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Rin had never been good at sleeping.
It was always the worst part of the day—the moment everything quieted down and there was nothing left to distract him from the thoughts crawling under his skin. He could run until his legs burned, train until his lungs ached, and still the second his head hit the pillow, the ghosts returned.
This one was worse than usual.
He didn’t know why.
Maybe it was something about how real it felt. How the silence was louder. How the dream didn’t end when he woke up—it stayed, clinging to him like static. He couldn’t remember the plot of it, only the panic. The disconnection. The moment he turned, reached out, and Isagi was gone.
Rin had never been afraid of being alone. Not really.
But this time? It felt unbearable.
He sat in bed, clutching his own wrist like it would keep him from falling apart.
And then he left. Quietly. Without socks. Hoodie thrown over his head like armor.
...
He found Yoichi where he always was.
In the gym. Alone. As if training at 2 a.m. was a perfectly normal thing to do on a weekday.
The sight of him—sweaty and focused, shadows moving across his shoulders as he ran a shooting drill—was grounding. Familiar in a way nothing else was.
Rin stood there like a statue until Yoichi turned and noticed him.
“Rin?”
And just like that, everything cracked.
“I had a nightmare,” Rin muttered, voice dry and low. “I didn’t know where else to go.”
Yoichi didn’t flinch. He didn’t joke. He didn’t say anything dumb like "You? A nightmare?"—which Rin had expected. Almost wanted, just so he could argue.
Instead, Yoichi just… softened. His entire expression melted into concern. He stepped forward carefully, like approaching a wounded animal.
“You’re okay now,” he said, so gently Rin wanted to scream. “You’re not alone.”
That was the problem. He didn’t want to not be alone.
He wanted Isagi. And that was terrifying.
“I didn’t want to cry,” Rin said, voice cracking. “I didn’t mean to.”
“I know,” Isagi whispered, and opened his arms without asking.
Rin stepped into him like falling into water.
...
They stayed like that—standing in the middle of the gym, surrounded by nothing but their breath and each other. Rin buried his face into Isagi’s neck, jaw clenched as he fought off another wave of emotion.
His hands gripped the fabric of Yoichi’s shirt like it was the only real thing left.
“You’re always pushing yourself,” Rin whispered. “Even at night.”
“I could say the same to you.”
“I don’t like sleeping,” Rin admitted, small and quiet. “I don’t like what I see when I close my eyes.”
Yoichi shifted slightly, his cheek resting against Rin’s hair. “Then don’t sleep yet. Just stay here for a while.”
...
They made it to the edge of the gym eventually, somewhere by the storage room wall, where the lights dimmed and the cold floor felt like nothing under them.
Rin curled into Isagi’s side, breath still uneven.
He hated this part—the part where he wasn’t perfect. Where his mask slipped.
But Yoichi never made him feel small for it. Never looked at him like a broken thing.
He just held him tighter.
Rin’s voice came out unexpectedly rough. “You’re so lukewarm.”
Yoichi blinked. “What?”
“Not in a bad way,” Rin mumbled quickly, cheeks flushing. “You just… always feel like this. Like you're not burning hot, not cold. Just… comfortable. Like bathwater after you sit in it too long.”
Isagi let out a surprised laugh—soft and breathy, the kind that made Rin’s ears go red.
“That’s the weirdest compliment I’ve ever gotten,” Yoichi said, smiling into Rin’s hair. “But I think I’ll take it.”
Rin glared at his chest. “It’s not a compliment.”
“You came to find me in the middle of the night because of a nightmare,” Isagi said, voice teasing now. “You curled up in my arms and cried into my shoulder. And now you’re comparing me to… lukewarm bathwater.”
Rin muttered something in Japanese too quiet to hear.
Yoichi laughed again, wrapping both arms fully around him now, pulling Rin closer until their legs tangled.
“I’ll always be lukewarm for you,” he whispered, mockingly sweet.
“Shut up,” Rin grumbled—but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he clutched the hem of Isagi’s shirt and leaned his forehead against his collarbone.
“I mean it, though,” Yoichi said softly, his voice quiet now. “If you ever need to… be like this. You can. With me.”
Rin didn’t answer at first.
Then, barely audible: “I don’t want anyone else to see me like this.”
Yoichi’s heart thudded.
And so did Rin’s.
...
Later, they slipped out to the field. The air was cooler there. Gentle.
Every night at exactly 3am the field's roofs would open up revealing the night sky.
They had found a spot in the center of the field, the grass soft beneath them with the sky too big to think about. The stars were out tonight, faint and hazy. Watching, but far away.
Isagi lay back first, pulling Rin with him.
They didn’t speak for a long time.
Rin’s head rested on Isagi’s shoulder, hair brushing his cheek. Isagi’s fingers slowly stroked the back of Rin’s hand, thumb grazing skin without rhythm.
It wasn’t romantic yet. But it was close.
And they both knew it.
“Yoichi,” Rin said, quietly. “You always smell like sweat and cheap shampoo.”
“Do I?”
“It’s not bad,” Rin added after a beat. “It smells like… you.”
Isagi laughed again—but this time it was gentler, fond. “You’re really bad at compliments.”
“You’re really bad at sleep.”
“Touché.”
...
Eventually, their eyes grew heavy.
Their hands stayed laced.
The wind passed through the trees above them. The world moved on.
But here, on the edge of the field, Rin and Isagi lay quietly—foreheads nearly touching, breaths syncing without thought, hearts beating a little too loudly in the stillness.
“I won’t leave,” Isagi whispered. “Even when you wake up.”
Rin didn’t answer.
He was already drifting.
For once, the silence wasn’t heavy.
It was warm. Maybe not like a lukewarm bathwater.
But it was warm.
And it held him safe until morning.