Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Yoichi sat in the back seat of his parents’ car, completely tuning out their words. While they talked cheerfully about how fun this vacation would be, he let the breeze from the open window brush against his face.

If it were up to him, he’d be at home, lying in bed. It wasn’t like he didn’t have friends—he just much preferred peace and quiet. Still, his parents had dragged him on this summer trip against his will.

How bad could it really be? Yoichi thought. Most likely, he’d spend all day in the cabin they’d rented by the beach. He loved the beach—not for the games or the crowds, but for the calm it brought. Nothing compares to the beauty of a sunset by the
sea.
If only he knew that this summer, he’d find something even more beautiful than a sunset.

···
After a long eight-hour drive, getting out of the car and stretching felt like a reward for not jumping out halfway through. (Even if he said things like that, he still got annoyed when people called him a pessimist—he preferred the term “realist.”)

He carried his suitcase to his room and dropped onto the bed. The cabin was charming—a true summer home. It was built from dark brown wood, with antique details decorating the walls and giving every corner a touch of warmth. Though it had two floors, it wasn’t exactly large. Still, it was enough for the three months they’d spend in this little town.

While his parents unpacked and looked up places to visit, Yoichi decided to wander around on his own.

“I’m going out for a bit, I’ll be back later,”
he said, heading for the door.

“Alright, be careful. Don’t come back too late, Yocchan!” his mom called out.

Yoichi stepped outside without a set path—he just wanted to clear his mind and see a bit of this unfamiliar town.

Lately, everything felt overwhelming. His life wasn’t bad, but it was hollow. The same routine over and over again, draining and pointless. He knew something was missing.

He craved something that would make him feel alive—even if just a lie.
Something, or someone, who could show him the joy of living, who’d be patient enough to understand the depths of his soul, and teach him what it really meant to be happy.

He hoped this trip wouldn’t be for nothing. Maybe this quiet little town could give him the answer he longed for.

It was six in the evening when Yoichi found himself strolling through the village. The air was calm, the sunlight filtering through the leaves, the breeze gently swaying the colorful flowers lining the path.

He turned down a side road that led to the beach. There was a small craft fair set up there—simple, lovely things, though nothing caught his eye. He wasn’t planning on buying anything. He just wandered, observing the handmade pieces people were selling.

There were no craft fairs in his hometown. That place had no spirit. Just like him.
But this village carried something different—an artistic air that made him forget the artificial lies he was used to. He was beginning to understand why his parents chose this place. At first, it had seemed odd—they’d picked a town nobody knew about, with barely 500 residents.
But after just a short walk, he started to see its beauty, to feel its quiet peace.

As he strolled along the beach, he took in the scene: the shells buried in the sand, seaweed tangled on the shore, and the waves crashing gently against distant rocks.

Yoichi stopped for a moment to watch the sunset, studying every color in the sky.
There was no sound, no rush—just him and the fading light.
If he had to choose a place to stay forever, it would be here.

The moment’s serenity was broken by a soccer ball hitting him in the shoulder.
A worried voice called out from a distance.

“Oh no—sorry! Are you okay? I really didn’t mean to hit you.”

Yoichi turned to see a boy with slightly longer hair than his own, brown with sun-kissed tips. His honey-colored eyes caught the glow of the setting sun behind him in a way that made them almost golden.
His face was speckled with freckles—or maybe they were paint stains—and his cheeks were pink, clearly sunburnt. He was around the same height as Yoichi, and his voice had a charming lilt to it, full of warmth and a bit of innocent clumsiness.

“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it,” Yoichi replied.

Normally, he would’ve been annoyed—but it was obvious the boy hadn’t meant it.

He passed the ball back with a small kick.

“You’re new here, right? Haven’t seen you before. I’m Meguru Bachira—nice to meet you!”

Yoichi hadn’t expected to run into anyone, let alone someone like him.
There was something in Bachira’s voice, in his easy smile, that felt almost too soft to be real.

“I got here today. I’m Yoichi Isagi. Nice to meet you too,” he answered politely, though his tone felt dull next to Bachira’s.

“Cool! I can show you around if you want—there’s not that much to see, but still!”

Yoichi nodded. The idea didn’t sound bad at all.

As they walked, Bachira kept asking questions—where he lived, how old he was, all the usual things when you meet someone new.

Yoichi was glad he’d run into someone so open. There was something calming about Bachira’s presence, and with every word, the conversation flowed effortlessly.

Bachira talked about everything they passed—the shops, the locals, the animals people were petting. Anything that crossed his mind, he said aloud.
Yoichi listened quietly.
He wasn’t shy, but he definitely preferred listening to talking, and he was more than happy to let Bachira lead.

After walking around the town for about an hour, they both felt a bit tired. It was around eight o’clock. The sun had dipped below the horizon, but the sky was still tinged with light. They sat down on a bench facing the sea.

“Well, that’s pretty much everything,” Bachira said, nudging Yoichi lightly with his shoulder.
“What do you think? You like it here? Probably doesn’t compare to your fancy city, huh?”

“It’s nice. Sadly, yeah, not quite as ‘advanced’ as my city,” Yoichi replied with a grin, matching his sarcasm. Both of them let out soft laughter.

“I should probably head back now,” Yoichi said as the breeze picked up slightly, the night slowly making its presence known.

“I’ll walk you,” Bachira offered, a smile lighting up his face again.

They stood and began walking back toward Yoichi’s cabin. The night air rustled the tree branches, and people were packing up their craft stalls.
As they walked, Bachira greeted a few locals. Yoichi looked up at the sky. Stars were starting to appear—so clear and bright, unlike anything he could see in his light-polluted hometown.

“My mom loves stargazing,” Bachira said, noticing how Yoichi’s eyes sparkled like a kid’s.
“Our house is full of paintings of the night sky.”

Yoichi tore his gaze from the stars to look at him.

“That’s sweet. Do you paint too?”
Of course, he already knew the answer—anyone could guess from the paint stains on Bachira’s cheeks and clothes.

“Yep! I’ve loved it since I was a kid. My mom was always creating something, so I guess it rubbed off on me. I found joy in it too.”
His smile was so wide and genuine—it was impossible to miss.

Yoichi watched that expression for a little longer than necessary.

“It really shows on your face. You look like a kid when you talk about it,” he teased, laughing softly.

“Shut up—you had the same face when you were looking at the stars.”
Bachira laughed too, gently nudging him again. Then he turned his head slightly, trying to hide the pink tint on his cheeks—this time not caused by the sun.

Yoichi just chuckled, unaware of the other boy’s flustered expression.

Not long after, they reached Yoichi’s house.

“Before I go, can I get your number?”Bachira pulled out his phone.
Yoichi noticed the stickers on his case—art seemed to follow Bachira wherever he went.
His whole presence felt like art.

They exchanged numbers, said goodbye, and Bachira walked off toward his home, just a few houses away.

Yoichi stepped inside. He was exhausted after three hours of walking around.
But before heading to his room, he peeked into the kitchen where his parents were.

“Yocchan! Did you have fun?” his mom asked as she stirred something for dinner.

“Yeah. The town’s actually really pretty. And I met a boy.”
The town wasn’t the only pretty thing.

“Really? That’s great! Now you won’t be bored,” she replied.

“Yeah, it’s great.”
He let out a yawn.
“I’m gonna shower and unpack. Call me when dinner’s ready.”

···
Yoichi opened his suitcase and began putting away his clothes. The room was cozy, and there was just enough space to organize everything easily.
But before long, his thoughts drifted back to Bachira.

He wondered how someone could talk so easily to a stranger.
Maybe that was why it had been so easy to trust him so quickly.

Even though they’d only met a few hours ago, being with him felt… right.
Kind.
Simple.

And for the first time in a long time, Yoichi was thankful that he wouldn’t be spending this summer alone.

...

Yoichi woke up to the sound of his phone buzzing. With his eyes still half-shut, he reached across the bed, blindly searching through the folds of the blanket until his fingers brushed the screen.

Unknown number
9:56 a.m.
ISAGIIII
how are youuu??
it’s me, Bachira, if you didn’t realize lol
wanna hang out todayy?

Still caught in the warmth of sleep, Yoichi smiled faintly and replied.

you
9:58 a.m.
heyy bachira
i’m good, u??
yeah sure, come by whenever

bachira
9:59 a.m.
yaaay
i’m goodd
okii, see u soonnn

you
9:59 a.m.
see u :)

He stared at the screen longer than he should’ve. The messages were simple, maybe even silly. But they felt warm in a way that made his chest sting.

He got up and dragged himself to the bathroom. The cold water on his face helped, but only just. He brewed tea, sat by the open window, and let the wind curl around his fingers like invisible thread. The day smelled like sea salt and earth. Like something about to begin.

After lunch, he waited. Not on purpose, not really. But he had brushed his hair twice. And changed his shirt. And checked his phone for the time, even though he didn’t get any more messages.

At 3:20 p.m., the doorbell rang.

Bachira stood there like he’d always belonged on that doorstep. Shirt slightly wrinkled, hair tousled, grin effortless.

“Heyyy! How are you? Ready to go?”

Yoichi nodded. He couldn’t look at him directly. Not for too long.

They wandered through the town with no real plan. The streets were quiet, the kind of quiet that makes you whisper even if no one’s around. The clouds hung low, cottony and dense, as if the sky was holding its breath.

“What do you wanna do?” Yoichi asked.

“I like walking,” Bachira replied. “Especially when I don’t know where I am. It makes everything feel new. Like… like you’re living someone else’s life for a while.”

Yoichi didn’t say anything. But the thought stayed with him.
I wouldn’t mind living someone else’s life. Just for a bit.

They talked about nothing. Bachira pointed at window frames, flowers on balconies, a cat sleeping on a motorcycle. He said things like, “That door’s shaped like a face,” and Yoichi found himself laughing softly, even though he didn’t want to laugh.

He wasn’t sure if it was the way Bachira moved, like he belonged to the world, or the way he looked at things like they were magic. But something about him made Yoichi want to keep listening. To stay close.

They stopped by a closed bookstore, its windows dusty, filled with old posters. A wind blew past them. The smell of rain came with it.

“You think it’s gonna rain?”

“Looks like it,” Yoichi answered. “Soon.”

And then it did.

Soft, hesitant drops at first. Then steadier, falling like a quiet confession. Bachira grabbed Yoichi's wrist and they ran to the nearest bus stop—an old shelter with peeling paint and rusted corners. They were both a little breathless, a little damp, and somehow, Yoichi felt… lighter.

“Didn’t expect this,” Bachira laughed as he let go of Yoichi's wrist, slowly, as if he didn't want to. “I kind of love it, though. Rain feels honest.”

Yoichi didn’t respond. He was watching the way a droplet slid down Bachira’s jaw, how his wet shirt clung slightly to his collarbone. He looked away.

“You’re soaked,” he muttered.

Bachira grinned. “Should I ask you to dry me off, prince charming?”

Yoichi didn’t laugh. He just took off his sweater and handed it over.

Bachira blinked. “Wait… seriously?”

Yoichi shrugged, trying not to look at him. “You’ll catch a cold.”

There was a pause. Bachira took it, gently, like it was something important.

“Thanks,” he said, voice quieter. “You’re nicer than I thought.”

Yoichi sat on the concrete bench, watching the rain draw patterns on the pavement. The air smelled like salt and sky.

“When it rains, time feels slower,” Bachira said, sitting beside him.

Yoichi nodded. “It’s like the world’s taking a breath.”

They didn’t talk for a while. The space between them was small but charged. Yoichi could hear Bachira breathing. He didn’t know why that mattered.

He glanced at him, briefly. Bachira was staring out at the falling rain like it was showing him something only he could see.

“You’re always looking,” Yoichi said, before he could stop himself.

Bachira turned. “Hm?”

“You look at things like… they mean something.”

Bachira’s smile softened. “Maybe they do. Or maybe I just want them to.”

Yoichi didn’t know what to say to that. He looked back at the street. The world felt far away.

“I like this,” Bachira said after a while.

Yoichi looked at him again.

“This moment,” he clarified. “It feels… like something I’ll remember. Even if it’s just a normal day.”

Yoichi’s chest tightened. He wanted to say me too, but the words didn’t come out.

Instead, he nodded. And in his head, quietly,
I don’t want this to end yet.

He wished it would keep raining forever.

...

Eventually, the rain let up. Just enough for them to step out from under the shelter. The sky stayed gray, but in that soft way, like it was done crying.

They didn’t say much on the walk back.

Their shoes made small splashes in the shallow puddles along the road. Bachira hummed a tune under his breath—something Yoichi didn’t recognize, but it was light, aimless, like the way he talked. Like a secret he wasn’t trying to keep.

At some point, their arms brushed.

Just once.

Maybe twice.

Yoichi told himself it was nothing. That it was because the sidewalk was narrow. That it didn’t mean anything. But he didn’t move away either.

Bachira didn’t say anything about it. And that was what made it worse. Or better. Or whatever it was that made Yoichi feel like his heart had slipped slightly out of place.

They got to the gate of the house. Bachira stretched his arms above his head and let out a small, satisfied sigh.

“Today was nice,” he said.

Yoichi nodded. “Yeah.”

He wanted to say more, something like you’re weird but I liked this, or thanks for showing up. But instead, he just said:

“See you tomorrow?”

Bachira beamed. “Of course!”

And then he left. Just like that. Like it was nothing. Like Yoichi’s heart wasn’t still in his hand.

...

That night, Yoichi lay in bed staring at the ceiling.

The fan turned slowly overhead, the shadows on the wall shifting with it. His room was quiet, save for the distant hum of cicadas outside.

He turned on his side.

Then his back.

Then faced the wall.

Every time he closed his eyes, he felt it again—that stupid, soft bump of Bachira’s arm against his. Like the echo of something he wasn’t supposed to care about.

But he did.

He absolutely did.

His face was warm. He hated it.

“God,” he muttered, dragging the blanket over his head.

He tried not to smile. Failed.

“It’s just… arms touching,” he whispered to himself, as if saying it would shrink the feeling.

It didn’t.

He lay there wide awake, heart stupid and loud in his chest, thinking about how one person he barely knew could make everything feel like it meant something.

He wasn’t sure if that was beautiful or dangerous.

Maybe both.

But he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

...

It was the morning of the next day. The sun was bright, and the air was hot—nothing like the gray softness of yesterday.
Yoichi got up and picked his clothes: something casual, as always. A plain t-shirt and a pair of jorts. Simple, forgettable.

He wondered what they’d do today. He hoped it wouldn’t involve too much walking—he hated the way sweat clung to his skin, the sticky discomfort of it all.
But even that didn’t matter much. Everything felt worth it if it meant spending time with Bachira.

A few hours passed before Bachira showed up at his doorstep. That wide, impossible smile on his face—as if it were something carved into him from birth.

They greeted each other, and started walking. They talked about their mornings, what they ate.
Mostly, Bachira did the talking—bouncing from topic to topic like his thoughts were too alive to stay still. Yoichi didn’t mind. He liked listening. He liked how Bachira’s words filled the quiet.

“Do you wanna walk by the beach?” Bachira asked.

Yoichi nodded, and they turned toward the shore.

The sand was soft beneath their shoes, and the waves hummed nearby, calm and steady. Yoichi watched the way their footsteps left small craters behind, how seashells hid like tiny secrets in the sand.

But mostly, he watched Bachira.

The way he talked and laughed like there was no filter between his heart and his mouth.
The way the sunlight caught on his jawline, warm and golden, and lit up the freckles scattered across his cheeks.
The way his hair curled in every direction, a mess that somehow made sense.

Even like this—wind-tangled and sun-drenched—he looked beautiful.

“Are you okay, Isagi?” Bachira tilted his head, catching him mid-stare.

Yoichi blinked. He hadn’t realized. His thoughts had wandered so far that the moment slipped.

“Y-yeah. I’m fine.”
His cheeks flushed, the kind of pink he couldn’t hide. It was stupid. He felt stupid. But Bachira just smiled like it was okay.

There was a quiet between them, soft and undemanding.

Then Bachira dropped onto the sand with a little thump, stretching his legs out toward the sea.
Yoichi sat beside him, close enough to feel the heat of his arm, not close enough to touch.

They faced the ocean as the sun began its slow descent. In a few minutes, the sky would be painted in orange and lavender, a masterpiece no camera could ever capture.

But Yoichi didn’t care about the sunset. Not really.

There was something more captivating beside him.
A boy with salt-damp hair and sand on his knees.
A boy who talked like the world wasn’t heavy.
A boy who made Yoichi forget the ache he usually carried in his chest.

They sat there for a while, watching the sun bleed slowly into the sea, warm hues rippling across the sky like brushstrokes. Neither of them said anything at first. The silence felt soft—not awkward, not tense. Just there. Like a tide between them.

Bachira’s knees were pulled up to his chest, arms lazily wrapped around them as he hummed some barely-there tune under his breath. Yoichi sat cross-legged, his fingers digging absently into the cool sand.

The sky was starting to darken, the wind picking up just enough to raise goosebumps along Yoichi’s arms. He didn’t move. He didn’t want to break whatever this was.

Bachira spoke first.

“You ever think the ocean is… too big?” he asked, still staring straight ahead, voice quieter now. “Like, not in a ‘woah, the world is amazing’ way. More like… what if you step in too far and just disappear?”

Yoichi turned toward him. “You mean like drowning?”

Bachira tilted his head. “Kind of. But not just your body. Like your whole self.”
He paused. “Like the ocean eats you up and there’s no one left to even notice.”

Yoichi let the words hang in the air. It wasn’t the kind of thing you answered right away.
Then, softly, he said, “Yeah. I think that’s why I don’t swim out too far. It feels like if I do… something in me won’t come back.”

Bachira finally looked at him. Not grinning. Not teasing. Just… looking.
“I like it,” he said. “The ocean, I mean. Because it’s honest about how deep it is. People aren’t like that.”

Yoichi’s chest ached a little at that.
“Are you?” he asked, not sure why he said it. Not sure why his voice sounded like that—quiet and almost hopeful.

Bachira blinked, then smiled, soft and slow. “I think I’m still learning. But maybe with the right person, I could be.”

They didn’t look away from each other.

For a moment, it felt like the world had gone still—only the rhythmic sound of the waves remained, like a heartbeat.

Then Bachira added, almost like a whisper, “Drowning’s not so bad if someone’s holding your hand.”

And Yoichi—god, Yoichi felt like his lungs forgot how to work.

He looked away quickly, trying to laugh it off, to say something, but the only thing he managed was a strangled, “You’re so weird.”

Bachira laughed, eyes crinkling. “Yeah, but you like it.”

And Yoichi did. More than he could admit.

They walked back in the dark, arms brushing. Not quite touching. But close enough that Yoichi could feel the warmth of him, steady and silent at his side.

He didn’t sleep that night.

He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to replay every second, every word, every stolen glance. His chest felt tight and full all at once, like he was on the edge of something, and he couldn’t tell if it was fear or joy or both.

He pressed a hand to his heart, as if that could calm it down.

But it only beat louder.

The moon was high by the time Yoichi gave up on sleep.

The sound of waves outside the window drifted in through the open curtain, soft and steady, like they were calling him back. But it wasn’t the ocean that kept his chest tight and his mind full.

He sat up, pulled out the small notebook he always packed but rarely used.
He flipped to a blank page, hesitated for a long second, then wrote:

“I think I’m starting to feel something.
And I don’t know if I’m ready.”

He stared at the words. They looked ridiculous in ink. Too dramatic. Too soft.

He kept going anyway.

“It’s just… when he talks, it’s like he’s pulling thoughts out of me I didn’t even know I had.
And I can’t stop watching him.
His smile. His voice.
It scares me how easily I could want this.”

He paused, then scribbled out the word “want”, replaced it with:

need.

Yoichi let out a shaky breath and leaned back against the headboard, the notebook resting on his chest. The guilt came in soft waves too—because it felt too soon, too intense, too selfish. He barely knew him.

But something in him—some quiet, reckless part—kept whispering:

“What if this is the beginning of something good? What if, for once, you let yourself feel it?”

The clock ticked on.

He didn’t fall asleep until nearly dawn.
But when he finally did, he dreamed of freckles and waves and a hand brushing too close to his.

...

The next days passed faster than Yoichi expected. Two weeks had gone by since he’d arrived in this sleepy seaside town, and in that time, it had started to feel like a place that belonged to him. Or maybe it was just because of Bachira.

They had been spending almost every day together. Wandering the narrow streets of the town. Sitting on curbs eating ice cream that melted down their hands. Skipping rocks on the sea that never skipped far. It wasn’t anything extraordinary—but it felt that way.

Today wasn’t different. They were walking side by side on the dirt road that led to Yoichi’s cabin, golden light soaking the air between them, their footsteps falling into quiet rhythm.

“You always walk me home,” Yoichi said, a little smile tugging at his lips. “It’s starting to feel like a routine.”

“Then maybe next time you walk me home,” Bachira replied, grinning. “Or we can just stay this way forever.”

Yoichi let out a short laugh, but inside, his heart twisted a little too tightly in his chest. It was getting harder to pretend Bachira’s words didn’t mean more to him than they should. Harder to pretend that this wasn’t becoming something that ached in all the softest places.

They reached the gate.

“Can I see your house?” Bachira asked, his voice suddenly small, almost shy. “Like, the inside?”

Yoichi blinked. “Uh… yeah. I mean, it’s nothing special, but… sure.”

He tried to sound casual, but something in his stomach fluttered. Bachira had never seen the inside before. Only glimpses through the doorway, shadows behind Yoichi’s shoulder. And now—he would be inside his space. Something about that felt too intimate, too vulnerable.

The house was empty. His parents weren’t home.

Bachira walked in, his eyes scanning every corner like he was trying to memorize the place. He moved slowly, reverently, pausing at the carved details in the wooden walls as if they meant something.

They ended up in Yoichi’s bedroom.

“Wow. Why is it so boring in here?” Bachira teased, spinning slowly in the center of the room.

Yoichi huffed a small laugh. “Not everyone has Picasso for a mom.”

He smiled, but he meant it. He sometimes wished he had that same vibrant soul—something loud and bold to put into the world. Instead, he only had this quiet ache. This feeling he could never name.

“Besides being boring, it’s actually pretty. I like the walls,” Bachira said, running his fingers across the grain.

“Yeah… I like that too.” Yoichi paused. “If you want, you could… stay. Tonight, I mean. Like a sleepover.”

He said it softly, eyes not quite meeting Bachira’s. Like the words were fragile and might break if he looked too hard at them.

Bachira beamed. “Like a sleepover? Sure! That sounds fun.”

He said it so easily—like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t something Yoichi had thought about for days but never dared to say.

Later, they moved to the living room and collapsed onto the couch, scrolling through movie options, the remote balanced between them. Their shoulders brushed just slightly every now and then, like a secret.

“What do you wanna watch?” Yoichi asked.

“Whatever you want is fine. I usually watch romcoms,” Bachira said, eyes still on the screen.

“Romcoms? You watch romcoms?” Yoichi teased, bumping his shoulder against Bachira’s.

“Shut up,” Bachira muttered, a subtle blush blooming on his cheeks. “They’re cute. What do you watch? Horror movies?”

“Obviously. Romcoms are boring.”

“No they’re not. Have you even watched one?” Bachira turned to look at him, grabbing the remote from Yoichi’s hands—his fingers brushed Yoichi’s knuckles for just a second longer than necessary.

Yoichi didn’t protest. He laughed—soft and helpless—and let him take control. He’d watch anything, really. As long as Bachira stayed this close.

The movie they ended up watching was 500 Days of Summer.

Bachira had insisted. Said it was one of his favorites. Yoichi hadn’t expected that—he’d imagined Bachira liked the kind of cheesy romcoms with grand gestures and happy endings. But 500 Days of Summer was different.

The light from the screen flickered softly in the darkened room, painting shadows across their faces. They sat close—closer than before. A shared blanket thrown haphazardly over both their legs. Bachira had curled up a little, his knees pulled toward his chest. Eventually, sometime between Days 200 and 400, he’d tilted his head and leaned gently into Yoichi’s side, his cheek brushing against his shoulder before settling just above his heart.

Yoichi had barely breathed since.

He could feel the weight of Bachira’s head. The warmth of him. The way his hair tickled the edge of his chin every time he moved. He tried to keep his breathing steady, tried to keep his heart from pounding so loudly—but he knew Bachira could probably hear it. Feel it.

And still, he didn’t move away.

On the screen, the infamous expectation vs. reality scene played.

Two versions of the same night, side by side. On one, Tom walks in with hope—on the other, everything unravels.

Yoichi swallowed hard. His throat was tight.

He didn’t know why that scene hit him so deeply. Maybe because he’d always carried both versions inside himself—the moments where he imagined Bachira turning toward him, smiling like he knew, knew, what Yoichi was feeling. And the other version—the real one—where he said nothing. Did nothing. Just sat there and ached silently beside him.

He felt Bachira shift. A slow, gentle movement. The head that had been resting on his shoulder now lay fully on Yoichi’s chest, listening to the sound of his heart like it was just some quiet rhythm—not the chaos Yoichi knew it to be.

Yoichi lay on the couch with a beautiful boy curled against his chest.
And then Bachira whispered, “I don’t think it’s really about her.”

Yoichi blinked, unsure if Bachira was still talking about the movie. “What?”

“Summer. I think it’s about the story he told himself. Like—he didn’t love her, he loved the idea of her.”

Yoichi looked down at him. Bachira’s eyes were still on the screen, but his expression was softer now. Like there was something heavier behind his words.

“Yeah,” Yoichi said quietly. “I think so too.”

He wanted to say more. He wanted to tell Bachira that he didn’t know how to separate ideas from people anymore. That sometimes he wondered if what he felt was just a story too—but every time Bachira laughed, or looked at him like that, or touched him, the line between fantasy and reality blurred. And it scared him how real it all felt.

The movie ended in silence. No neat closure. Just Tom meeting someone new. A maybe. An open door.

Bachira didn’t move right away. Neither did Yoichi.

Eventually, Bachira tugged the blanket up over them, then rubbed his eye with the back of his hand, like a child about to drift off.

“Your heartbeat’s really fast,” he murmured, like it was nothing.

Yoichi didn’t know what to say. So he said the safest thing: “I guess the movie got to me.”
But he knew it wasn’t the movie. His heart was racing for reasons lying quietly against his chest.

Bachira smiled, eyes already fluttering shut as he curled a little closer, his face still resting on Yoichi’s chest.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Me too.”

Yoichi stayed still for a long time, staring at the ceiling, one hand resting lightly on the blanket near Bachira’s back—too afraid to hold him, too in love not to want to.
His other hand drifted to Bachira’s hair, brushing it carefully, like it might break if he wasn’t gentle enough.

He didn’t know what this was. What they were. But right now—right now—he didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to ruin it.

After a few minutes Bachira had gone quiet.

Yoichi could feel the shift in his breathing—slow, steady, warm against his chest. His body had gone soft and heavy with sleep, curled into Yoichi like something natural, like gravity had drawn him there.

Yoichi didn’t move. Didn’t dare.

The room felt suspended in time. The flicker of the television dimmed to a low glow, casting quiet shadows across the walls. Outside, the night hummed, and inside, all Yoichi could hear was the soft rhythm of Bachira’s breath and the traitorous pounding of his own heart.

Bachira’s face was tilted toward him, cheek pressed fully against his chest now, his lashes dusting the top of his cheekbones. He looked peaceful. Almost ethereal in the blue light. Like something out of a dream Yoichi had been trying not to admit he wanted.

He let his eyes wander, just for a moment.

To the way Bachira’s hair spilled messily over his forehead, how it tickled the crook of Yoichi’s neck. To the little wrinkle between his brows that softened in sleep. To his lips—just slightly parted, like he was still on the edge of saying something.

Yoichi’s hand was still at his waist, now holding him a little firmer, thumb brushing the fabric of his shirt in slow, almost invisible movements. The other hand rested at Bachira’s hairline, fingers threading gently through those messy strands.

He could feel the warmth of Bachira’s breath through the cotton of his t-shirt. Could feel the rise and fall of his chest syncing with his own.
They fit. Somehow. Perfectly.

He shouldn’t be this close.
He shouldn’t be allowed to want this.

And yet here he was, holding Bachira like a secret, like a prayer.

Yoichi blinked slowly, his throat tight with things he couldn’t say.

He closed his eyes and let his hand rest again at Bachira’s back, anchoring them in this moment that felt too delicate to survive the morning.

Maybe tomorrow everything would change. Maybe they’d pretend it hadn’t meant anything.

But tonight, with Bachira asleep on his chest, Yoichi let himself feel everything.

Just for a little while.

...

The next morning Yoichi woke slowly, like his body was reluctant to leave whatever dream it had been caught in.

The morning light seeped in through the curtains in soft golden streaks, brushing over the floorboards and casting faint shadows across the couch. He blinked, once. Twice.

And then he remembered.

Bachira was still there.

Still lying on top of him, exactly where he’d fallen asleep. His weight was warm and grounding, his cheek still pressed against Yoichi’s chest, lips barely parted, breath soft and even. His arm was slung loosely across Yoichi’s waist, fingers curled lightly into the fabric of his shirt.

Yoichi didn’t move. He didn’t want to. His whole body felt like it was holding its breath.

He looked down—slow, careful.

Bachira’s hair was a mess, but it was his mess. Wild and soft and haloed by the sunlight. There was a little crease on his cheek from the way he’d been sleeping, and Yoichi felt something in his chest tighten just looking at it. He wanted to smooth it with his thumb. He wanted to press his lips to it. He wanted everything he shouldn’t.

His hand was still resting on Bachira’s back. At some point in the night, he must’ve curled his fingers tighter around the fabric. He didn’t remember doing it, but it felt right.

The world was still. Just them. Just this.

Yoichi swallowed.
What if he wakes up and realizes what we are? What I feel? What I’m doing?
He should pull away. He should. But even the thought of it felt like letting go of something sacred.

Instead, he let his fingertips trace a slow, cautious line across Bachira’s shoulder blade, so light it was barely a touch.

Bachira stirred, but didn’t wake. He made a soft, sleepy sound—something like a sigh—and burrowed a little closer, his nose brushing the side of Yoichi’s neck.

Yoichi bit the inside of his cheek.

He can’t know how much this is killing me. How much I want to stay like this forever. How long I’ve waited just to feel this close to someone. To him.

Outside, the birds had started to chirp. Somewhere in the house, a clock ticked.

But here—under the blanket, under Bachira—time felt suspended.

Yoichi closed his eyes again. Just for a minute.

Just to remember what this felt like:
The boy he loved asleep in his arms.
The weight of a thousand unspoken things between them.
And the quiet hope that maybe—just maybe—Bachira could feel it too.

Bachira stirred.

It was subtle at first—a slow inhale, the shift of his fingers against Yoichi’s shirt. Then he blinked, lifted his head slightly, squinting against the soft light streaming through the curtains.

Yoichi froze.

For a second, their eyes met—still half-asleep, hair messy, breath warm and shared between them. It felt too intimate for morning. Too vulnerable.

“…Morning,” Bachira mumbled, voice rough and quiet.

“Morning,” Yoichi whispered back. His throat felt dry.

Bachira stretched lazily, the kind of stretch cats did in sunbeams. One hand rubbed at his eye. The other stayed planted on Yoichi’s chest for a second longer, like he’d forgotten where he was. Or maybe didn’t want to move.

Then, slowly, he sat up, hair flopping over his face. The blanket slipped down around his waist. Yoichi already missed the weight of him.

“That movie really messed me up,” Bachira said, stifling a yawn. “I dreamed about elevators and IKEA furniture and saying the wrong things.”

Yoichi smiled faintly. “Didn’t think you’d fall asleep on top of me.”

“I didn’t mean to.” Bachira’s grin was lazy and unapologetic. “You were comfy.”

Yoichi looked away, cheeks burning.
God, don’t say things like that.
You’re not helping.

Bachira stood and stretched again, shirt rising a little above his stomach, and Yoichi had to look somewhere—anywhere—else.

“Want breakfast?” he asked, already pushing himself up.

“Sure! If you cook, I’ll eat anything.”

They ended up in the kitchen, barefoot and quiet, as if they were afraid of waking up something they didn’t want to name. Yoichi cracked eggs in a pan while Bachira wandered around, opening cabinets, humming softly to himself. It all felt too easy. Too much like something they could have, if the world allowed it.

Bachira sat at the table while Yoichi made toast, resting his chin on his hands like he belonged there.

“So,” he said between bites, “do you always wake up this early?”

“Only when there’s someone sleeping on me,” Yoichi said before he could stop himself.

Bachira laughed, eyes crinkling.

And it was just so much.
So much to feel and not say.
So much closeness wrapped in something they never quite defined.

When breakfast was done and the plates were rinsed, Bachira stood at the door with his shoes in his hand, hair still a mess, smile still sleepy.

“I should head home,” he said.

Yoichi nodded. He didn’t want him to go. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

“Thanks for letting me stay,” Bachira said, pausing before the door. “It was… nice.”

Yoichi opened his mouth to say something—anything—but all that came out was: “Yeah. Anytime.”

Bachira lingered for a second longer.

Then he left.

And the door clicked shut behind him.

Yoichi stood in the quiet. In the echo of everything unsaid. The couch was still a little messy. The blanket still smelled like Bachira. The silence felt different now. Thicker.

He let out a slow breath and leaned his head against the doorframe.

Come back, he thought, selfish and soft. Just a little longer.

But the street outside was already empty.

...

Bachira's pov

The morning air was cooler than he expected.

Bachira walked slowly, shoes dangling from his fingers instead of on his feet, the gravel path biting gently into his soles. The road that led back to his house was quiet, drowsy, sunlit — the kind of summer morning that looked like peace. But his chest didn’t feel peaceful. Not exactly.

He was still carrying something.

Something warm and delicate and too big to name.

He could still feel it — Yoichi’s heartbeat under his cheek. The way his fingers hovered just barely against his back, like he was scared of touching too much. Like Bachira was something fragile. Or holy.

And God, maybe he wanted to be.

Bachira kicked a pebble down the path.

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep on him. Not really. He just… didn’t want to move. It had felt like the most natural thing in the world, curling into that warmth, tucking himself into the space between Yoichi’s arms like he’d always belonged there. Like his body knew that chest. That rhythm. That boy.

And when he’d woken up and seen Yoichi’s face — wide-eyed and flushed, hair messy from the pillow, one hand still in his hair — something had twisted inside him.

He wasn’t used to this feeling. Not like this.

Sure, he’d crushed before. Liked people. Flirted with the edges of something bigger. But this—this felt like stepping off a ledge and not caring if he hit the ground.

He hugged his arms around himself, the wind brushing through his shirt.

The thing was… Yoichi didn’t even do anything. That was the worst part. He didn’t confess, or kiss him, or look at him like he was in love. He just held him. Let him be close. Let him rest. Like that alone meant something.

And it did.

Bachira dragged his fingers along a fence as he passed it, wood scraping under his nails.

Do you always wake up this early?
Only when there’s someone sleeping on me.

He’d laughed at that. But later, when Yoichi had turned around to do the dishes, he caught himself staring at his back. At the way the sunlight hit his hair. At the quiet slope of his shoulders. And suddenly he wanted to memorize every ordinary thing about him.

Bachira sighed.

He felt a little ridiculous.

But also… a little alive.

And that scared him more than he wanted to admit.

As his house came into view, he slowed down. Part of him didn’t want to walk through that door. He knew the moment he did, it would all feel like a dream. The couch. The blanket. The heartbeat.

He smiled to himself. Just barely.

Maybe Yoichi was feeling the same thing.

And maybe — just maybe — that was enough to carry for now.

...

The sun was ruthless that afternoon.

Not angry or cruel—just heavy. It laid itself across Yoichi’s shoulders like a second skin, hot and gold and inescapable. Even the air shimmered. The kind of summer day that makes everything feel slower, like time itself is dozing off.

They were walking through the woods behind Yoichi’s cabin, where the trees made a half-hearted attempt at shade and the cicadas hummed like a lullaby left on repeat. Bachira had brought two popsicles, one already half-melted down his hand.

“Why’d you get the blue one?” Yoichi asked, squinting at him.

Bachira grinned, lips already stained bright turquoise. “Because it makes my tongue look cursed.” He stuck it out.

“You’re definitely something,” Yoichi muttered, unable to hide his laugh.

Bachira bumped their shoulders together, giggling.

Yoichi swore the heat was making him dizzy—but he knew it wasn’t just the sun.

It had been days since the sleepover, but he hadn’t stopped thinking about it. About the way Bachira curled into him like it was the easiest thing in the world. The way his breath had warmed Yoichi’s chest. How the silence between them had felt… full. Soft. Safe.

But Bachira hadn’t brought it up. He just kept showing up like he always did. With popsicles. And laughter. And a sunburn across his nose. And Yoichi didn’t know what that meant.

“Come here,” Bachira said suddenly, tossing the popsicle stick into the trash bag he carried like a responsible menace. “I wanna do something.”

“What?”

He didn’t answer. Just grabbed Yoichi’s hand and pulled him off the path, deeper into the trees until they found a little clearing. The light filtered through the leaves, catching in Bachira’s curls like flecks of gold.

He pointed at a tree. “This one.”

Yoichi blinked. “This one… what?”

Bachira pulled a small pocketknife from his back pocket.

“Wait—where did you—”

“It’s for crafts!” he said cheerfully. “And emergencies. Like carving our initials into this tree before I explode.”

Yoichi’s heart stuttered.

“Isn’t that kinda… permanent?” he said softly.

Bachira shrugged. “Yeah. That’s why I want to.”

And Yoichi didn’t ask anything else. He just stood beside him while Bachira knelt, tongue caught between his teeth in concentration, and carved the letters into the bark:

I + B

They weren’t clean lines. The letters tilted slightly, messy and crooked. But they looked like something that would last.

“Ta-da,” Bachira said, brushing the bark dust off his hands. “Now if aliens ever come here they’ll know we're friends.”

Yoichi opened his mouth to say something—but the words caught on the back of his tongue.

He looked at the carving again. At the boy beside him, squinting into the sun, curls sticking to his forehead and arms speckled with dirt. So alive. So himself. So warm.

Yoichi didn’t say it.

But he reached out and brushed his pinky against Bachira’s.

And Bachira smiled like he’d heard the words anyway.

...

A few hours after, they walked home slowly, the woods behind them now, the town somewhere ahead. The sun was lower in the sky, gold turned honey, softening everything it touched. Cicadas still buzzed in the background like static, and the scent of summer clung to their clothes—sun-warmed bark, sweet grass, something citrusy from Bachira’s shampoo.

Yoichi’s heart still hadn’t settled. He kept sneaking glances at Bachira, at the way his curls were damp at the temples, how his shirt clung a little to his back, the scrape of dirt still smudged on one of his knees.

“I think that tree’s ours now,” Bachira said lightly. “We claimed it. No takebacks.”

Yoichi chuckled, but it was quiet. “Hope the tree doesn’t mind.”

“She loves us,” Bachira said, skipping once. “She told me.”

They walked in silence for a little after that. The kind of silence that didn’t feel awkward—just heavy with all the things unsaid.

Then, Bachira asked, voice gentler than before, “Hey… that night. When I stayed over.”

Yoichi’s chest tightened instantly.

Bachira didn’t look at him. Just kept walking, a little ahead now, hands in his pockets.

“Was it… weird? That I, like. Fell asleep on you?”

Yoichi’s steps slowed. He looked at the back of Bachira’s neck, the way the light brushed his skin. He swallowed.

“No,” he said. “It wasn’t weird.”

Bachira turned slightly, just enough to glance at him over his shoulder. His eyes were soft. Searching.

“It wasn’t weird for me either,” he said, then looked away again. “It was just… nice.”

Yoichi’s mouth opened—Say it, he thought. Say how your heart wouldn’t stop racing. Say how you didn’t want him to leave. Say you’re still thinking about it, even now.

But all that came out was:

“Yeah.”

A beat passed. Maybe two.

Then Bachira smiled, not his usual wide grin, but something smaller. Sincere. “Cool,” he said. “Just checking.”

They walked the rest of the way like that—close but not touching, not quite brave enough.

But their shadows followed them, long and intertwined, like maybe they’d already said more than they meant to.

...

A few days later.

The night had a quiet kind of magic to it, the way the moon hung low and full in the sky, spilling soft silver light over the empty streets. Yoichi’s footsteps were cautious but determined as he slipped out the front door, the cool air brushing against his skin like a secret promise. His heart thudded hard—not from fear, not exactly, but from the electric thrill of doing something forbidden. Something reckless.

Down the block, Bachira was waiting, standing under a streetlamp whose yellow glow flickered like it might go out any second. But the moonlight crowned him better than any bulb could. It sketched the angles of his face, caught the way his hair tousled perfectly messy, and made his usual wild, teasing grin seem softer, almost… vulnerable. Like a secret just for Yoichi.

Yoichi swallowed the lump in his throat. He wasn’t sure why his chest felt so tight, but the words spilled out before he could stop them.

“You’re… pretty.”

The words felt clumsy and raw in the stillness, like a confession too fragile to be true. Bachira blinked, and Yoichi caught the faintest flicker in his eyes—surprise? Interest? Maybe a crack in the wall Bachira so carefully built around himself.

“You really think so?” Bachira’s voice was low, a little softer than usual, the teasing edge gone, replaced by something more honest.

Yoichi nodded, unable to look away. The way the moonlight kissed Bachira’s face made it impossible to lie.

“I mean it. You’re… different. Not just because you look good—there’s something else. Something I don’t know how to say.” His fingers curled into his sleeves, suddenly shy. “It’s like you shine, even in the dark.”

Bachira took a slow step closer, closing the gap between them until Yoichi could see the little crinkles at the corners of his eyes. “Maybe I just want someone to notice.”

Yoichi’s breath hitched. That tiny confession was more than he expected. He felt like his heart might break and mend all at once in the silence that followed.

The moonlight was their only witness as they stood there, two boys caught between words and feelings neither dared to fully say aloud. The night stretched on, and with every shared glance and every breath, the yearning grew—soft, aching, endless.

They blinked, both suddenly aware of how close they were — the heat of their breaths mingling, the fragile edge of something about to break free. Yoichi’s heart hammered like a wild drum in his chest, every nerve alive, but just as Bachira’s lips twitched closer, they both pulled back.

Bachira’s grin, that easy mask, slipped back into place, but it was quieter, softer. “Can’t get caught sneaking out now, right?” he murmured, eyes still bright with unspoken words.

Yoichi swallowed, nodding, feeling the tension loosen but not disappear. They started walking side by side, the moonlight guiding their path like a gentle hand.

The town was sleepy, streets empty except for their footsteps echoing softly. The ocean wasn’t far, and soon they found themselves on the shore, waves whispering secrets as they lapped at the sand.

Yoichi kept stealing glances at Bachira, who kicked at the sand, staring out into the dark water.

“You know,” Yoichi said, voice low, “I never thought someone like you could be… so quiet.”

Bachira chuckled, a sound that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Maybe I’m not what you expect.”

Yoichi bit his lip, wanting to say more but unsure if he should. Instead, he let the words hang between them like a fragile thread.

“You’re pretty,” he repeated, softer this time. “Not just your face… it’s like… everything about you is loud and bright, but also this weird quiet, like you’re carrying something nobody else can see.”

Bachira finally looked at him, really looked, and Yoichi felt like he was falling into those eyes — wild, restless, but holding a flicker of something tender.

“Maybe I’m scared,” Bachira said, voice barely above a whisper. “Scared that if I let someone in, I’ll lose myself.”

Yoichi’s chest clenched. “I don’t want to lose you.”

They stopped walking, the night wrapping them in its stillness.

“Me neither,” Bachira admitted, stepping just a breath closer.

For a moment, the world shrank to just the two of them — the salt air, the moonlight, the unspoken words that lingered like a promise waiting to be kept.

The silence stretched between them, thick and fragile, like glass ready to shatter. Bachira’s eyes flicked down, away from Yoichi’s, and without warning, he took a step back — not harsh, but enough to leave a breath of distance between them.

Yoichi’s heart stuttered, aching painfully at the space that suddenly yawned open. He wanted to reach out, to pull him back, but the words got stuck. So instead, they turned and began walking again, side by side but with a careful gap.

The night swallowed their footsteps as the town’s quiet hum wrapped around them. The ocean breeze tugged at their clothes, carrying the distant song of the waves.

“You’re really something, Bachira,” Yoichi said softly, voice cracking just a little. “I don’t get it, but… I’m drawn to you. Like you’re the only thing I can hold onto when everything else is spinning.”

Bachira’s gaze stayed fixed ahead, but Yoichi saw the quick tightening of his jaw, the barest flicker of a smile. “You’re not easy to read either,” he murmured. “Maybe that’s why I keep looking.”

Their words were low, almost fragile, like whispers meant to be swallowed by the night.

“I want to be closer,” Yoichi confessed, voice barely above a breath. “But it’s like… every time I get near, I’m scared I’ll break whatever this is.”

Bachira’s next laugh was soft and a little shaky, and when he glanced at Yoichi, something raw flickered in his eyes. “Yeah. Me too.”

They walked on, the air thick with everything they weren’t saying, everything they wanted to say but couldn’t quite find the courage for.

Then, without thinking, Yoichi’s fingers brushed against Bachira’s. Time seemed to freeze, the moonlight catching that small contact like a spark in the dark.

Bachira’s breath hitched, and his hand didn’t pull away. Instead, slowly, deliberately, he curled his fingers around Yoichi’s.

Their hands were warm, trembling—uncertain and desperate all at once.

Yoichi’s heart pounded loud enough he was sure Bachira could hear it. He dared a glance up, and Bachira’s gaze met his—wide, searching, vulnerable.

“Why does this feel like the most dangerous thing in the world?” Yoichi whispered.

“Because it is,” Bachira said, voice raw with feeling. “But also… the most right.”

They kept walking, fingers entwined, each step heavy with everything left unspoken — the yearning, the fear, the hope buried deep beneath the surface.

The night wrapped around them like a secret they were finally ready to share.

The tide whispered softly beside them, a steady rhythm that seemed to echo the beating of their hearts. Their hands stayed linked, but neither spoke for a while—words too heavy, too fragile to break the silence just yet.

Finally, Bachira’s voice cut through the quiet, low and hesitant. “I don’t usually like nights like this,” he said, eyes on the dark horizon where the water met the sky. “Too quiet. Too much time to think.”

Yoichi’s grip tightened just a little, not to pull away but to hold on. “Maybe that’s why it’s good. Thinking… it helps.”

Bachira laughed softly, the sound almost like a sigh. “I’m bad at thinking. I get stuck in my head too much. Like I’m trying to chase something, but I don’t even know what it is.”

Yoichi swallowed the lump in his throat, searching for words that wouldn’t come out wrong. “Maybe… sometimes it’s enough to just be with someone. Even if you don’t have the answers.”

Bachira glanced at him, something flickering in his eyes—like he was surprised Yoichi said that, or maybe that he felt it too. “Yeah… maybe.”

They walked a little farther, the sand cool beneath their feet, the moonlight painting their shadows long and close.

“I don’t know what I’m doing half the time,” Bachira admitted after a pause, voice quieter now, like a secret meant only for Yoichi. “But… with you, it doesn’t feel as scary.”

Yoichi’s heart stung. “I get that. Like… maybe we don’t have to figure it all out right now.”

Bachira’s fingers squeezed his hand gently, a silent promise or maybe just a fragile hope.

“Maybe,” Yoichi said, “sometimes the hardest part is just not running away.”

Bachira’s smile was small but real, a soft light in the dark. “Then let’s try not to run.”

They kept walking, step by step, hand in hand, wrapped in the quiet ache of possibility—the kind of aching that lingers in the spaces between words, promising something deeper without yet naming it.

...

The front door opened before Yoichi could knock, and there stood Bachira’s mom, bright-eyed and beaming like the sun had just come inside.

“Oh! You must be Isagi! Bachira’s told me all about you,” she said, stepping aside to let him in. Her voice was warm and easy, and her laugh bubbled up like it was ready to burst out at any moment.

Yoichi’s nerves softened instantly. “Hi, Mrs. Bachira. Your house is… really nice.”

She waved a hand around like she was brushing off the compliment. “Ah, it’s nothing special!"

Bachira's mom guided Yoichi to Bachira's room.

Bachira’s room was exactly what Yoichi expected and yet somehow nothing like he imagined. There were paint-stained canvases propped up against one wall, a ceiling covered in glow-in-the-dark stars, and a windchime made out of bottle caps gently clinking near the window. It was loud in its joy, in its chaos — just like him.

“Welcome to the jungle,” Bachira said, flopping dramatically onto the bed.

Yoichi stepped inside slowly, taking it all in, his hands in his pockets to stop them from fidgeting. The air smelled like paint and oranges. Familiar, now.

“You actually live in here?” Yoichi said, smiling.

“I thrive in here,” Bachira replied, rolling onto his stomach. “But sometimes I escape.”

He pointed to the wide window at the end of the room, which was already cracked open to the summer air. “Rooftop’s the best part. Come on.”

Yoichi climbed out after him, heart weirdly loud in his chest. The roof wasn’t much — slanted tiles, the night sky, the distant hush of wind through trees — but it felt like something secret. Like something only they were allowed to touch.

They sat down slowly. Their shoulders didn’t touch, but it felt like everything between them did.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

The moon was bright above them, casting pale silver across Bachira’s face. He looked soft in the light — soft and too beautiful to look at directly for long.

Yoichi swallowed. “It’s quiet up here.”

Bachira smiled, eyes half-lidded as he leaned back on his hands. “Yeah. Sometimes I come up just to listen to nothing.”

Yoichi’s voice was quieter than usual when he asked, “Do you come up here when you’re sad?”

“Sometimes,” Bachira said. “But not tonight.”

Their eyes met. The silence pressed between them again, but this time it wasn’t awkward. It felt like a question neither of them wanted to ask.

After a beat, Bachira looked away, like the weight of Yoichi’s gaze was too much. “I play the guitar,” he said suddenly. “Badly, probably. But I do.”

Yoichi smiled, grateful for the distraction but unwilling to lose the closeness. “Can I hear it sometime?”

Bachira’s voice softened. “Yeah. Remind me tomorrow.”

Yoichi nodded, though his throat was tight. “Okay.”

A warm breeze passed between them, and then Bachira leaned a little closer. Just enough for his arm to brush Yoichi’s. Just enough to feel it. Just enough to ache.

“I like being around you,” Bachira said, and he said it like it meant more than it sounded. Like there was a second half of the sentence he was too afraid to say.

Yoichi’s heart twisted. “Me too.”

He reached out — slowly, unsure — and let his hand rest on top of Bachira’s where it lay between them. Bachira didn’t move away. He just turned his hand over so their fingers could fit together, like they were made to do that.

“You make things feel… easier,” Yoichi murmured.

Bachira’s smile was a little sad, but he squeezed Yoichi’s hand gently. “You make things feel like they matter.”

It wasn’t 'I love you', not yet. But it was something. It was close.

And under the moonlight, with their hands intertwined and the wind brushing through their hair, it felt like a promise they weren’t brave enough to speak.

Not yet.

Yoichi’s thumb brushed over Bachira’s knuckles. A small, tentative motion. Barely there. But Bachira noticed — of course he did — and for a moment, he looked like he might say something more.

But he didn’t.

He just turned his head, eyes tracing the horizon even though it was too dark to see anything beyond silhouettes. “You know,” he whispered, “sometimes I wish summer lasted forever.”

Yoichi let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Yeah. Me too.”

Because this—whatever this was—felt fragile. Like a dream that wouldn’t survive autumn. Like something that only existed because the nights were warm and the stars were out and no one was watching.

“I think I’ll remember this forever,” Bachira said, still looking away.

Yoichi turned toward him, eyes wide with the quiet weight of that sentence. “Why?”

Bachira didn’t answer at first. Just shrugged a little, like he couldn’t trust his voice.

But then he said, “Because this feels like something I’ll miss before it’s even gone.”

The words settled heavy in Yoichi’s chest. He didn’t know how to respond. Not without telling the truth. Not without admitting that he’d been carrying the shape of Bachira in his ribs for days now — laughing at his jokes, memorizing the way his hair caught the sun, pretending it was friendship when it felt like falling.

“I wish I was braver,” Yoichi said suddenly, the words spilling out before he could stop them.

Bachira blinked, turning back to look at him. “What do you mean?”

Yoichi met his eyes. It hurt to do that. “To say things. To ask things.”

There was a long pause.

Then Bachira leaned forward, just a little, close enough for Yoichi to see the freckles under his eyes. “Okay. Then let me ask.”

Yoichi’s breath caught.

But Bachira didn’t ask the question. He didn’t push.

He just smiled — soft and sad and full of something that looked a lot like hope. “Do you wanna stay here a little longer?”

Yoichi nodded. “Yeah.”

They didn’t say anything more after that. There was nothing left that could be said without changing everything.

So they just sat there, hands still joined, the moonlight painting their shadows onto the world.

At some point, Bachira’s head fell onto Yoichi’s shoulder again, hair brushing his jaw, breath warm against his neck. Yoichi closed his eyes and let the moment fold around him like a second skin.

He didn’t know if he could ever tell Bachira the truth.

But he was sure of one thing.

If summer did last forever, he’d spend it like this: quietly, unbearably in love.

...

They stepped into Bachira’s bedroom, both slower than before—like the night had wrapped them in something fragile. Something that might break if they moved too fast.

Outside, the moon still hovered like a secret, silver light bleeding faintly through the curtains. The air was warm, thick with the kind of summer hush that makes the world feel like it’s holding its breath. The room felt small now, intimate, lit only by the glow of streetlights and starlight filtering in through the window.

Neither of them spoke at first. Bachira crossed the room and stood beside his bed, hands fidgeting at the hem of his shirt. He wasn’t looking at Yoichi, not really. Just downward, like the words he wanted to say were sitting somewhere near his toes.

Yoichi was about to ask if he was tired, but then Bachira finally looked up.

His eyes were soft. Open in a way that made Yoichi’s chest ache.

“You can hold me again,” Bachira whispered, his voice barely more than a breath. “Like the first night. If you want.”

The world slowed.

Yoichi stood there, trying not to fall apart from the way those words wrapped around his ribs and pulled. He nodded before he could even think.

“I want to,” he said, and it came out rougher than he meant. Honest.

Bachira smiled—just a little. Like he was relieved. Like that smile had been waiting.

They moved quietly. Like their bodies already knew the way.

The sheets were cool when they slipped beneath them, the kind of cool that warmed quickly with skin and closeness. Bachira turned into him almost immediately, curling against his side without hesitation, like this had always been meant to happen. His cheek rested against Yoichi’s chest again, his breath slow and warm over his shirt. His arm draped across Yoichi’s waist, fingers pressing softly through the fabric.

It was the same as before—but it wasn’t.

Because this time, Yoichi didn’t just lie there. He wrapped his arms around him gently, one cradling Bachira’s back, the other coming to rest just over his hip. He pulled him in, slowly, carefully, until Bachira was completely flush against him. Until Yoichi could feel every soft inhale against his ribs, every shift of Bachira’s legs tangled with his own.

And Bachira let him.

He let himself be held like that, like he wanted nothing more in the world than to belong right there—against Yoichi’s chest, under his hands, inside the rhythm of his heart.

For a long moment, nothing moved but the air between them.

Then Yoichi tilted his head down. Just slightly.

Bachira’s curls brushed his chin.

He whispered, “You’re so warm.”

And Bachira gave a soft laugh, the kind that trembled a little. “I always am.”

“I like that,” Yoichi said. Quiet. Barely there.

Bachira didn’t answer right away. His hand slid gently under Yoichi’s shirt, just enough to feel the skin of his side, his thumb moving absentmindedly. He tilted his head a little, just enough to glance up at Yoichi from the hollow of his chest.

“Yoichi…” he whispered, so low it almost didn’t reach him.

Yoichi looked down.

Their eyes met.

And the space between them sparked like static—like if one of them leaned even a little closer, something would happen. Something irreversible.

Bachira’s lips parted, barely. His eyes dropped to Yoichi’s mouth, lingering there like a question.

Yoichi’s heart thundered beneath him, and he was sure Bachira could feel it.

For one second, he thought he would. That he could.

But instead, Yoichi lifted a hand to Bachira’s hair and pressed the softest kiss to his forehead. Then his cheek. Tender, reverent. Full of everything he didn’t know how to say.

Bachira went still.

And he waited.

Waited for that third kiss. The one that might mean something more. The one he could already feel hovering in the air.

But it didn’t come.

And when Yoichi pulled back, just slightly, Bachira smiled against his chest.

He didn’t say anything. But inside, it ached—the kind of ache that was full of hope. Full of almosts.

Yoichi stroked his hair again, slower this time.

“I could stay like this forever,” he whispered.

Bachira closed his eyes, pressing his ear tighter to Yoichi’s heart.

“Then don’t let go.”

“I won’t.”

And he didn’t.

He held him like he was something sacred. Like he was afraid to fall asleep because he might wake up alone.

Bachira’s lashes fluttered, his breath evening out slowly, but not fully asleep yet. His fingers curled tighter against Yoichi’s side.

He wanted that kiss. He wanted to ask for it. But he was too scared to lose the softness between them, the spell of this quiet.

So instead, he let Yoichi hold him like that—arms around him, face pressed to his chest, heartbeat drumming beneath his cheek like a song written just for him.

And even without the kiss, even without the words, Bachira felt it.

Every unspoken I want to.
Every silent don’t go.
Every soft, aching not yet… but soon.

He fell asleep to the sound of it, wrapped up in a love too quiet to name, but too deep to miss.

And Yoichi held him through the night, wishing he were brave enough to close the space between their mouths, but loving him so much that he’d wait as long as it took.

...

The next morning, Yoichi woke to the warmth of sun spilling through the curtains and the gentle weight of a boy breathing softly against his chest.

Bachira was still asleep, curled into him, his breath slow and warm. His grip had loosened in the night, fingers now resting limply on Yoichi’s side—but the way his body leaned into his, the way his cheek pressed against Yoichi’s chest like it belonged there, still held everything they hadn’t been able to say aloud.

Yoichi’s hand moved almost instinctively, fingers sliding into Bachira’s messy hair. He let them tangle there, gently, brushing through strands as he stared down at him. His heart ached.

There was something about watching him sleep like this—unguarded, bathed in morning light—that made Yoichi feel entirely undone. His eyes traced the delicate line of Bachira’s lashes, the scatter of freckles on his cheekbones, half-hidden beneath his bangs. He memorized the curve of his mouth, the way his lips parted with each breath, the way his entire expression seemed softened in sleep—like someone at peace, like someone loved.

And maybe he was.

Bachira stirred slowly, rubbing his face lightly against Yoichi’s chest. Yoichi stopped breathing.

“Morning,” Bachira mumbled, voice rough with sleep and barely audible.

Yoichi smiled, something helpless and sweet tugging at his lips. “Morning, Bachira.”

They lay like that for a while longer, arms still around each other, until the sunlight creeping across the room became too persistent to ignore. Eventually, Bachira sat up at the edge of the bed, hair tousled and eyes still half-lidded with sleep.

Yoichi followed, reluctant to break the silence. He watched the way Bachira yawned and rubbed his eyes, and he wanted to reach out, to tuck the hair behind his ear, to hold him again and never let go.

But Bachira’s gaze flickered to the corner of the room—to the guitar resting against the wall—and something in his expression changed.

He stood up suddenly, grabbing it. “Come on,” he said, his voice still quiet, but a little lighter now.

Yoichi didn’t ask where they were going. He just followed.

They slipped through the back door barefoot, stepping into the cool morning air. Sand cushioned their steps as they made their way toward the beach, the hush of waves and soft chirping of birds blending in the distance. The sky was a pale blue now, sunlight casting golden streaks across the water.

Bachira sat near the shoreline and Yoichi joined him, legs crossed, body turned slightly to watch him.

He noticed the small, painted flowers on the guitar’s body—little strokes of color that made it unmistakably Bachira’s. Like him, it was bright and soft all at once.

“I really like this song,” Bachira said, not meeting his eyes. “It reminds me of you.”

Before Yoichi could ask what he meant, Bachira’s fingers began to move.

The first note cut through the air gently, folding into the sound of the waves like it belonged there. Yoichi watched the way Bachira played—tender and precise, like the strings were something sacred. Like each note held a secret.

And then he sang.

“Looking out the door I see the rain…”

His voice—quiet and full of something Yoichi couldn’t name—floated between them, brushing against his skin.

“So I’ll wait for you, love… and I’ll burn…”

Every word pulled something deeper out of Yoichi, something raw and trembling. It felt like the world had narrowed to this moment—just Bachira, and the sea, and the quiet ache of being seen.

“Will I ever see your sweet return…?”

Yoichi could barely breathe.

The sunlight touched Bachira’s cheek, glinting off the curve of his jaw, and Yoichi had never seen anyone look so painfully beautiful. He wasn’t sure if it was the melody or the truth hiding inside it, but something in his chest cracked open.

“Lover, you should’ve come over…”

Bachira’s voice faded with the final line. His fingers stilled. The morning breeze picked up the last echoes and scattered them into the waves.

When he looked up, their eyes met.

And Yoichi forgot what fear was.

“That was…” Yoichi whispered, “…lovely.”

Bachira looked down, shy in a way he rarely was, a small smile tugging at his lips. He set the guitar beside him, fingers brushing the wood one last time. “Thanks.”

The morning light had painted the sky in soft blushes and gold, casting warm shadows over the sand as Yoichi sat beside Bachira, still dizzy from the way the boy’s voice had just filled the world around him.

Bachira’s guitar lay on the sand now, quiet. But its echo still lingered in Yoichi’s chest like the memory of a dream he didn’t want to wake from. The sea kept whispering, pulling away from the shore only to return again, always returning.

Yoichi’s gaze didn’t leave Bachira.

His heart was still unraveling.

He had barely spoken—“That was… lovely”—but it wasn’t enough. It never would be. Nothing he could say could capture the spell Bachira had just cast over the world, over him. That voice, soft and slow and filled with a kind of pain that sounded too familiar. It had opened something in Yoichi, something raw, something real.

And now Bachira was looking at him. Really looking at him.

His gaze was gentle but piercing, like he could see past every mask Yoichi ever wore. His freckles were catching sunlight, the curve of his cheek still slightly flushed, and his fingers trembled slightly where they rested on his thigh. And Yoichi—Yoichi couldn’t look away.

He didn’t want to.

Because in this moment, Bachira wasn’t just Bachira. He was every feeling Yoichi had buried, every soft glance and shy touch and silent ache he had kept hidden between their moments. And now, he was right there, barely a breath away.

Yoichi’s body moved before his mind did. Slowly. Carefully. He leaned in, not rushing, not daring. Just moving in the same rhythm the tide had taught him—close, and closer.

And his heart was screaming.

He brought a hand up, almost shaking, and cupped Bachira’s cheek like it was something precious. And it was. It was.

His thumb brushed lightly over his skin, and Yoichi felt Bachira lean into his touch, like he had been waiting—like this was all he had been hoping for.

Is this okay?
Do you want this too?
The questions hung there, unsaid, burning on his lips.

Bachira’s eyes searched his face, and for a breathless moment they simply stayed there, suspended in the quiet hum of everything unspoken.

Then Bachira’s fingers curled into the fabric of Yoichi’s shirt. Not pulling. Just anchoring.

Yoichi swore the world fell silent.

And then, finally, finally, he kissed him.

It was soft—so soft it barely felt real.

Like a secret.

Like the kind of kiss that says I’ve wanted this for so long I almost forgot how to breathe without it.

Bachira inhaled softly, lips still parted, and Yoichi deepened it just slightly, letting their lips find each other with trembling precision. Not desperate. Not rushed.

Just aching.

His other hand rose to Bachira’s jaw, fingertips brushing against the edge of his ear, and he felt Bachira exhale against his mouth—like the air had been knocked out of him.

And Yoichi thought, I want to stay like this forever.

He poured everything into that kiss. Every late night thought. Every almost moment. Every touch he was too afraid to linger on. He kissed him like the world had narrowed to just this—just Bachira, under the soft light of morning, with the scent of salt and summer between them.

When he finally pulled away—slowly, reluctantly—his breath was shallow, and his forehead rested gently against Bachira’s.

Neither of them said anything.

They didn’t need to.

Bachira’s eyes were glassy in the sun. His smile small, uncertain, beautiful.

And Yoichi held him there, brushing his thumb along his jaw, and thought:

God, if you don’t love me yet… I’ll wait. I’ll keep waiting. Because loving you like this already feels like enough.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. The kiss lingered in the air between them, in the way Bachira’s hands still gripped the front of Yoichi’s shirt, in the way Yoichi’s thumb still brushed gently across Bachira’s cheekbone as if memorizing the warmth of it.

Their foreheads rested together, breaths mingling, the sound of the sea crashing quietly behind them. Everything else—the sand beneath their feet, the golden morning stretching across the horizon—faded into background noise. All Yoichi could feel was the overwhelming presence of Bachira. The weight of the kiss still heavy on his lips. The soft tremble still in his chest. The realization that he never wanted to look away again.

Then Bachira pulled back, just barely, his nose brushing against Yoichi’s, and he smiled in that crooked, glowing way of his. “Hey, um…” he whispered. “You tasted like sleep and something sweet.”

Yoichi blinked. “Sweet?”

Bachira grinned wider. “Yeah. Maybe like dreams or something.”

Yoichi let out a breath that could’ve been a laugh, but it shook too much to be sure. He looked away, cheeks burning. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you kissed me,” Bachira replied with mock-innocence. “So what does that make you?”

“Stupid, apparently,” Yoichi mumbled, but his eyes were already drifting back toward Bachira’s mouth, pink and soft and still parted just slightly. Like he was waiting. Like he was hoping.

And Yoichi, for once, didn’t let himself hesitate.

He leaned in again, slower this time—like a secret only they could know, something sacred—and kissed Bachira once more. A second kiss, gentler, deeper. He felt Bachira melt into it, a sigh brushing against his lips as if he’d been holding that breath for days. Maybe he had.

This time, Yoichi’s hand slid to the back of Bachira’s neck, holding him close, anchoring him. And Bachira’s fingers, small and warm, found Yoichi’s wrist, as if afraid he’d pull away again.

When they finally parted, they didn’t speak. They just looked at each other. A quiet shared language, everything said through gaze and closeness. They weren’t quite smiling—but their lips were curved just enough, their eyes so full it was almost unbearable.

And then Bachira did what Bachira always did when the air got too heavy—he laughed.

Just a soft, breathy little thing at first. But it cracked the tension wide open.

“I still can’t believe you kissed me,” he giggled.

Yoichi groaned and let himself fall back into the sand with a quiet thud, his arm flung over his eyes. “You’re not gonna shut up about it, are you?”

“Nope,” Bachira chirped, already following him down, curling close with a ridiculous amount of delight. “You’re doomed now, Isagi Yoichi. Eternally mocked. Eternally held.”

Yoichi peeked out from under his arm to find Bachira grinning beside him, eyes glowing in the soft sunlight. “Eternally held?” he repeated.

Bachira scooted closer until their sides were pressed together. “Well, yeah. I mean—you held me all night. You kissed me. Twice. You can’t just go back to normal after that.”

Yoichi felt his heart stutter again—God, how many times was this boy going to destroy him with just a few words?

He reached out and pulled Bachira in gently, tucking him against his side. Bachira rested his head on Yoichi’s shoulder, arm draped over his chest, the kind of closeness that made time blur. They lay there, tangled, the guitar forgotten in the sand behind them, the waves lapping at the shore, the sun rising a little higher.

For a while, they just breathed together. Fingers brushing, toes tangled in the sand. Silences filled with meaning.

Then Bachira whispered, “You don’t have to say anything, y’know.”

Yoichi turned his head. “About what?”

“About… how you feel. Yet. I mean, I’m not asking. I just—this is enough. Right now.”

Yoichi stared at him, at the way his lashes caught the morning light, at the way he kept his face half-hidden in Yoichi’s chest like he was afraid of saying too much. Like even now, after everything, he wasn’t sure how much he was allowed to want.

And Yoichi realized—he wanted to give him everything.

“I don’t know how to say it yet,” he murmured. “But I’m glad you said that. Because… this is enough for me too.”

Bachira let out a breath. Then he whispered something so soft Yoichi almost didn’t catch it:

“But it’s gonna be more, right?”

Yoichi didn’t answer with words.

He just squeezed Bachira’s hand tighter and closed his eyes.

And somewhere, beneath the hush of the waves and the hum of their hearts, they both already knew the answer.

...

Eventually, the sun climbed high enough that its warmth pulled them out of the dream they’d been lying in. The air was still quiet between them, filled with the echoes of shared breath and soft touches, but the world had slowly begun to return—the tide inching closer, the gulls calling faintly overhead.

Yoichi stirred first. “We should… go back.”

Bachira, head still nestled on his chest, let out a reluctant hum. “We have to?”

Yoichi didn’t answer, but his fingers gently brushed through Bachira’s hair again, and that said enough.

They sat up slowly, like waking from the kind of dream you wanted to live in forever. Sand clung to their clothes and skin, but neither of them minded. Bachira reached for his guitar and slung it over his shoulder, and Yoichi stood beside him, brushing sand off the back of his shirt before reaching for his hand.

Their fingers intertwined without a word.

Barefoot, they walked through the cool morning sand, their steps quiet but synced. Every now and then, Bachira would bump his shoulder into Yoichi’s, smiling without saying anything, and Yoichi—shy as ever—would try not to grin too hard.

By the time they reached the back steps of the house, the world was fully awake. The scent of something warm drifted through the screen door—toast, maybe eggs. It remind him of the morning after Yoichi held him for the first time—Bachira’s stomach grumbled in betrayal.

Yoichi smirked. “You hungry?”

“Starving,” Bachira said dramatically, slumping against him. “Emotionally, romantically, and nutritionally.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Yoichi said again, but it came out too fond.

Bachira winked.

They stepped into the kitchen like nothing had changed, though everything had. Yoichi noticed how their hands didn’t quite touch anymore, how they stood just a little too close, like a magnet was still pulling them together even when they weren’t touching.

Bachira’s mom stood at the stove, humming softly to herself. She turned when she heard them enter.

“Oh—good morning, you two,” she said cheerfully. “You’re up early.”

“Kind of never went to sleep,” Bachira said, yawning.

Yoichi glanced away, suddenly very aware of how rumpled his clothes were. How his cheeks probably still glowed pink.

His mother looked at the two boys—at Yoichi, with sand in his hair and something too soft in his eyes, and at her son, whose entire face practically radiated joy.

She turned back to the stove without a word, but there was something in her smile. Knowing. Gentle.

Bachira flopped into a kitchen chair, leaning his arms on the table dramatically. “I think we deserve pancakes.”

“I was thinking the same,” she said, flipping one onto a plate. “But you’ll have to set the table if you want them.”

Yoichi jumped to help before she even finished speaking, grateful for the distraction. As he grabbed plates from the cupboard, he felt Bachira’s gaze follow him—light and steady, like he was still playing a song only Yoichi could hear.

They sat down together, sharing quiet bites between gentle glances. Every time their knees brushed under the table, Yoichi’s stomach fluttered like it was trying to take flight.

“Isagi-kun,” Bachira’s mom said after a while, her voice sweet and light. “You should come over more often. Meguru always seems brighter when you’re around.”

Yoichi nearly choked on his pancake.

Bachira looked smug.

“Yeah, Yoichi,” he said, pretending to sip from his empty juice glass. “You should come over more.”

Yoichi met his eyes across the table, something shy and electric sparking there again.

“I think I will,” he said quietly.

And Bachira’s smile—God, that smile—was worth every ounce of the ache in Yoichi’s chest.

...

Bachira's pov

The house was quiet again. Yoichi leaved a few hours ago.

The kind of quiet that only comes after something beautiful—after music, after a kiss, after laughter so gentle it made your chest hurt. The kind of quiet that feels sacred.

Bachira lay in bed, curled up under his sheets, eyes open and locked on the ceiling as if it held answers.

But nothing up there looked like Yoichi.

And maybe that’s why he felt a little bit like he was going to burst.

He turned on his side, face half-buried in his pillow, and let out a soft sigh. His hand reached for his chest, right over the place where Yoichi’s heartbeat had been this morning—steady and close beneath his cheek. He could still feel it if he stayed still enough. He could still hear it, like a lullaby meant just for him.

God, he missed him.

It had only been hours.

But God, he missed him.

Bachira’s fingers curled slightly, like he could catch the ghost of Yoichi’s shirt in his palm. The way he held onto it right before their lips touched. The way Yoichi had looked at him right before leaning in—like Bachira was something precious. Like he was fragile. Like he mattered in a way that no one else ever made him feel.

He squeezed his eyes shut and let the memory play again.

The kiss.

Not rushed. Not clumsy. Not the kind of kiss you see in movies and forget about after a while.

No, this one was different.

It was slow. Painfully slow. Like Yoichi had been memorizing the shape of him through that kiss. Like every second they were close was something he didn’t want to waste. Bachira remembered the way Yoichi’s hand cupped his cheek—warm, steady, reverent. He remembered the slight tremble in his own hands, how tightly he clung to him, how desperately he wanted to never let go.

He turned again, this time hugging his pillow close to his chest.

He was smiling.

God, he was smiling like an idiot.

But then it faded, just a little, like the way the sun fades when it slips behind a cloud.

Because what now?

What were they now?

Did that kiss mean something to Yoichi, or was it just—Bachira winced—just a moment?

No, no. He couldn’t believe that. Not after the way Yoichi looked at him afterward. Not after the second kiss, the giggling in the sand, the way they curled up into each other like they were puzzle pieces. Like they fit.

And Yoichi held him, even when they weren’t kissing. Held him like someone afraid to let go. Held him like someone who had been waiting.

That had to mean something.

Right?

His thoughts raced and tangled and circled until his chest felt too full.

He wasn’t used to this kind of ache. The good kind. The terrifying kind.

Love.

Was that what this was?

He buried his face in the pillow again, groaning softly into it. “I’m so screwed,” he whispered.

But then, in the quiet of his room, he remembered the way Yoichi said his name when he pulled away from that first kiss.

Like it hurt.

Like it healed something.

Like he was falling.

And suddenly, Bachira didn’t feel scared at all.

He felt lucky.

He felt chosen.

He felt like maybe, just maybe, Yoichi had been falling too.

And that made the ache a little easier to carry.

...

The sun was setting again. That same sun that had watched them meet, that had seen Bachira smile for the first time in front of him, that had warmed their backs during long walks and rooftop mornings and sleepy late-night talks.

Yoichi stood with his feet buried in the wet sand, the tide brushing against his ankles. It was warm, the sea gentler than usual. Bachira was a few steps ahead, his back turned, the wind catching on the hem of his shirt, his hair dancing freely. The horizon glowed orange and pink, soft as a memory.

It had been two and a half months since they met.

Two and a half months since that strange, lovely boy had run up to him on the beach and changed everything. Two and a half months since Yoichi began to learn how to breathe differently—slower, deeper, like his lungs weren’t used to holding so much of someone else.

And it has been 4 days since he kissed that same boy, since he felt the sweet taste of his lips.

He’d fallen in love with Meguru slowly. In the way flowers open: not all at once, but in small, aching stretches—each one hurting with beauty.

And now, Yoichi couldn’t hold it anymore.

Bachira turned back to look at him, eyes wide, soft, curious. “What?” he asked, a half-smile tugging at his lips like he was waiting for something without knowing what.

Yoichi walked forward. Into the water. Into the light. Into everything.

"Meguru" he said quietly, he loves the fact that he can call him by his first name now. It feels more intimate.

Yoichi stepped closer, the sun warm on his back, the waves gentle around their ankles. Meguru tilted his head a little, that soft curiosity in his eyes, his smile half-formed like he was already preparing to laugh.

Yoichi couldn’t look away from him.

It had been two and a half months, and somehow, Meguru still took his breath every time he turned around. Every time he smiled like he carried the whole sun in his chest and didn’t mind sharing it.

He didn’t know how to begin. His hands trembled slightly at his sides—not from fear, but from the weight of everything he’d been holding. The words. The feelings. The truth that had been blooming in his ribs like a garden with no end.

He inhaled.

“When I first saw you, Meguru,” he began, voice soft and slow, “I didn’t know someone like you could exist.”

Meguru blinked. The breeze caught his hair. He didn’t say anything. He just listened.

“You were smiling at the sky like it had told you a secret, and you looked so alive that it hurt a little. You talked like you weren’t afraid of anything. And I think I started falling for you the second you laughed at something I said. That loud, ridiculous laugh that made me want to say stupid things just to hear it again.”

He laughed under his breath, nervously, but kept going. His throat felt tight. His chest too full.

“And then I got to know you. Your weird drawings. Your guitar. The way you hum without realizing. How you care so deeply about people even if you pretend you don’t. The way you love. You don’t just love softly. You love like it’s the only thing you’ve ever known how to do.”

Meguru's smile faltered. His eyes softened, like he didn’t know what to do with all that love. Like no one had ever said these things to him before.

Yoichi’s voice shook as he added, “You taught me how to feel again. And now, everything feels too much—every sunset, every morning, every second we’re together. I want it all with you. I want to wake up next to you and draw hearts in the steam on the bathroom mirror and fall asleep while you tell me about your dreams.”

He reached forward, gently, like he was touching something sacred, and took Bachira’s hand.

“I want you to be my everything, because… you already are.”

A small, stunned silence hung in the space between them. The ocean whispered quietly, pulling at their feet like it wanted to hear too.

Meguru finally breathed. His eyes shimmered in the sunlight.

“I—” he tried, but then he laughed, voice shaky, overwhelmed. “Yoichi…”

Yoichi squeezed his hand, heart hammering. “Will you be my boyfriend?”

There it was. The truth laid bare between them. No more half-glances. No more sleeping inches apart and pretending it didn’t mean everything. No more almost-kisses and silent wishes.

Meguru's eyes were glassy. He didn’t hesitate. He nodded.

“Yeah,” he said, breath catching. “Yes. Of course, yes. You idiot. I’ve been yours since I met you.”

Yoichi laughed, chest trembling with relief, with love, with everything he didn’t know how to say except with his hands and his breath and the way he leaned forward and kissed Meguru like he’d been waiting a lifetime to do it right.

It was slow. Painfully slow. Soft and steady, like the sea had taught him how to move. Meguru melted into him, hands curling against his shoulders, lips tasting like sunlight and laughter and everything Yoichi had ever wanted.

When they pulled apart, foreheads pressed together, Yoichi whispered, “I love you.”

Meguru didn’t say anything at first. He just smiled—radiant, blinding—and closed his eyes as he murmured, “I know. I love you too.”

They stood there in the shallow water, tangled up in sunlight and promises. Everything in the world had narrowed to this: two boys who had found each other by chance and decided, with everything in them, to stay.

...

They walked back hand in hand, the sea behind them, the sky a pale wash of blue stretched endlessly above their heads. The sun was still high but gentle now, filtered through wisps of soft clouds that drifted like feathers. The breeze was warm and playful, tugging at their clothes and their hair as if it knew the way their hearts beat in sync.

Yoichi didn’t let go of Meguru’s hand. Not even once.

The walk was quiet, but it wasn’t empty. It was full of those little glances, the ones that said I can’t believe you’re mine without needing words. Their fingers were loosely entwined, brushing knuckles now and then, and every little touch felt like something sacred. Yoichi kept sneaking glances at him, at the way Meguru’s hair shimmered in the light, at the way he kept smiling to himself like he had the entire sun curled up in his chest.

When they reached his house, the air inside was cool from the fans left running. But outside, the sun still poured through the windows, painting the walls in gold. It smelled like late summer—faint chlorine from the towels drying outside, sweet citrus from the pitcher of lemonade Yoichi’s mom had left on the counter, and warmth, just warmth everywhere.

They went up to his room without saying much. They didn’t need to.

Meguru sat on the edge of the bed first, and Yoichi followed, lying back and pulling Meguru with him. He laughed softly when Meguru landed a little awkwardly, one leg tangled with his.

“Come here,” Yoichi whispered, and Meguru shifted, resting his head right over Yoichi’s heart.

But Yoichi moved again, gently—he wanted this moment to last forever, wanted to be even closer. So he rolled onto his side and nudged until Meguru laid back. Then, without a word, Yoichi curled into him, carefully resting his head on Meguru’s chest. His fingers found their way under the hem of Meguru’s shirt, not in any kind of way, just for the sake of closeness—skin to skin, heartbeat to heartbeat.

And there it was again. That feeling.

That how did I ever live without you kind of love.

The fan hummed above them, moving slowly. Outside, a bird chirped and a lawnmower buzzed in the distance. It was the sound of summer winding down, of everything golden and temporary.

Yoichi let his eyes fall half-closed.

I love him so much, he thought. So much it doesn’t even fit in my chest. It spills out into everything—into the way I breathe, the way I speak, the way I touch him.

Meguru’s hand found his hair and began stroking it gently, mindlessly. As if he knew exactly how to calm every nerve in Yoichi’s body. As if his hand had been made for this, for him.

He’s everything I didn’t know I needed, Yoichi thought, and swallowed around the ache in his throat. He’s the laughter I didn’t know I’d missed. The warmth I forgot I deserved. The softness I thought the world had taken from me for good.

He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and whispered, barely audible, “Thank you.”

Meguru looked down at him lazily, smiling. “Hmm?”

Yoichi smiled too, eyes still closed. “Just… thank you for being here. For being you.”

Meguru hummed again, a happy little noise like a cat curling into the sun. “I’m not going anywhere.”

That made something deep in Yoichi’s chest bloom. He wanted to stay like this forever—wrapped in the golden light of summer, pressed against the boy who had somehow become his entire world.

It’s terrifying how much I love you, he thought. It’s beautiful, too. It’s like breathing. Like sunlight. Like waking up and remembering I get to live this life beside you.

The moments passed slowly, syrupy with warmth and exhaustion. Meguru’s breathing deepened under him, steady and soothing. His chest rose and fell, and Yoichi’s head rose and fell with it, lulled into quiet peace.

His fingers clutched lightly at the fabric of Meguru’s shirt. He pressed a soft kiss just over Meguru’s heart, then laid his cheek there again.

“I could stay here forever,” he whispered, not sure if Meguru was still awake.

He didn’t answer. Just squeezed him gently.

Outside, the cicadas began their slow, rhythmic song. The sun was still out, but lower now, casting long shadows over the walls. Everything was still and warm and golden.

And that’s how they fell asleep.

Meguru on his back, one arm curled tightly around Yoichi. Yoichi breathing slow and steady against his chest, safe in the sound of the boy he loved, wrapped in the last light of summer.

Two hearts, one rhythm. Two boys, one story.

And the world, for now, was quiet.

...

The sun was setting on their last evening together.

The golden light stretched across the shore like it was trying to hold onto the day a little longer, like it didn’t want to let go. Just like Yoichi didn’t want to let go—not of the moment, not of the warmth, and certainly not of Meguru.

They walked slowly back to the beach, hand in hand, but quieter than usual. Their steps left deep prints in the damp sand, side by side, fading behind them like everything else that was about to become memory.

Yoichi glanced at Meguru. His curls were glowing under the soft amber light, his eyes half-lidded in peace, the soft smile on his lips still lingering from their shared laughter minutes ago. He looked almost unreal like that—more dream than boy, more moment than person. Yoichi’s chest ached with the kind of love that had nowhere to go except deeper inside his ribs, where it would ache quietly until it could breathe again.

They sat down where the waves kissed the sand.

For a long time, they didn’t speak. The only sounds were the sea pulling away from the shore, the faint cries of distant gulls, and the wind weaving through the quiet between them.

Yoichi leaned into Meguru’s shoulder.

It had been three months. That wasn’t much time, not in the grand scheme of things. But it had been enough to change everything. Enough to make Yoichi someone who knew what it meant to be full of love. Enough to fall.

And now it was ending.

Not the love—but the season that held it.

He wanted to say something, but it felt impossible to put words to the way the air tasted sweeter here, or the way Meguru had become his whole language without even trying. Everything he had learned this summer had been written in sunrises and songs, freckles and eye crinkles, silence and soft touches.

He let out a quiet breath. “This summer,” he said, barely above the hush of the waves, “I think I became myself.”

Meguru turned his head, brow slightly furrowed, a gentle curiosity in his eyes.

Yoichi smiled, but it was a soft, aching smile. “Because of you,” he said. “Because you showed me what it feels like to be seen. What it feels like to be… loved. To love.”

Meguru’s eyes glistened in the fading light, but he didn’t look away.

Yoichi continued, voice more fragile than he meant, “We’ll see each other next summer. We’ll laugh again and lie on the sand and maybe kiss in the water again. But it won’t be like this. Not exactly. This was our first summer. And nothing will ever be the same.”

The wind picked up slightly, brushing their hair across their cheeks.

Meguru didn’t say anything right away, just reached for Yoichi’s hand and interlaced their fingers, holding it like he always did.

Yoichi’s throat tightened. “I want to remember everything,” he whispered. “The way the air smells. The sound of your voice in the morning. The exact color the sky turns when you laugh.”

He looked at Meguru, memorizing every inch of his face. “Even if we have a thousand summers together, I think I’ll still miss this one the most. Because it was the first time I ever knew what it meant to belong to someone.”

Meguru leaned in and kissed him—soft, lingering, a promise wrapped in silence. And Yoichi kissed him back like it was the last time, even though it wasn’t. But still, it felt like something was slipping through their hands, as all beautiful things do.

Eventually, they lay down on the cooling sand, shoulder to shoulder, watching the stars blink into existence.

And Yoichi knew: nothing would ever be as quiet, as perfect, as this moment—lying beside the boy he loved, with summer wrapped around them like a fading lullaby.

...

Later that day, the room felt quieter than usual. A kind of hush that settled over everything, even the sunbeams streaming through the open window. They dusted golden flecks onto the walls and made the light seem slower, gentler, almost reverent. It was the kind of light that clung to moments you didn’t want to forget.

Meguru sat cross-legged on Yoichi’s bed, folding one of his shirts and pressing his palm over it a second longer than necessary. “You fold like such a dad,” Yoichi teased, sitting on the floor by his suitcase, half-laughing through the ache in his chest.

“And you pack like a tornado,” Meguru shot back, eyes squinting with a grin, but his voice softened as he held up one of Yoichi’s shirts. “You wore this the day we met.”

Yoichi looked at it — the simple, light blue tee — and nodded. “I didn’t think I’d stay long,” he murmured. “I didn’t think I’d meet someone who’d make it feel like forever.”

The room was silent again. But it wasn’t empty.

Meguru didn’t say anything. He just leaned forward slowly, resting his forehead against Yoichi’s, their breaths shared like something sacred. For a few seconds, they just stayed there. A soft, quiet closeness neither of them needed to name.

When it was time to leave, Yoichi’s parents called from the car. He zipped the suitcase closed and looked around the room — the air, the window, the fading warmth in the floorboards — trying to commit every shadow and echo to memory.

Meguru walked him out, their hands brushing then tangling, fingers laced like they had never learned how to part.

At the door, Meguru looked up at him. His hair was messy from the wind, the sunlight dancing in his eyes, and he looked like everything good that summer had given him.

“I’ll see you next year,” Meguru said with a crooked smile that almost hid the pain.

Yoichi cupped his cheek with a tenderness that made Meguru blink fast. “You think you were my first love,” he whispered, “but you’re wrong.”

Meguru tilted his head, confused.

“You’re the only one,” Yoichi said, and he kissed his forehead one last time — not like a promise, but like a memory he didn’t want to lose.

As the car pulled away, Yoichi kept his eyes on the mirror until Meguru faded into the golden haze of the beach town.

He watched the sunlit streets blur past, and the ocean disappear behind him. His fingers curled around the hem of his shirt like they were still holding Meguru’s hand.

In the quiet of the car, he looked out the window and thought:

The next summer will come. He’ll see Meguru again. But it won’t be the same.

Nothing would ever be the same as that first time—their quiet nights, the way the waves sounded when Meguru laughed, the way his heart ached from too much love.

And even if he gets a thousand summers, even if Meguru smiles just the same…

There will never be another like this one.

Because that summer, in the hush between two heartbeats, he learned what it meant to love someone with everything he was.