pulling him closer. Their legs tangle together. Reo doesn’t resist, wrapping his arms around him, resting his head on his shoulder.
Seishiro clings to him, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, and lets out a deep sigh. For once, he feels okay.
“Does it hurt?” He asks, just in case his grip is too tight. Even though he already knows it is.
A beat passes before Reo exhales, sinking deeper into the hold. “I can handle it.”
“I never doubted you.” Reo can handle anything. That’s what Seishiro believes. Because no one other than Reo has ever been able to handle him.
Reo holds his breath like he wants to disappear, then exhales sharply. He doesn’t want to speak, but silence feels suffocating. He hates it. And before he can stop himself, he whispers,
“I wish I never doubted you.”