Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Kamiyama High’s rooftop wasn’t supposed to be accessible. A heavy padlock clung to the rusting door handle, warning off anyone with even a trace of hesitation. But hesitation had never really suited Rui.

And Mizuki? Well, Mizuki went where Rui led, even when they didn’t admit it out loud.

The lock had been mysteriously “jammed” for months now.

Mizuki pushed the door open with their shoulder, the hinges groaning in complaint. The soft hum of the city spread out beyond them, rooftops stacked like uneven teeth, power lines lacing the sky, and the horizon bruised with late afternoon light. Warmth clung to the concrete from the sun, but the breeze had a bite — spring still dragging the last of winter behind it.

And there, predictably, was Rui.

He sat with one leg up on the rooftop railing, chin on his knee, eyes tilted skyward. A gust of wind tugged at his hair, and for a second, he looked like he belonged to some other world entirely. Somewhere untouchable.

Mizuki stopped for a moment, the air catching in their throat.

Then: “If you fall off that thing, I’m not visiting you in the hospital.”

Rui turned slightly, not startled. He never was. A smile played at his lips.

“You’d miss me,” he said.

“I’d miss the drama,” Mizuki shot back, stepping out onto the roof. “Not the clean-up.”

Rui chuckled, dismounting the railing with lazy grace. “You’re early.”

“You told me to come after class. You didn’t say I had to be fashionably late.”

“I didn’t want to keep you waiting.”

Mizuki raised a brow. “Since when do you care about that?”

Rui didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stepped toward them, then stopped—arms loosely folded behind his back, the way he always stood when he was hiding something. Mizuki noticed, of course. They always noticed. Rui could build entire mechanical stages out of scraps, but he was hopeless at disguising his tells.

“What?” they asked, suspicious now.

Rui smiled. “I got you something.”

Mizuki blinked. “What, like a present?”

He nodded and brought his hands forward. A small box rested in his palms — wrapped in violet paper, tied with a silver ribbon.

“Thought of you when I saw it,” he said simply.

Mizuki stared at the box. Their fingers twitched, and not from surprise — Rui had given them things before. Trinkets from his workshops, sketches, folded paper flowers. But this… this was different. There was care in the wrapping. Deliberateness. Like it had weight beyond the object inside.

They reached for it slowly, brushing his fingers.

The contact was brief.

But it stayed.

“You’re being suspiciously sweet,” Mizuki said.

“I can stop, if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“…No. Just — don’t go overboard, okay?”

Rui tilted his head. “Would it bother you?”

“I didn’t say that.” Mizuki looked down at the box again. “Can I open it?”

“Please do.”

Mizuki sat on the low wall edging the rooftop and carefully pulled the ribbon loose. The paper folded away with soft crackles. Inside, nestled on pale velvet, was a silver pendant. A crescent moon, slim and elegant, with a tiny star dangling inside its curve. The chain looked delicate but strong, just like — well.

Just like Mizuki.

“Oh,” they said. Just that.

Rui stood still, watching.

“This is…”

“You like it?”

Mizuki ran a thumb over the crescent. “It’s beautiful.”

“I thought it suited you.”

Mizuki’s mouth quirked. “Because I’m ethereal and glowing?”

“Because you’re constant,” Rui said. “Even when you think you’re not.”

Mizuki looked up at him then, startled.

Rui didn’t flinch.

Sometimes Rui said things that stuck. That peeled something open, just for a second. And Mizuki — well, they hated it. And they loved it. They loved him.

But they couldn’t say that.

Not now.

Not when things were balanced so delicately between them. When they didn’t know if saying it would send everything crashing down.

“Help me put it on?” Mizuki asked, quiet.

Rui’s fingers trembled when he took the necklace, though only slightly. Mizuki turned, sweeping their hair aside. The breeze was stronger now. Or maybe it only felt that way.

Rui’s hands were gentle as he clasped it at the back of their neck. The chain was cool against their skin. His fingers lingered for a heartbeat, brushing Mizuki's neck a little.

Mizuki closed their eyes.

In another world, maybe this would be the moment. Maybe they’d lean back. Maybe Rui would lean forward. Maybe something would snap loose.

But this wasn’t another world.

And the moment passed.

“There,” Rui said, stepping back. “Perfect.”

Mizuki turned, letting the pendant settle against their chest. “You’re dangerously smooth when you try.”

“I’m always smooth,” he said.

“You’re not.”

“Am I not?”

Mizuki laughed, short and breathy. “Don’t push your luck.”

Rui smiled again—his real one, small and fleeting.

For a few minutes, silence stretched between them. The wind tugged at their sleeves. The world below buzzed on, unaware.

Finally, Rui spoke again. “You know, sometimes I think we live in parentheses.”

Mizuki glanced at him. “What do you mean?”

“Everything we say—everything we don’t—it’s like it exists between lines. Like we’re always on the edge of something but never quite stepping over.”

Mizuki’s hands curled against the rooftop’s edge.

“We could,” Rui added, voice lower now. “Step over.”

Mizuki didn’t answer.

They didn’t trust themselves to.

Rui turned toward them. His eyes were sharp and soft all at once—like he was trying to read the thoughts Mizuki had spent months keeping quiet.

“We could,” he repeated.

Mizuki stared down at the pendant, heart hammering. “You don’t get to say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’ll make me believe it.”

Rui looked at them, and in that look was every unspoken thing they’d left between them. It ached. It burned.

“I don’t want to ruin this,” Mizuki said suddenly.

“I know.”

“We’re good like this. Right?”

Rui didn’t nod. Didn’t move. “Are we?”

Mizuki’s throat tightened. “If we say it — whatever it is — things won’t go back.”

“No,” Rui agreed.

“I don’t want to lose this.”

“Me neither.”

So they didn’t say it.

They didn’t lean in. Didn’t kiss. Didn’t ask, Do you feel the same way I do, and have you for months now, and are we both too afraid to admit that the answer is yes?

Instead, Mizuki stood. The pendant caught the light.

“I should get going,” they said.

“Yeah.”

Rui didn’t try to stop them.

But as Mizuki reached the door, they turned back.

“Thank you,” they said. “For the gift.”

“It’s yours,” Rui replied. “Always.”

And Mizuki, whose heart had no room left for pretend, smiled like they weren’t falling apart inside.

They left the rooftop with Rui behind them, and the chain around their neck pulled just slightly as they walked — as if it wanted to stay where he was.

As if a part of them already had

Chapter Text

Rui had always understood that people could be puzzles. Not the neat, logical kind with borders and matching edges — but the messy, living ones. The kind where pieces shifted when you weren’t looking. He liked that. The unpredictability of it.

But Mizuki?

Mizuki wasn’t a puzzle. Mizuki was a riddle that changed its question halfway through.

And Rui wanted to solve them anyway.

It started again on a Tuesday.

The kind of Tuesday where rain threatened all morning but never quite arrived. Rui was walking the perimeter of the school, headphones slung around his neck, fidgeting with the clasp of a prop he’d designed for an upcoming Wonderland x Showtime skit. It was supposed to open with a click. Instead, it kept catching — off by half a centimetre.

He liked it that way. A flaw to keep him busy.

The rooftop gift had been three days ago.

He hadn’t seen Mizuki in person since. They were usually the one to text first. Rui had checked his phone more than usual. Not obsessively, just… often enough to notice when there was nothing there.

He told himself it didn’t mean anything.

Then he told himself he didn’t believe that.

The truth was: he’d been thinking about their face. The way their fingers had curled around the necklace. The breathless pause before they turned around, when Rui had nearly — nearly — done something irreversible.

He hadn’t.

He wouldn’t.

But he’d wanted to.

That evening, the rain finally fell. Not heavy, but persistent — soft taps against the windows of his workshop. Rui leaned back in his chair, phone balanced on his chest, a tangle of wires and springs at his feet. A half-assembled mechanical flower blinked faintly on the desk.

He didn’t know why he did it.

He just… tapped open the chat.

Mizu🎀
🟢 Active now

Rui: awake?
Mizu 🎀: who needs sleep anyway 💅
Rui: want to video call?

There was a pause.

Then:

Mizu 🎀: give me 2 min to look cute
Rui’s heart tripped on itself.

He set the phone upright, checked his reflection in the dark screen, and realized belatedly that he cared how he looked.

Then the call started.

And there they were.

Mizuki’s room looked the same — soft lights strung above the bed, shelves cluttered with pastel chaos, half of it handmade. They were curled under a blanket, cheeks a little pink from some combination of warmth and screen light.

“Hi,” Mizuki said. Their voice was lower than usual. Less performative.

Rui smiled, slow and soft. “Hey.”

“Didn’t think you’d call.”

“You said you were awake.”

“You caught me.” Mizuki tilted their head. “Wasn’t sure if I was gonna get Rui Classic or Rui Extra Melancholy tonight.”

“I could be both.”

Mizuki hummed. “You usually are.”

Rui watched them through the camera. The pendant was visible around their neck — barely, under the loose collar of their shirt.

He swallowed. “You’ve been wearing it.”

“Of course I have.” Mizuki’s hand brushed over it, almost shy. “It’s mine, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Rui said quietly. “It is.”

Something about the way Mizuki looked at him then made the screen feel too small. Like they were sitting too close to a feeling neither of them wanted to name.

“What are you working on?” they asked, as if to break it.

Rui turned the camera slightly to show the desk. “Mechanical flower.”

“Romantic,” Mizuki said.

“It’s for Tsukasa’s birthday skit.”

“Less romantic.”

“I’ll build you something better.”

The words came out too fast.

Mizuki blinked. “You don’t have to—”

“I know.” Rui looked down. “I want to.”

Mizuki didn’t reply right away. The air between them went quiet, not uncomfortable—just heavy. Charged.

“You do that,” they said finally. “Give me things. Make it hard not to think about you.”

Rui’s heart stuttered.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he murmured.

“I don’t know what it is,” Mizuki replied. “I just know it scares me a little.”

Rui tilted the phone, propping it against his knee. “I’m not trying to scare you.”

“I know.” Mizuki looked away.

There it was again. That edge. That almost-confession, stretching between them like wire. Rui wanted to follow it to the end, to ask, Are we still pretending this is nothing?

But instead he said, “Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” Mizuki said. “I just don’t know where we go from here.”

“Nowhere, maybe.”

“That’d suck.”

“Yeah.”

Silence again. Not empty. Just… unspeakable.

Then Mizuki sighed. “We’re so dramatic.”

“I thought you liked drama.”

“I do.” They smiled, but it was tired. “Just not the kind that makes my chest hurt.”

Rui wanted to reach through the screen. Touch their hand. Rest his forehead against theirs until everything slowed down.

Instead, he whispered, “Me too.”

The call lasted another hour.

They didn’t say anything earth-shattering. Talked about dumb memes. Argued over candy flavours. Rui showed Mizuki a prototype stage mechanism, and they laughed at how loud it clanked. At some point, Mizuki got sleepy and curled tighter into their blanket.

“I should go,” Rui said.

“Don’t want you to.”

“Still should.”

Mizuki made a face. “Fine. But only if you promise to dream about me.”

“I already do.”

He meant it as a joke.

Mostly.

They ended the call without saying goodnight.

Neither of them needed to.

Over the next few days, Rui found himself noticing things.

The pendant always around Mizuki’s neck. The way their eyes lingered on him when they thought he wasn’t looking. The way his own hands reached out automatically to fix the bow on their outfit, to adjust a ribbon, to hand them a prop with a smile he didn’t know he wore.

He started writing a new skit.

It was about two stars orbiting each other but never touching. It wasn’t subtle. He didn’t show it to anyone.

He told himself it was fiction.

He knew it wasn’t.

One afternoon, he saw them standing outside the practice room alone. Their phone was at their ear, but their posture was off. Tense, curled slightly inward. Rui paused, hidden just behind the corner, watching Mizuki nod slowly before hanging up.

They didn’t notice him until he stepped out.

“Rui?”

“Who was that?”

Mizuki’s expression shuttered. “No one important.”

“You’re upset.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“...Can we not do this right now?”

He paused. Then nodded. “Come with me.”

Mizuki blinked. “Where?”

“The rooftop.”

“Rui—”

“I have snacks.”

They followed.

Up on the roof, they sat in silence for a while. Rui opened a small box of strawberry mochi and offered one to Mizuki. They took it wordlessly. The wind was stronger today.

Finally, Rui asked, “Do you ever wish we could go back to how things were?”

Mizuki looked at him, then away. “You mean before this?”

He nodded.

Mizuki didn’t answer right away. Then, softly: “Sometimes. But I don’t think we can.”

“Even if we wanted to.”

“Do you want to?”

“No.”

Mizuki glanced at him again, the wind pulling at their hair.

“I don’t either.”

There it was again—almost. Always almost.

Rui reached over, brushing a loose thread from their sleeve. His hand lingered.
They didn’t move away.

But they didn’t move closer.

Mizuki closed their eyes.

And Rui didn’t kiss them.

Because some lines, once crossed, couldn’t be undone.

And some love lived best in silence.

Chapter Text

Mizuki boarded the bus with Rui like they’d done it a hundred times before.

Maybe they had. Maybe not like this.

The metal steps clanked under their boots, and the familiar scent of vinyl seats and lingering perfume filled the air. It was a quiet afternoon — post-lunch, pre-evening — the kind of hour where the world slowed just a bit, like it, too, was waiting to see what would happen next.

Rui slid into the window seat, and Mizuki followed, tugging their oversized cardigan tighter around themself before sitting. Their thigh brushed Rui’s.

They didn’t move it away.

They could feel the warmth of him through their clothes. Just that light, stupid point of contact — nothing major — and still Mizuki’s mind was already running wild.

They weren’t even at the arcade yet, and they were already wondering what it would feel like to hold his hand.

To rest their head on his shoulder without a reason.

To kiss him.

They bit the inside of their cheek and stared out the window as the bus pulled off.

Silence settled between them, but it wasn’t empty. It was the kind of silence that curled around Mizuki’s throat like smoke. Not choking. Just… constant. Like a song with no lyrics, playing on repeat.

And Rui, as always, was still and thoughtful beside them. His hands were folded, fingers twitching every now and then like he was thinking of a dozen things but didn’t plan to say any of them. His shoulder shifted when the bus bumped. His sleeve brushed Mizuki’s.

They leaned in, just a little. Barely anything. A tilt. A breath.

But still too much.

Why are you like this? Mizuki asked themself. Why do you always want more when he’s right there and not asking?

They remembered the way Rui had messaged them that morning.

[ Want to hang out today? ]
[ Arcade? Just us. ]
Just us.

That part had stuck in Mizuki’s head all day. Looped like static. Loud. Hopeful.

Was that on purpose?

Did Rui know how that sounded?

Did Rui mean anything by it?

Because Mizuki did. Mizuki meant so many things they couldn’t say out loud.

“Are you cold?” Rui asked, glancing sideways.

Mizuki startled slightly. “Huh?”

“You’re all curled up.”

They looked down. Their arms were wrapped tightly around themself, cardigan sleeves half over their hands. They hadn’t noticed.

“Oh. No. Just…” They searched for an excuse. “I don’t know. It’s cozy.”

Rui didn’t press. Just nodded once, gently.

But Mizuki watched the way his gaze lingered. He looked at them like he was trying to figure out a puzzle with no picture on the box.

And Mizuki—

God.

Mizuki wanted to reach out and say, Just ask. Ask what’s wrong. Ask what I’m feeling. I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you everything.

But Rui didn’t.

So they stayed quiet.

And the bus rolled on.

But they didn’t move.

God, they wanted to.

They wanted to close that space. Lean over. Say something stupid. Say something soft. Touch him.

But they didn’t.

Because if they did — if they let go, even a little — they knew they might not come back from it.

“Do you ever think,” Mizuki asked, voice careful, “that if we say the wrong thing, we’ll break this?”

They weren’t sure why they said it. It slipped out before they could catch it. Their voice was softer than they intended, barely audible over the bus engine.

Rui blinked slowly. “Break what?”

Mizuki smiled bitterly. “Exactly.”

There was a silence between them. Not cold. Not tense. Just full. Heavy. The kind Mizuki had learned to live with lately. The kind that said I feel something too, but never out loud.

“I like this,” Rui said finally, “whatever it is.”

“That’s the problem,” Mizuki said. “I like it too much.”

They got off the bus, and the arcade welcomed them in a blur of colour and sound.

It was loud, familiar, perfect — every machine lit up like a beacon, a cacophony of coin jingles, announcer voices, electronic blips and bleeps. Mizuki threw themself into it headfirst. They always did. Better to be overwhelmed by noise than by silence.

Rui followed, naturally.

He always did.

“You’re gonna lose,” Mizuki warned as they stepped up to a rhythm game with glowing tiles.

Rui tilted his head. “You always say that.”

“Because you always do.”

And yet — as they played, Mizuki barely looked at the screen. They could feel Rui’s presence beside them like heat, like gravity. Each time their arms moved in sync, each time their shoulders nearly brushed, Mizuki’s stomach clenched.

They wanted to win.
They wanted to lose.
They didn’t know what they wanted.

After a few rounds, they wandered to the crane machines. Rui pointed at one with a sea of plush jellyfish.

“Think you can get that one?”

“Please,” Mizuki scoffed. “Watch and learn.”

They got it on the first try — of course they did. And when they held up the plush like a trophy, Rui laughed softly. Genuinely. The kind of laugh that felt like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

“It kind of looks like you,” he said, and that did something to Mizuki’s chest.

Their heart ached and fluttered all at once.

“…You mean cute and misunderstood?”

“I mean… soft. A little strange. Bright.”

Mizuki stared at him.

They didn’t say thank you. They didn’t know how to.

So they shoved the plush into his hands instead. “Here. Shared custody.”

Rui took it carefully, as if it mattered.

Maybe it did.

Later, they slumped onto a bench outside the arcade, cold drinks in hand. Mizuki’s was pink and fizzy. Rui’s, of course, was something calmer.

Mizuki stared at their soda as the bubbles popped against the plastic lid.

“I wish we could freeze time,” they said.

Rui turned his head. “Why?”

“Because right now, it’s perfect. It’s safe. And I know the second we… the second I say something, it’ll change.”

“It doesn’t have to,” Rui said.

“You don’t know that.”

“No,” Rui agreed, voice low. “But I’m willing to stay here with you — in the maybe. If you are.”

And that… that made Mizuki want to cry.

Because Rui meant it. He always meant it.

And yet not enough to lean over and kiss them.

Not enough to pull them in and make this aching, awful, wonderful tension mean something.

Because that would ruin it. Because that would be too much. Because maybe Rui was scared, too.

Mizuki let out a breath that trembled too much for comfort. “Sometimes I think we’re cowards.”

“Maybe,” Rui said. “But we’re still here.”

Mizuki looked at him. Really looked at him.

His expression was unreadable, but his eyes weren’t. They were too soft. Too full.

Mizuki leaned their head against Rui’s shoulder — just for a moment. Just for a second.

But Rui didn’t move.

And Mizuki wished, so desperately, that this moment could stretch out forever.

On the bus ride home, Mizuki kept their eyes closed.

Not because they were tired — but because they didn’t trust themselves to look at him again without reaching out.

Rui sat beside them in perfect silence, one hand resting palm-up on the seat between them.

Mizuki stared at that hand like it might explode. Or vanish.

Their own fingers inched toward it.

Stopped.

They wanted to lace them together. Wanted to see if Rui’s hand would stay. If he’d close his fingers around Mizuki’s like it was easy, like it was always meant to happen.

But they didn’t.

Instead, they leaned back. Let their hand fall in their lap. Breathed through the ache.

And thought: I would’ve kissed him today. If he asked. I would’ve said yes.

But Rui didn’t ask.

And Mizuki didn’t say anything.

Because what they had — fragile and beautiful and painful as it was — still felt like more than nothing.

And if that was all they could have, for now…
Mizuki would take it.

Chapter Text

Rui didn’t know why he felt nervous.

He’d been to Mizuki’s place before. More than once. Enough that their parents recognized his voice at the door. Enough that he remembered the pattern of their hallway rug, the scent of citrus-sweet fabric softener on their couch cushions.

But today felt… different.

He stood in front of Mizuki’s apartment door for a second longer than he should have before knocking. When Mizuki opened it — sock-footed, in an oversized hoodie and slightly messy hair — Rui felt something in his chest shift.

He was used to Mizuki’s presence in group settings. Used to the banter, the theatrical flair, the way Mizuki could turn a room electric with a smile or a sly remark.

But here, like this, Mizuki was quiet. Real.

Rui liked this version too much for his own good.

“Hey,” Mizuki said with a half-smile. “You’re late.”

Rui blinked at his watch. “By two minutes.”

“That’s late.”

Rui stepped inside. “Then I sincerely apologize for wasting one-hundred-and-twenty of your precious seconds.”

Mizuki rolled their eyes and shut the door behind him. “Make it up to me by picking a good movie.”

The living room was dim and cozy, the curtains drawn halfway to let in soft light. Mizuki flopped onto the carpet in front of a small stack of DVD cases and started flipping through them with vague disdain.

“You have some strong opinions,” Rui noted, kneeling beside them.

“They’re not opinions,” Mizuki said. “They’re truths. That one?” They pointed at a garish action flick. “Trash. That one? Surprisingly emotional. That one? Makes me cry every time.”

Rui smiled quietly. “Then let’s watch the one that makes you cry.”

“You just want to see me cry.”

“Maybe.”

They gave him a sharp look, but it was more amused than irritated.

Eventually, they settled on something nostalgic and weird — an old movie Rui had barely heard of. Mizuki said it was one of their favorites. That was reason enough.

While Mizuki got up to pop the disk into the player, Rui stayed kneeling on the rug, watching them move. Mizuki crouched at an odd angle, twisting their arm behind the TV stand, fingers working the old remote.

And that’s when Rui noticed it.

The way Mizuki’s elbow bent — too far. Their fingers stretched, curled, twisted — just slightly beyond what looked comfortable. Their joints flexed with ease, almost dancer-like.

“Are you double-jointed?” Rui asked, head tilted.

“Hm?” Mizuki looked back over their shoulder. “Oh. Yeah. Kinda.”

“That’s fascinating.”

Rui scooted closer. “Can I see?”

Mizuki blinked, then sat back down on the rug beside him and held out one hand, fingers splayed.

Rui held up his own next to theirs. Their fingertips were nearly aligned — but Rui’s were longer. More angular.

“You’re not double-jointed, huh?” Mizuki asked.

“No,” Rui said, slowly bending his fingers. “Just long fingers. From playing piano, maybe.”

Mizuki stared at their hands side by side.

There was a strange, unexpected quiet.

Rui felt it settle between them — like fog, or the moment right before a thunderclap. He didn’t move his hand away. Neither did Mizuki.

Their pinkies were almost touching.

Then Mizuki spoke — barely a breath:

“I love you.”

Rui froze.

It was like the words echoed in the room louder than the TV.

He turned his head slowly, but Mizuki’s eyes were wide, face flushing too fast. They looked like they were about to self-combust.

“I—!” Mizuki stumbled. “Y-your hands! I love your hands! I mean—they’re pretty? Or whatever?”

The silence after that was unbearable.

Rui looked back at their hands. Back at Mizuki. Their shoulders had stiffened.

It would’ve been easy to pretend it hadn’t happened.

He almost let it pass.

Almost.

The movie started loading on the TV.

They sat side by side again on the rug, a small bowl of snacks between them. The opening menu looped quietly, and neither of them moved to press play.

Rui could feel the tension in Mizuki’s posture like heat. They were curled in slightly. Retreating.

He didn’t want that.

He didn’t want Mizuki to regret being brave.

So he said it.

Quietly. Casually. Like it was obvious.

“I love you too.”

The words floated out and landed gently.

Mizuki looked at him — startled, stunned, wide-eyed — like Rui had just said something unthinkable.

But Rui didn’t look back. He picked up a popcorn kernel and popped it into his mouth like nothing had happened.

Because if he didn’t make it a big deal, maybe Mizuki wouldn’t panic. Maybe they could just have this, for a moment.

“I…” Mizuki started, then faltered.

Then they laughed.

A quiet, half-horrified sound. “You’re evil.”

Rui shrugged. “You started it.”

“I did not!”

“You did.”

Mizuki groaned and buried their face in a pillow.

But Rui saw it — the curve of their shoulders, the softness in their laugh, the way their hand didn’t move away when his brushed it again a moment later.

They stayed like that as the movie began.

Close.

Touching.

Almost something more.

The movie began.

Colors washed across the screen. Opening credits rolled with nostalgic music that Rui barely registered. Mizuki had gone still beside him — but not tense, not exactly. Just… still. Like someone holding their breath.

Rui was too.

They didn’t speak for a while.

On-screen, characters laughed and ran through some surreal dreamscape. Mizuki had said it was “weird but emotional.” Rui understood now. The plot wandered, looped, blurred reality with metaphor — the kind of film you didn’t just watch, but absorbed.

Mizuki didn’t laugh like they usually did. They were quiet — not checking their phone, not making comments. Just sitting beside Rui, their knees above their chest, their sleeve barely brushing his arm.

Rui tried not to overthink it.

He failed.

Because the words still sat between them — his own and Mizuki’s. I love you.
Not a joke. Not a dare. Something fragile and real and handed over too fast.

And he’d said it back. But not with the weight Mizuki had meant.

He could still hear the panic in their voice when they tried to cover it up.

“Y-your hands! I love your hands!”
And then him — deliberately, stupidly casual:

“I love you too.”
Like it was nothing.

But it wasn’t.

It was everything.

The movie hit its halfway mark. One of the characters cried on screen — something about feeling invisible, like shouting underwater — and Mizuki leaned forward, hugging a pillow to their chest.

Rui turned his head just slightly, watching their profile in the light from the screen. Their lashes. Their lips. Their hands clutched around the fabric.

They looked like they were holding something in.

It made Rui ache.

Not because Mizuki had said “I love you” first. Not even because they’d tried to cover it up.

But because Rui didn’t know if he was allowed to say it and mean it back.

If he meant it the same way.

If he could.

Rui loved Mizuki — there was no doubt.

He loved their laugh, their unpredictability, the softness they rarely showed anyone else. He loved how Mizuki lit up over obscure niche interests, how they said things no one else would dare say out loud, how they somehow always understood when he couldn’t find the right words.

But the kind of love Mizuki had almost confessed…

Did Rui have the right to return it?

To accept it?

To become something more?

And what if it changed everything? What if it ruined them?

Rui wasn’t afraid of many things — but this, this delicate, burning almost, terrified him more than he could admit.

Eventually, the movie ended.

The credits rolled slow and soft, and neither of them moved.

Mizuki shifted first, rubbing their eyes with the heel of one hand. “…Still hits,” they murmured.

“It does,” Rui said.

He meant more than the film.

Mizuki didn’t respond.

They both sat for another moment — and then, with a sharp breath, Mizuki stood.

“I’ll get you some water,” they said too quickly, already walking toward the kitchen. “You’re probably dehydrated. Movies make you dehydrated, you know?”

“I wasn’t aware,” Rui replied gently.

“I read it somewhere. Or maybe I made it up.”

They disappeared around the corner.

Rui exhaled slowly.

He laid back on the carpet, arms folded behind his head, eyes on the ceiling. There was a crack near the light fixture. He counted each second until Mizuki came back.

When they did, they handed him a glass with slightly shaky hands.

He took it with a quiet “Thank you.”

Mizuki dropped beside him again, not quite meeting his gaze. Their foot nudged his leg, just lightly, and stayed there.

They didn’t talk about it.

Not the blurting. Not the answer. Not the way Mizuki had blinked like they’d been slapped when Rui said it back so easily.

Maybe that was okay.

Maybe not.

But neither of them knew how to start the next sentence.

It was late by the time Rui stood to leave.

Mizuki followed him to the door. Their hair was messy now, their hoodie sleeves pulled over their hands. They looked a little tired. A little beautiful.

He turned to say goodbye, and they were right there.

Close.

Eyes half-lowered.

For a second, he thought maybe — maybe — this was when it would happen.

A kiss.

A confession.

Anything real.

But Mizuki only said, too softly, “Text me when you get home, okay?”

“I always do.”

“…Right.”

He reached for the doorknob.

And hesitated.

The silence stretched, long and heavy.

Mizuki shifted.

“I didn’t mean to say that earlier,” they whispered.

Rui looked back at them. “You didn’t?”

Mizuki’s voice was so quiet it almost cracked. “Not like that. I mean—I do. But I wasn’t… ready. I messed it up.”

Rui stared.

Then, very quietly, he said:

“I know.”

And that was it.

He opened the door, stepped into the hallway, and the door clicked shut behind him.

But Rui didn’t leave right away.

He stood there in the quiet for a long time, holding his phone, the air sharp against his skin.

Finally, he typed one message and hit send:

[ I meant it. ]

Then he walked away.

Chapter Text

The message came at 10:02 PM.

Rui: I meant it.

Nothing more. No emoji. No punctuation. No context.

Just three words.

And Mizuki stared at them for so long that the phone screen dimmed, blacked out, and finally dropped from their hand onto the blanket.

They didn't pick it up.

They couldn't.

Because what did he mean?

What did he mean by "I meant it" when he had said "I love you too" in the most casual manner possible? When Mizuki had nearly broken down trying to force the words back into her mouth?

Did Rui mean it as I love you love you?

Did he mean as a friend, or in some vague artistic way, or in that way where Rui says strange things and you spend the rest of the week mulling them over incessantly?

Mizuki lay awake in bed, their eyes wide, their brain doing mental gymnastics that would've gotten gold.

They did not sleep.

And the next morning — there was still no reply.

Still nothing came back.

They told themselves it was preferable that way. Quieter. Safer. Because the wrong words might ruin everything.

Again.

And the next morning — there was still no reply.

Still, there was nothing back.

They told themselves it was preferable that way. Quieter. Safer. Because the wrong words might ruin everything.

Again.

The café was busy in a quiet kind of way.

Not loud — more the soft hum of conversation, the clinking of mugs, the warmth of people trying to be happy. Mizuki usually liked this place. There was something comforting about it: the odd cat-themed decor, the mismatched chairs, the indie music that always seemed to play like it didn't care if you listened.

Today, it was too hot. As though all the air had been consumed by the thrumming of their heartbeat.

Emu was waving frantically through the window before Mizuki was even in the door. Tsukasa seemed to have been dictating something for at least twenty minutes straight.

And Rui…

Rui was stretched out in the corner of the booth, sketchbook in his lap, idly spinning a pen through his fingers.

His fingers.

Those same fingers Mizuki had freaked out about just two nights ago. The ones they’d accidentally compared, stared at too long, loved a little too obviously.

Those same fingers that had typed “I meant it.”

When Rui looked up and saw them, his face lit up in a way that knocked the breath out of Mizuki’s lungs.

“Hey,” he said.

Like nothing had changed.

Like Mizuki hadn’t nearly detonated their entire friendship in one breath.

“You’re late,” he added, smiling lazily.

“You’re annoying,” Mizuki shot back, sliding into the booth beside him before their knees could give out.

They sat stiffly, hyper-aware of how close Rui was. Of how the fabric of Rui’s sleeve brushed against theirs. Of how their knees were almost touching under the table.

You're one minute and thirty-six seconds late, to be exact," Rui said, checking his phone. "Tragic."

"Oh no, my reputation," Mizuki said dryly, crossing their arms in an attempt to look unconcerned. "Guess I'll never recover."

Emu leaned across the table with stars in her eyes. "Mizuki~! Did you see the weird new parfait on the menu? It's got, like, six colors and it glows!"

"It glows?" Mizuki's eyes went wide. "Is it radioactive?"

"Maybe!

It probably violates at least three food safety regulations," Rui grumbled.

Tsukasa was looking very solemn. "If we're going to consume glowing parfaits, we need to do it with conviction."

Emu cheered. Tsukasa struck a pose.

Mizuki laughed.

But it sounded… forced. Like a mask they needed to hold absolutely perfectly in place, or it would drop and Rui would see everything. Again.

The conversation swirled around them like hot air. Emu talked about her newest costume project (she'd succeeded in turning a toaster into a wearable hat). Tsukasa tried repeatedly to recount the plot of a play he'd seen. Rui threw in the occasional dry comment, usually with a bit of a smirk.

And Mizuki?

Mizuki laughed at the right times.

Made the right faces.

Spoke just enough to seem normal.

But their brain never stopped turning.

Because Rui’s thigh kept bumping theirs under the table. Because Rui’s hand kept resting near theirs when he gestured. Because every time Mizuki let their guard down, even for a second, Rui was watching them.

Not staring.

Not intense.

Just… watching. Like he was waiting.

And Mizuki didn’t know if they wanted him to stop, or keep doing it forever.

The parfaits arrived.

They did glow.

Mizuki pretended to be interested, took pictures, held it up to the light — but all they could think about was how Rui's hand had brushed against theirs when passing over a spoon.

That night — the movie, the comparisons of hands, the way Rui hadn't flinched when Mizuki shouted it out loud —

"I love you."

And then the cover-up. The lie. The panic.

"Y-your hands! I love your hands!"

And then…

"I love you too."

So casual.
So calm.
And the text afterward.

I meant it.

It was like standing beneath a waterfall of emotions Mizuki couldn't sort fast enough.

Being near Rui for each ticking second made it worse.
Each laugh, each shared glance, each time their bodies inclined toward each other like magnets too afraid to touch.

Then Emu and Tsukasa left — something about Tsukasa needing to practice a dramatic monologue in front of a mirror and Emu offering to be his director.

That left Rui and Mizuki by themselves.

The café had emptied. The music was more subdued now. Late afternoon sunlight poured through the windows in long, warm beams.

Mizuki wanted to make a dash for it.

They scooped the melted bottom of their parfait with their spoon instead and said, "I didn't reply."

Rui blinked. "Hmm?"

"To your message."

"Oh." He tilted his head, fingers curling around his cup. "I saw."

Mizuki stared at the spoon. "I didn't know what to say."

A beat.

"You didn't have to say anything," Rui said.

Mizuki looked up. "Then why'd you message me?"

Rui hesitated before answering.

Instead, he smiled — not smug or playful, but gentle.

“So you’d know.”

Mizuki’s breath caught.

Because Rui never said things he didn’t mean.

And that was the scariest part of all.

It was such a Rui thing to say — vague, cryptic, too honest to be brushed off but too gentle to demand a response.

They opened their mouth. Closed it again.

A part of them wanted to say thank you. Another part wanted to scream. A louder part — the one lodged firmly in their throat — just wanted to pretend it hadn’t happened.

Instead, they swirled the melted ice in their glass.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with that,” Mizuki finally muttered.

Rui didn’t move. “You’re not supposed to do anything.”

“That’s kind of the problem.”

Their voice came out too sharp. They hated that.

Rui just blinked slowly, then leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and folding his hands. "You're overthinking again."

"I always overthink."

"I know."

The tone he used made Mizuki's skin squirm. There was no judgment, no sarcasm — no anything but gentle understanding, which for some reason made it worse.

"Do you regret saying it?" Rui asked.

Mizuki's heart nearly exploded.

"I—" they hesitated. "I didn't mean to."

"I know," Rui repeated, and his smile was almost sorrowful this time. "But you did."

The silence that followed was heavy, pulled taut like elastic.

Mizuki looked down at their hands in their lap, fists clenched. "I wish I didn't."

"That you didn't say it?" Rui's voice was gentle. "Or that you didn't mean it?"

"I don't know." Mizuki's voice cracked. "Maybe both."

A long silence.

Then Rui said something Mizuki didn't expect.

"…I wish you could say it without having to mean it."

Their head snapped up. "What?"

Rui shrugged one shoulder, still staring down at his cup. "Sometimes I think you keep everything in your chest like it's going to explode, and when it does, you're scared you broke something."

Mizuki stared.

He looked up, and their eyes met. "You didn't break anything, Mizuki."

"But what if I did?" Their voice was barely a whisper. "What if it's never the same again?"

"It won't be," Rui said softly. "But maybe that's not a bad thing."

They didn't talk again for some time.

The staff cleaned tables. The sun crept across the floor. Someone switched playlists — something slower now, softer.

Mizuki stared out of the window, pretending to watch the street.

Their chest ached.

Not due to any fault of Rui having said anything wrong — but because he hadn't. Because it was all too careful and true and kind. Because Mizuki felt the earth shifting beneath them and didn't know how to stop it.

They didn't wish to mess this up. They didn't wish to lose Rui.

But something was happening, and they couldn't pretend otherwise.

On the walk to the station, Rui kept close but didn’t talk. He had his hands in his coat pockets. Mizuki hugged their bag tight to their chest.

Their steps echoed on the pavement.

Halfway down the block, Rui finally spoke.

“You don’t have to say anything until you’re ready.”

Mizuki looked at him. “What if I’m never ready?”

He glanced over. “Then I’ll wait forever.”

The worst part was — Mizuki believed him.

The trip home was a blur.

Not the kind with wind and speed and glittering city lights — the kind where Mizuki sat in the corner of the carriage, headphones in, music low, eyes on the scenery going by but not seeing any of it. Their reflection rippled in the window, pale and tired. Their bag was on their lap, hands clenched on the straps.

Rui had been across from them, clutching the railing. He did not speak again.

He didn't need to.

It was worse, somehow, this unspoken understanding. A constant seep of fact Mizuki couldn't escape. Tension between them hadn't vanished — it'd only settled, thick and unspoken, like mist on their skin.

When Mizuki finally stepped off the train and into the cool night air, they did not feel free.

Just. weighted.

Their room felt too quiet.

The lights too bright.

The walls too thin.

They dumped their bag onto the bed and collapsed beside it, face-down. The comforter didn’t help. Nothing did. The feelings were still there — Rui’s voice, Rui’s words, Rui’s eyes — all stuck in their chest like glitter they couldn’t scrub away.

Their phone buzzed.

Just a notification from a group chat.

Not him.

Not that Mizuki expected it.

They rolled onto their back, the ceiling swimming above them. Everything felt slow. Still. Muffled.

Their hand drifted to their phone again. They didn’t unlock it.

Just held it.

Like maybe the pressure of Rui’s message was still there, pulsing through the screen.

I meant it.

Those three words lived under their ribs now, stitched into the fabric of their thoughts.

Had Rui known? Had he expected Mizuki to fall apart again?

Had he wanted to see it?

No. That wasn't fair.

Rui wasn't cruel. He was too nice sometimes. Too thoughtful. And that was the most frightening thing for Mizuki — how simple it was to believe him.

To want things.

To imagine things.

To hope.

They sat up with a start, heart racing.

"No," Mizuki whispered to no one. "Don't do this again."

They got up, paced in circles. Tried to distract themselves.

Skimmed through clothes in their closet. Moved some shelves around. Unplugged, replugged their desk lamp. Opened a drawer, shut it.

Eventually, their fingers closed around something small.

The pendant.

The one Rui had given them on the rooftop.

It still glowed a little under the light. It still felt warm, even though it shouldn't. Mizuki gripped it in their hand, as if that could keep everything else from overflowing.

They stood in front of the mirror.

Their reflection looked like someone else.

Someone who didn’t know what they wanted. Someone scared to ruin the only real thing they had. Someone who couldn’t take back what they said and didn’t know if they wanted to.

The pendant gleamed in their hand.

“I’m not ready,” they whispered.

Their voice trembled.

And the pendant stayed warm.

Later, lying in bed, phone in hand, Mizuki opened their messages again.

Rui: I meant it.

The screen was blank beneath it.

Their fingers hung over the keyboard. They typed, then deleted. Typed again. Deleted.

After a while, they just stared.

The message wasn't going anywhere.

Neither was the feeling.

And for now… that would have to be enough.

Chapter Text

The room was still cold, but Rui still felt the draft.

It had been emptied for a long time. Piled-up chairs were prodded, chalk stains clung in the air, and someone had drawn half-done a drawing in the corner of the whiteboard — something unfinished and tender, like an idea that never got its voice. The sun beat down, warmth, orange-gold, on the desks, making long shadows stretch out on the floor. Outside, the faraway rumble of traffic and the melodies of birds informed Rui that the day was almost gone. Nearly.

With a leg crossed under him, he sat on the floor, paper maps unfolding in front of him like wings between him and Mizuki, who crossed their legs in front of them, arm upraised lazily, cheek against their palm.

They were silent. Not uncomfortably so — not quite — but that odd manner where words dangled precariously at the back of the throat, never quite coming out. Rui glanced up from the blueprint they were marking up and caught Mizuki staring, eyes slightly unfocused.

"What?"

Rui whispered.

Mizuki blinked. "Huh?"

"You were staring."

Both of them grinned. "Was I? Must've zoned out. Your hair's doing that curl thing again."

Rui instinctively reached up to touch the ends. “Oh. It does that.”

“Yeah.” Mizuki’s voice was light, teasing — but there was something else beneath it. A quiet undercurrent that Rui couldn’t name.

They’d been like this all afternoon. Sitting close enough to brush knees by accident, talking over marker colors and backdrop ideas, flipping through reference books and pages filled with Rui’s impossibly intricate designs. It was supposed to be a normal afterschool project. But nothing with Mizuki ever really felt normal. Or maybe it was just Rui’s own fault — the way he found himself watching their hands when they traced lines with a pencil, or the way their laugh curved into his chest and stayed there long after it faded.

He looked back down at the blueprint. "This part of the arch has to be stabilized more. The weight distribution's not right."

Mizuki inched closer, their shoulder knocking into his. "Mhm. You'll fix it though. You always do."

That stopped Rui in his tracks. Not because of what was said — he'd heard flattery before — but the manner in which Mizuki said it. Without doubt. As if it was the most self-evident thing in the universe. As if Rui never got anything wrong.

He located his pencil and made some adjustments to lines, but the warmth in his chest lingered.

A breeze stirred the papers on the floor, ruffling the edges. Mizuki grabbed one that had flown loose. "Hey, do you remember when we tried to cover the prop signs in glitter spray and sprayed half the room?"

"I remember you tried to take the blame for it."

"Because it was your idea!"

Rui glared at them. "You knocked over the can."

Mizuki smiled, arms hooked under their elbows. "Okay, okay. But your face was priceless. You just looked at it like, 'Hm. Yes. Acceptable chaos.'"

He smiled, a tiny one. "It wasn't all that bad."

"You're so weird."

Thanks.

Mizuki's laughter smoothed out into a smile, a smile that didn't make it all the way to their eyes this time. Rui caught it — that moment of slipping. That glimmer. He was improving at seeing them.

“I like it when it’s just us,” Mizuki said suddenly, eyes drifting toward the window.

That made something shift in Rui’s chest.

He didn’t answer right away. Not because he didn’t agree — but because he wasn’t sure how to answer without saying too much. Too honestly. Too clearly.

Instead, he nodded. “Me too.”

The light outside was softening now, the sun dipping low. Mizuki shifted again, their knee bumping his.

"Would it be odd if we just… hung around a bit longer here?"

"No," answered Rui. He didn't blink. "It's fine."

Mizuki exhaled. Not a laugh. Not a sigh. Just an exhale — like they were relieved.

They didn't say anything for a bit. Mizuki rested on the floor, one arm draped dramatically across their eyes, complaining about "artistic fatigue." Rui did not move, his gaze fixed on them, his heart pounding gently in the center of his chest.

They looked peaceful like that. But Rui understood Mizuki. Understood that silence wasn't always peaceful. Sometimes it was a wall.

His gaze strayed to their hand, lying loosely on the ground. White fingers, gleaming rings. The pendant he gave them was tucked beneath their collar, but he caught a glimpse of the chain at their throat. Mizuki never took it off. They had never said a word, never once, but Rui caught the sight. He always caught the sight.

He longed to reach out — perhaps not even touch. Just come a little closer. But he didn't. The distance between them was short, and yet it seemed incredibly vast.

Later, Mizuki woke up and sat up, rubbing their eyes behind their sleeve.

"It's getting dark," they said, glancing out the windows.

Rui nodded. "Should we pack up?

Mizuki did not move at first. They looked at him, face impassive. Then their voice dipped, not much softer than before. "Do you ever want things to be… different?"

That brought Rui up short.

He looked at them — His eyes really looked — and thought about what was said. A thousand responses tossed through his head. Did he wish things were different? That he was braver? That he could reach out without knowing what it would cost them?

"…Sometimes," he said again.

Mizuki nodded listlessly, then diverted their conversation elsewhere.

And nothing else was said.

They didn’t pack up immediately.

Mizuki stayed seated on the floor, cross-legged again, idly rolling a marker between their fingers, the cap tapping a faint rhythm against their knee. Their eyes weren’t really focused on anything — not the diagrams on the board, not the paints drying on the shelf, not even the marker itself. They were looking through things. Past them.

Rui stayed by the low table, adjusting the angles on the miniature stage model, but more than once his eyes drifted over to Mizuki. He pretended to be checking the lighting notes, but really, he was watching them in the periphery of his vision. Carefully. Quietly.

They weren’t teasing. They weren’t talking. They weren’t even smiling.

And that silence — not loud or tense, just still — felt heavier than anything they’d said all day.

Rui knew this quiet.

Not the usual kind, not the gentle pauses between conversation or the thoughtful silences when Mizuki was focusing. No. This was the other kind. The kind that happened when Mizuki was thinking too much, when their brain got too full, too fast, and started building walls Rui couldn’t always see through.

He hated this kind of quiet.

“You okay?” Rui asked, voice lower than usual.

Mizuki blinked and looked up. “Huh? Yeah. I’m fine.” Their smile was immediate — too immediate. Light, practiced, like one of the ones they wore when they didn’t want to be asked again. “Just thinking.”

“About?” Rui kept his tone light, as if he might believe the answer.

They hesitated for a second, fingers stilling against the marker. Then they shrugged. “The backdrop lighting. I think we could layer a few gels to create more dimension.”

Rui didn’t push.

If Mizuki wanted to hide behind technical talk, he’d let them. For now.

But he could tell — something was still off. Not in a dramatic way. Just a little. Like Mizuki’s thoughts were flickering too fast behind their eyes. Like they were trying to stay in the moment but kept slipping.

They worked in tandem for a few more minutes. Mizuki eventually stood, stretching their arms above their head with a little sigh. Then they moved to help Rui adjust the arch cutouts, settling beside him without saying anything.

Their hands brushed when they reached for the same piece of cardboard.

And then both of them froze.

It was such a small thing — barely a second — but the contact pulled something tight in Rui’s chest. Mizuki’s fingers were warm. Soft. Just a glance of skin. But Rui felt his breath snag like thread on a nail.

Mizuki was the one who pulled back first.

They let out a small laugh — not their usual laugh, not bright or smug, just a bit quick and unsteady. “Sorry. Guess we’re synced up too well.”

Rui gave a half-smile. “Maybe we’ve just been doing this too long.”

“Maybe,” Mizuki echoed, but there was something unsure about the way they said it. Not sarcastic. Not flirty. Just… quiet.

They stood again, brushing dust off the hem of their skirt. “I’ll start putting the tools back. We’ll be late if we don’t catch the next bus.”

Rui nodded and stood too, moving to gather the loose papers and sketches. The routine helped. It gave his hands something to do. It felt familiar, even comforting — collecting pencils, folding diagrams, packing the backdrop notes into the folder Mizuki had doodled on last week.

Still, there was something delicate about the silence that lingered between them now. Like glass. Like the wrong word might shatter it.

When Mizuki stood on tiptoe to return a roll of tape to the upper shelf, their shirt lifted slightly, and the silver glint of the pendant caught the light.

Rui looked away before he could stare.

He didn’t ask why they wore it every day. He didn’t need to.

But Mizuki had noticed his glance — of course they had.

“You still think about that day?” they asked, their tone light, tilted toward teasing but not quite landing there. They were looking at him from under their bangs, eyes narrowed just a little.

Rui paused, fingers stilling over the folder. “The day I gave it to you?”

“Yeah. I thought you were going to give me a puzzle box or a homemade automaton or something. But nope. You surprised me.”

He allowed a small smile. “Did you like it?”

Mizuki lifted their hand, fingers brushing over the chain at their collarbone. “I still wear it, don’t I?”

It wasn’t a real answer — not exactly — but Rui didn’t press. Not when their voice had that faint tightness to it, not when they turned away just a second too soon.

They finished packing, Mizuki slinging their bag over their shoulder with a little more force than necessary.

“You ready?” they asked, voice bright again.

Rui nodded, and they stepped out of the classroom together. The hallway was quiet — after-club quiet, dusk-hued and echoing with faraway footsteps. A janitor’s cart squeaked softly somewhere down the hall.

As they passed one of the tall windows, Rui caught the light shifting — the sky was a deep lavender now, clouds soaked with the last light of the sun. He stopped, glancing out.

Beside him, Mizuki did the same, fingers curling slightly in their sleeves.

“Pretty,” they said, almost to themselves.

Rui didn’t answer right away. He wasn’t looking at the sky.

He was looking at them — the way their profile softened in the twilight, the faint light catching on the curve of their lashes, the tiny twitch at the corner of their mouth that almost looked like a smile but wasn’t quite.

“Yeah,” he said finally.

Mizuki turned their head, meeting his gaze. And they didn’t look away.

The silence between them stretched again. Not awkward. Not heavy. Just… full.

Rui wondered what Mizuki was thinking right then. Wondered if they could tell how hard it was to hold that eye contact. Wondered what they saw when they looked at him like that — and if it was anything like the storm of unsaid things he was trying so hard to hold back.

Mizuki shifted, brushing their bangs from their forehead with one hand. “Let’s go,” they murmured.

They walked side by side through the hallway, their footsteps light on the polished floor. Neither of them said much. But the silence wasn’t empty this time — it carried the weight of all the things they hadn’t said.

The distance between them hadn’t changed, not physically. They weren’t any further apart than usual.

But Rui could feel it.

The atmosphere had thickened. Not with tension exactly — not with discomfort. But with everything that hovered at the edges. Everything they both danced around. Every almost.

He didn’t know what would happen if that silence ever broke.

He wasn’t sure which scared him more — that it might change everything…

…or that it might not.

They boarded the bus with seconds to spare.

The bus was almost deserted — the serene type of late-afternoon bus journey that appeared to belong to them alone. Rui lagged behind Mizuki, choosing a seat near the rear where the windows were expansive and the sky appeared closer.

Mizuki sat beside the window without being asked, dropping their bag on the floor and resting their cheek against the glass. Light softened their hair at the edges, pale pinks and cool blues scattered throughout the strands. Rui sat beside them, their shoulders close enough to — but not quite — touch.

They sat there in silence for a bit.

The city glided by outside in widening gold bars. Everything was slow. Still. Rui could listen to the rustling of the sleeves of Mizuki as they moved. Could see the dip of their fingers as they hooked into the hem of their skirt, the pendant pushing out again from behind their collarbone.

He left his own hands in his lap.

There was a strange, aching calm in the space between them. A quiet he didn’t want to break. But Mizuki turned toward him eventually, voice soft enough that it barely rose above the hum of the bus.

“Hey, Rui.”

He looked at them. “Yeah?”

Their expression was unreadable. Not teasing, not quite vulnerable — something in between. “You’ve been weird today.”

Rui blinked. “Weird how?”

“I don’t know.” Mizuki glanced away. “Just… quiet. Thinking too hard again.”

Rui gave a small exhale through his nose. “I could say the same about you.”

Mizuki smiled, but it didn’t last. They turned back to the window, fingers now drumming softly on the glass.

“I keep wondering,” they said, almost to themselves, “if we’ll still be like this next year.”

“Like what?”

"You know. Staying behind after class. Working on weird stage design projects just because we like it. Just sitting around for hours not saying what we're actually thinking."

Rui gazed at them with greater intensity.

He wanted to say to her: I'd do this forever if it meant that you'd be with me.

He wanted to say to her: I have no idea how to want anything else.

He wanted to say to her: Don't go anywhere I can't keep up.

Instead, he simply replied, "We're still going to be us."

Mizuki didn't respond, at first. Then, softer this time: "Like what if that's the problem?"

Rui kept going straight ahead. The bus rolled past shopfronts, by trees whose flowers stuck to the branches. The following silence was dense once more — the kind you only had with someone who had known each inch of your silence. ".

When Mizuki spoke again, their voice was not the same — lighter, as if trying to float off the weight of their own words.

"Anyway," they said, pulling their legs up onto the seat and folding into the window corner, "you'd better not leave me stranded next time we're stuck building something to put on the stage."

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Rui said, and meant it more than he probably should have.

They fell into silence again. But it wasn’t uncomfortable. Just the kind that comes when two people have already said too much without actually saying anything at all.

Mizuki’s shoulder tilted a little closer, and Rui didn’t move.

The bus rocked gently as it turned down a side road. He could see their reflection in the window — the shape of Mizuki’s lashes, the slow blink of their eyes, the flicker of a small smile they didn’t quite show outwardly.

He stared at that reflection instead of them. It felt easier.

A breeze from the open top vent stirred Mizuki’s hair, and some of it drifted against his sleeve. Rui didn’t brush it away.

When they reached Mizuki’s stop, neither of them moved right away. Rui shifted slightly, looking toward them as if to ask if they were getting off — but Mizuki didn’t stand.

Their voice came quiet again. “Walk me?”

Rui nodded. “Of course.”

He followed them off the bus. The late afternoon had turned cool, dusk settling in. They walked side by side down the quiet road toward Mizuki’s house, a few steps closer now than they had been earlier. Mizuki didn’t say anything else — just walked with that same rhythm, like they were still keeping in time with some unspoken melody between them.

And Rui permitted himself to feel it: the ache, the closeness, the impossible nearness of something which they could not say.

Chapter Text

There was no reason to feel this anxious.

It wasn’t a date. It wasn’t anything.

Just Rui. Just the park. Just another early summer afternoon and the two of them, like always.

Still, Mizuki had shown up ten minutes early.

And then sat there pretending they hadn’t.

The bench they picked was shaded and curved just right, half-facing the koi pond near the edge of the park trail. It was a good bench. Neutral. Strategic. Not too romantic, not too remote. The sun filtered through tree branches overhead, scattering little gold flecks across their lap. A breeze stirred their sleeves every so often, like a reminder that time was still moving — and Rui was late.

Not terribly late. Just... later than usual.

Two minutes and thirty-five seconds now.

Not that Mizuki was keeping track. That would be pathetic.

(They were.)

They swiped through their phone screen for the fifth time, not reading anything. Just giving their hands something to do. Twitter was a mess. Instagram was worse. One glance at an overly filtered photo of some classmate at a beach resort made Mizuki want to toss their phone into the koi pond.

Instead, they locked it again and tucked it into their hoodie pocket.

It was warm today, warmer than the hoodie warranted, but they’d put it on anyway. It was oversized and a little soft around the edges, the sleeves slightly frayed, one of those comfort pieces that felt like armor. Rui had seen it a million times. It wasn’t special.

But they’d worn it anyway.

For no reason.

(That was a lie.)

They were still tugging at the sleeves when they heard footsteps.

Not just any footsteps. The ones they’d been waiting for.

Deliberate, light, a little too composed. Rui always walked like he was performing slightly, even when he wasn’t. Mizuki didn’t look up. Didn’t have to.

They felt him approach before they saw him. Like the air bent a little differently when he was near.

“You’re late,” they said, casually, like they hadn’t just spent seven entire minutes panicking over how to greet him.

“By two minutes,” came Rui’s voice, smooth as ever.

Mizuki risked a glance.

He was smiling. Not broadly — Rui didn’t do that much. But his eyes had that glint, like he knew exactly how much space he occupied in Mizuki’s chest and was pretending not to.

Mizuki turned away before it could show on their face.

“That’s late,” they said simply.

Rui sat beside them, leaving a respectful amount of space — which somehow made it feel even worse. That little inch of distance buzzed with invisible tension. Mizuki hated it. Missed it. Wanted it gone and never touched all at once.

“Then I sincerely apologize for wasting one-hundred-and-twenty of your precious seconds,” he said, voice light with that barely-there smile.

Mizuki didn’t answer. They just leaned back on the bench, hood halfway up, fingers tucked inside their sleeves.

The park was peaceful, which only made everything inside them louder. A couple passed by walking a dog. A toddler squealed at a passing butterfly. Birds chirped overhead.

And Rui sat there beside them, unbothered. Perfect posture. Calm gaze. Every now and then he shifted his weight slightly, like he might say something. But he didn’t.

Neither did Mizuki.

They could feel the silence like a wire stretched tight between them.

It wasn’t awkward. Rui never made things awkward. It was just that — being near him like this, alone, with nothing to do and nowhere to be — made Mizuki too aware of every second. Every breath. Every heartbeat. Every almost.

“I still don’t get why you picked here,” they said finally, arms crossed loosely. “It’s kind of... family-core.”

Rui turned toward them. “Family-core?”

“You know.” Mizuki gestured vaguely. “Parents and kids. Stroller energy.”

He laughed. “You have such a specific vocabulary.”

“You have such terrible taste in meeting spots.”

Rui didn’t argue. He just leaned back a little, hands in his pockets, chin tilted toward the sun.

“It’s quiet,” he said. “That’s all.”

Mizuki glanced at him. “Since when do you like quiet?”

He didn’t respond right away.

“I like quiet when you’re in it,” he said, eventually.

Mizuki’s breath caught. Just a little.

That was the problem with Rui — he said things like that, like they were facts, not confessions. It left you wondering if you’d imagined the meaning altogether.

Before Mizuki could respond, a sudden flutter of feathers sliced the air just above their heads. A bird — far too bold for its size — had come swooping low toward the bench before veering off at the last second.

Mizuki flinched, yelped, and leaned instinctively away—

—straight into Rui’s side.

Shoulder. Chest. Arm.

It lasted all of two seconds. But it felt like gravity shifted.

They heard Rui inhale. Not sharply. Just enough.

Then: Mizuki was pulling back, cheeks blazing, absolutely ready to disintegrate into the wooden slats beneath them.

“Sorry! Shit—I didn’t mean— That bird just—!”

“It’s okay,” Rui said, not moving. Not laughing. Not teasing. Just quiet, steady.

Mizuki didn’t know what to do with that.

They rubbed the back of their neck, staring at a crack in the pavement. “Okay. Cool. Great. I didn’t just fall on you like a freak. That’s good.”

Rui looked at them, unreadable. “You didn’t fall.”

“You’re being suspiciously kind about this.”

“Would it make you feel better if I teased you?”

“No. It would make me punch you.”

“Then I’ll refrain.”

The silence crept back in, but softer this time. Less tense. More tentative. Like the air had exhaled.

Mizuki stayed curled in on themself for a while, hoodie sleeves pulled past their fingertips, toes tapping lightly on the bench leg.

And then Rui said something ridiculous.

“How do you feel about breaking into school?”

Mizuki blinked. “What?”

“Technically not breaking,” Rui amended. “I know where the night gate sometimes stays unlocked.”

“Wow. I’ve never been more attracted to a sentence and more concerned at the same time.”

“You’ll love the view. Come on.”

He stood, offered a hand — casually, like it meant nothing.

Mizuki hesitated.

Then reached out and took it.

His fingers were warm.

And they didn’t let go right away.

Mizuki wasn’t sure when their fingers had slipped out of Rui’s hand.

It happened somewhere between the quiet side street and the back gate of the school — that familiar fence curling inward like an afterthought, with chipped green paint and a rusted lock that didn’t quite click shut. Rui jiggled the latch twice, and it came loose with a soft, metallic sigh.

Mizuki stepped through after him.

It was strange, seeing the school like this — empty. Still.

The building loomed in silhouette against the fading sky, its windows dim and glassy like watching eyes. Everything was quieter than it should’ve been, no bell echoes or distant footsteps, no murmur of students or fluorescent buzz. Just wind brushing the trees, a few birds rustling above the courtyard, and the sound of their footsteps side by side.

Rui didn’t speak.

Neither did Mizuki.

It wasn’t awkward. It was just—so quiet that anything either of them said might echo too loud.

They moved through the halls like ghosts. Familiar walls. Familiar floor tiles. The posters were still up — faded reminders of school festivals and committee drives and last semester’s play.

Mizuki remembered standing right there, outside classroom 2-B, waiting for Rui to finish pretending he wasn’t about to skip math. That hallway corner where they used to sit on rainy days, trading awful cafeteria desserts and making up fake rumors about their teachers just to kill time.

They hadn’t known each other as kids, not really. But this building was their childhood anyway. Their adolescence. The parts that had shaped them, for better or worse.

And a lot of it had been worse.

Their middle school years were a mess of apathy and avoidance. Of feeling out of place in their own skin. Of late nights online and long stretches of silence where even music couldn’t reach them.

But somehow, Rui had been there.

Not always understanding. Not always kind.

But there.

Mizuki still wasn’t sure how much of that they owed him — or how much of him they’d come to rely on just to keep their own shadow company.

“This feels illegal,” Mizuki muttered finally, eyes scanning the dark classroom windows as they walked past.

“It’s not,” Rui replied. “Just discouraged.”

“You really know how to pick romantic locations.”

“I didn’t say it was romantic.”

“You invited me to trespass under moonlight. Don’t backpedal now.”

Rui gave a breath of a laugh. “Fine. It’s tragically poetic.”

Mizuki didn’t smile — but something like it twisted inside their chest.

Eventually, they reached the stairwell.

The rooftop was locked during the day. But Rui, of course, knew better.

He led them up two flights and paused beside a dusty panel tucked behind a janitor’s closet. Mizuki leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching him fish something small from his pocket — a bent piece of wire.

“Do you carry that around just in case you need to impress someone?” they asked.

Rui raised an eyebrow. “Would it work if I said yes?”

“No,” Mizuki said. “But it’s still hot.”

That got him.

Just a flicker — the faintest pink at the tips of his ears.

And then the door clicked open.

The rooftop greeted them like an old friend. The air was cooler up here, touched by wind. The city stretched beyond the fence, buildings glowing softly under the dusky sky. The horizon burned gold fading into violet, clouds edged with pink.

It was too pretty for a moment that wasn’t supposed to mean anything.

They stepped out, and for a long time, neither of them said a word.

Rui walked to the edge of the fence and rested his hands on the rail. Mizuki followed, quieter now. The sound of the city below felt distant. Their shoulder brushed Rui’s, just lightly.

He didn’t move away.

Neither did Mizuki.

After a while, Rui spoke — voice softer than usual.

“This feels like middle school.”

Mizuki blinked.

He didn’t elaborate.

But he didn’t have to.

Mizuki remembered the rooftop then. Not this one — but the one they used to sneak up to after school, when no one was around. Just to talk. Just to exist.

Hours spent saying everything and nothing.

Being lonely together.

Surviving, barely.

“Yeah,” Mizuki murmured, almost too quiet for the wind to catch.

They didn’t want to say more. Couldn’t.

But Rui turned, and there was something in his expression that made Mizuki’s throat tighten. A softness. A searching.

“I’ve missed this,” Rui said. “You. Like this.”

Mizuki looked back at the skyline.

They were scared, suddenly, that if they said anything, it would all fall apart. That the wrong word would ruin this fragile, perfect hour they’d somehow carved out of a year that never stopped spinning.

So instead, they said:

“I like the view.”

They waited. Let the words hang.

Then added, barely above a whisper:

“For as long as it lasts. Especially with you.”

Silence.

It wasn’t returned immediately.

When Mizuki dared to glance sideways, Rui was already staring.

And it was that look — the one Mizuki couldn’t handle. The one that saw too much. The one that peeled them open without asking.

And then Rui spoke.

Rui looked at them like he was searching for a version of Mizuki only he remembered.

It was unbearable.

Mizuki felt their breath catch, their mouth part slightly, something tightening just beneath their ribs. The sky was beautiful — orange melting into a dusky blue, stars shyly starting to peek through — but they couldn’t focus on anything but the way Rui’s eyes softened.

Then Rui said, carefully:

“You know… sometimes I feel like we’re still up there.”

Mizuki blinked. “Where?”

“That rooftop. The one from middle school.” He exhaled. “We’d sit there for hours. You’d talk about the things you hated. I’d pretend I was smarter than I was. Neither of us wanted to go home.”

Mizuki didn’t respond.

What could they say to that?

Rui’s voice stayed soft — almost reverent.

“You didn’t smile a lot back then. But when you did, it felt like I’d earned something impossible.”

Mizuki stared at the fence in front of them. They couldn’t look at him. Their throat was dry.

“I didn’t know what it meant at the time,” Rui continued. “Why I’d wait around just to see you, why I’d walk with you even when we didn’t talk. I just… liked being around you. Liked how you thought. Liked how your silence wasn’t empty.”

Mizuki wanted to speak, but their chest was too full. Too tight.

“I think I’ve been trying to tell you I loved you for years,” Rui admitted, the words spilling now. “Just not with words. I tried with theater. With dumb jokes. With showing up.”

He turned to face them fully.

“And maybe I didn’t say it before because I thought I’d ruin it. Because I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. Or because I thought…” Rui paused, almost wincing. “I thought I didn’t deserve to ask for more than what you already gave me.”

Mizuki’s lips parted, but nothing came out.

“And when you said it earlier — even if you didn’t mean to — it made me realize how badly I’ve wanted to hear that. From you. Just you.”

Silence.

The wind moved through their hair.

Mizuki looked at him, finally. Really looked.

His cheeks were flushed. His hands were shaking slightly at his sides, half-curled into fists like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself. And even then, even so, Rui was still looking at Mizuki like they were something bright.

Like Mizuki was light.

Like Mizuki was home.

Mizuki swallowed hard.

And for a terrifying moment, they thought about running.

About laughing it off. About making some joke. Something to defuse this tenderness pressing down on them so hard it felt like a weight.

But then Rui said:

“I love you. I’ve loved you for so long that I can’t remember not loving you. I love you when you’re quiet. I love you when you’re impossible. I love you when you think no one’s watching. I love you even when I don’t know if I’m supposed to.”

And that was it.

That was the thing that broke Mizuki.

Their hand flew up to their mouth, eyes wide, heart slamming against their ribs like it wanted out. Their breath hitched, and it took everything not to cry. Not from sadness. Not from fear.

From relief.

Because someone saw them.

Not the version they polished. Not the one that performed.

Just—Mizuki.

And he loved that.

“I—” Mizuki started, but the words clung to their throat.

Rui waited.

Mizuki’s voice trembled as they said, “You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t know what to do when you mean them.”

“You don’t have to do anything.”

Mizuki hesitated.

And then, barely above a whisper:

“I think I might… feel that way. About you. Maybe. I think I’ve been scared to.”

Rui stepped closer.

Not rushing. Not demanding.

Just… there.

Like always.

And Mizuki didn’t stop him.

“I don’t know if I’m good at this,” Mizuki admitted. “I don’t know what it’s supposed to look like. I don’t know what we are.”

“You don’t have to know,” Rui said gently. “I’m not asking for answers. Just… a moment. Just this.”

Mizuki’s eyes flicked up to meet his.

And then, softly — almost too softly:

“…I love you.”

It wasn’t loud.

It wasn’t confident.

It was tangled in hesitation and honesty and years of almosts.

But Rui heard it.

And that was enough.

His hands cupped Mizuki’s face before they could even register the movement. And then he kissed them.

It wasn’t perfect. It was slightly too fast, a little too much teeth. Mizuki made a startled noise — but didn’t pull away. Their fingers curled in the fabric of Rui’s jacket as he pressed closer, both of them gasping like they’d broken the surface of something vast.

And then again.

Softer.

Deeper.

Again.

Mizuki tilted their head to meet him, heart racing. Rui’s lips were warm, patient, grounding. Their mouths moved together in slow, aching rhythm — like making up for all the years they hadn’t said what they meant.

When they finally pulled apart, Mizuki’s cheeks were flushed, eyes glassy.

They didn’t speak.

Neither did Rui.

They just stood there, forehead to forehead, sharing breath.

The sky above them was dark now, full of stars.

And somehow, they weren’t lonely anymore.