Archive of Our Own ^beta

Some mornings, Kenta woke up with a ghost of pain that wasn’t there. His body didn’t bruise anymore, not like it used to. His skin knitted itself together before he could even acknowledge the wound. But healing wasn’t the same as forgetting. His nerves had stopped screaming years ago -- a side effect of what his father called “science.” But in the quiet, the ache still lived. It just had new places to hide.

The ceiling had a crack in it. It resembled a branching tree, or a wound trying to split wider. Kenta stared at it most days. It was easier than looking in the mirror. Easier than checking his phone. Kim’s name was still in there -- no picture, just a name and a number. He’d never deleted it. He just never dialled it either.

Kim had told him, “Call me. Anytime.”

But there was always a silence heavier than the weight of a phone in his hand.

Kenta didn’t know how to live without fear yet. It clung to his breath, even when the apartment was silent, even when he was alone. He wasn’t locked in that basement anymore. His father was dead. But he still flinched when shoes echoed too hard in the hallway, or when he heard the sound of keys turning in a lock -- not his own.

Pete had gotten out first. Had never looked back. And Kenta had waited -- years -- convincing himself that Pete would come back for him. That love meant something lasting, something stronger than escape. But he had learned, slowly, that not everyone ran with someone in tow. Some people just ran.

Kim had been different. Kind in a way that made Kenta suspicious, at first. Soft without expectation. He had let Kenta stay when he had nowhere else to go. Cooked. Listened. He never asked for anything but honesty -- and Kenta had struggled even with that. They’d kissed once. That one night. And Kenta had felt something, but also felt the sharp guilt of what he still held onto. His heart had been too crowded back then.

Now it was just quiet.

Sometimes Sonic or North would text. Sometimes they’d drag him out to eat, to breathe air that didn’t smell like damp concrete or bleach. They were good. They didn’t ask for his story. They let him exist, even when he said little. Kenta thought that might be the purest kind of kindness. Still, most nights he found himself back here -- in a small apartment with one plant he hadn’t yet managed to kill, and the humming of the refrigerator like a heartbeat.

Therapy helped in starts and stutters. His therapist asked good questions. Sometimes, Kenta answered them.

But he never answered the question Kim had left in the space between them.

Why won’t you call me?

He thought about Kim most when he didn’t mean to -- slicing ginger, or folding a shirt the way Kim had once shown him. There was a warmth that lingered, and a guilt that always followed too close behind. He didn’t know if he was allowed to want more than survival. Didn’t know what to do with softness when it wasn’t a trick.

But the plant hadn’t died yet. That had to count for something.

Kenta remembered the way Pete used to laugh -- like it was easy. Like the walls of that house didn’t creak with warning and the air didn’t taste like fear. Back then, Kenta was still soft around the edges, still learning how to smile without checking for permission. Pete had shown him little kindnesses. A shared rice cracker under the stairs. A quick joke whispered behind Tony’s back. The kind of warmth that made Kenta feel chosen, if only for a moment.

He had a crush, of course. The kind kids have -- naïve, blushing, quietly desperate. He’d lie awake at night, listening for Pete’s breathing in the next room, imagining they were anywhere else. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere safe. Somewhere Pete looked at him the way Kenta already looked at him.

But Pete left.

One morning, he was just gone -- like the house had swallowed him up, or like he’d never been there at all. Kenta had waited. For a day, then a week. Then he’d stopped asking. Tony's backhand reminded him quickly that no one was coming.

Maybe the beatings were meant for him. Maybe the bruises were his inheritance alone.

Even now, years later, when they were all together -- Sonic, North, Babe, Charlie, Alan, Jeff-- Pete still greeted him like nothing had ever broken. Like time smoothed over what it had shattered. He’d smile that same smile, easy and familiar, and Kenta would nod, stiffly, wondering if Pete even remembered how bad it got after he left. If he ever thought about that small boy still trapped behind those walls while he ran.

He didn’t feel softness for Pete anymore. Just the echo of something that never had the chance to bloom. And beneath it, a quiet, gnawing hurt.

That night, Kenta had stepped outside, needing air. The party noise behind him dimmed into a warm blur  -- laughter, music, clinking bottles. The cigarette between his fingers trembled faintly. He hadn’t smoked in weeks.

Pete followed him out, leaned against the wall like it was just another shared moment between old friends. Like Kenta hadn’t been a casualty in his escape.

“You still smoke?” Pete asked, like the past could be ignored.

Kenta didn’t answer.

Pete kept going. Talking about the night, the people, how crazy it was that everyone still kept in touch. Kenta couldn’t stand the casual tone, the way Pete leaned so easily into something that had no right to be comfortable.

“You left,” Kenta said finally, voice low and steady.

Pete paused. “What?”

“You left me there. You never came back. Never reached out. Never even looked.”

“Kenta--”

“Was it all fake?” His fingers curled tight around the cigarette. “All that kindness. All that… trust. You just wanted intel, didn’t you? About Tony. His routines. What experiments he was planning. That’s why you were so nice to me.”

Pete didn’t respond right away. Just stared at him like Kenta was someone else.

“You got out,” Kenta said. “You didn’t even try to help me get out.”

“I was just a kid,” Pete murmured.

“So was I.”

Kenta left before the silence could turn into pity. He didn’t say goodbye. He didn’t even look at the others as he passed. Their laughter felt distant, like a language he used to know.

Back in his apartment, he stared at the ceiling again. That crack was still there -- crooked and deep, like it was growing with him. He laid on the floor this time. Didn’t bother with the bed. His phone buzzed once -- probably Sonic or North checking in -- but he didn’t check. He just held it in his palm, staring at the screen like it might change on its own.

He thought of Kim. The way he always smiled like he meant it. The way he touched Kenta’s shoulder before leaving for Korea -- firm, warm, real.

He should’ve called.

The phone felt heavier than it should. Like guilt, like longing, like the small weight of hope he still didn’t know what to do with.

The grass had been a little damp, the kind that soaked through jeans if you sat still too long. Kim didn’t seem to care -- he leaned back against his black car, ankles crossed, a bottle dangling between two fingers. Kenta sat beside him, arms around his knees, chin resting there like he was trying to fold himself small. It was quiet, save for the sound of distant traffic and the occasional chirp of night insects.

The stars were out that night. Too many for a sky like theirs.

Kenta had told him about Pete. It had slipped out, not as a confession but more like a slow bleed -- a story told without meaning to tell it. The crush. The way Pete used to hold his wrist when he was scared. The one kiss that had never happened, and then the empty space where Pete used to be.

Kim had listened like he always did -- patient, without interruption. Then, quietly, he said, “One day, someone’s going to love you right.”

Kenta had scoffed. Not cruelly, just... tired.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, tipping the bottle back. The alcohol burned less than it should have.

Kim tilted his head, eyes soft. “I think I do.”

“No one loves a dog like me,” Kenta muttered. “Not when they know what I’ve done. What I’ve been made to do.”

Kim didn’t argue. He didn’t say you’re wrong or you’re not a dog. He just looked at Kenta like he saw past the rot -- past the blood on his hands, past the orders and the scars and the obedience that had been beaten into him since childhood.

“My dad never loved me,” Kenta said, not knowing why. “And Pete left. So that’s just... proof, right? Some people aren’t meant for it.”

He hadn’t been crying, not exactly. Just speaking around something tight in his throat.

Kim reached out then, not to fix anything, but to rest a hand lightly on Kenta’s shoulder. It was steady. Warm. Real.

“Not all love leaves,” he said.

Kenta had looked at him, really looked. The wind tugged gently at Kim’s hair, the brown strands falling into his eyes. His smile was soft, a little crooked, like he was holding something tender just for him. And Kenta had thought, with a strange ache, he’s good to me. Even when he didn’t have to be. Even when he didn’t know me.

He hadn’t known what to do with that kind of care. So he’d just held onto it in silence, memorizing the way Kim looked in that moment -- like calm after a lifetime of storms.

Now, in his apartment, Kenta watered the plant by the window. Its leaves drooped less than they used to. It was still alive -- clinging on, just like he was. A stubborn little thing.

At the store, he bought the same alcohol from that night. The label was different now, but the colour of the glass was the same dark green. He didn’t even know why he picked it. Maybe he wanted to remember something that hadn’t been tainted. Something gentle.

That night, on his walk home, a black cat started following him. It didn’t meow or beg -- just padded along quietly behind him like a shadow with eyes.

Kenta stopped. Turned.

The cat looked up at him, blinking slowly, like it knew something he didn’t.

He crouched down. Held out a hand.

It stepped forward and pressed its head gently into his fingers. Soft fur. A small warmth. Acceptance without condition.

Kenta exhaled. A long, slow breath.

“You lost too?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

The cat blinked again.

When he got home, he left the door open just long enough for it to follow.

He didn’t name it. Not yet. But he let it curl beside him on the couch while he stared at the ceiling -- at the crack that hadn’t gotten worse but never quite healed. His phone was on the table. Kim’s name was still there.

He thought about calling.

Not tonight.

But maybe soon.

The journal sat untouched on the table, spine unbroken, its newness an accusation. Kenta had bought it on a whim -- or maybe not a whim, maybe something deeper. His therapist had suggested it gently, like you might offer a cracked cup to someone still learning not to drop things. “Write it down, even if you don’t know what it is yet. Sometimes truth finds you in ink.”

At the store, his hand had hovered over a plain black cover. Safe. Empty. But then he saw another -- dark blue with curling silver patterns like waves or wind, or something growing slowly in the dark. It had felt like something waiting to be filled. He didn’t know why, but he picked that one.

Now it sat on the table like it was watching him. Waiting.

He didn’t touch it.

Instead, he cleaned. The apartment was already spotless, but he wiped down the counters again. Straightened the books on the shelf. Moved a mug from one side of the sink to the other, then back again. He rearranged the shoes by the door. Folded a blanket he hadn’t used in days.

The stray -- a black ball of fur curled like a comma on the couch -- blinked at him, unimpressed.

It was quiet. The kind of silence that didn’t feel peaceful, but thick, like a hand pressing down on your chest. Somewhere in that silence, the ghosts stirred. His thoughts drifted, unbidden, like water moving through cracks in old tile.

Tony.

His father.

The slaps. The experiments. The words said not in anger, but certainty.

You’ll never be more than this.

You’re just a dog.

Even the pain won’t stay with you, you’re that forgettable.

Kenta stood in place for a moment, heart pounding against a chest that bore no evidence of any of it. No scars. No reminders. His body healed too fast -- erasing the damage before he could name it. But inside, the wounds were carved deep. The ache lived in his ribs, in the back of his throat, in the dark blue journal he hadn’t opened.

He sat at the table.

Opened the cover.

The pages were too clean. Too white. Like snow -- like something untouched and unworthy of him.

He stared.

Time passed.

Then, with a flick of his wrist, the pen moved. A word. Then another. Then something between a sentence and a scream. He didn’t stop. The pages turned like wings flapping, paper catching his breath as if it might take flight from the table. His handwriting faltered, rushed, scrawled wide across the lines, as if trying to outrun the past.

I remember the first time he called me useless.

I thought maybe if I tried harder, he’d stop.

But the pain wasn’t the worst part -- it was the silence when he was done.

I hate that I don’t scar. I hate that I look whole when I’m not.

I still feel it all. Every slap. Every order. Every time I was told I belonged to him.

I still hear his voice. I wish I didn’t.

I wish I could be empty.

I wish I could be clean.

I wish I knew how to love myself.

I don’t.

But I’m trying.

His wrist throbbed. His breath caught in his throat, tears hanging like glass behind his eyes. He didn’t cry, not really -- but he trembled like he might. His hand hovered above the paper, fingers ink-stained, shaking.

Then he let the pen drop.

He leaned back. Not relaxed -- not yet -- but emptied in a way that felt close to relief. Something had left him. Or maybe something had just been spoken for the first time, and it was no longer gnawing in silence.

The stray moved, padding down from the couch. It walked toward him slowly, tail flicking like it understood. It didn’t nuzzle, didn’t beg. Just sat beside him. Close enough to feel the heat of its small body.

Kenta looked at it.

“You’re not afraid of me,” he said softly.

The cat blinked once. Then looked away.

Neither of them needed more than that.

Kenta closed the journal. Set it gently aside.

The silence returned -- but this time, it didn’t press on his chest. It just settled around him. Still. Breathing.

The days didn’t change all at once. They slipped past in small ways -- less like a sunrise and more like ice melting, drop by slow drop. Kenta marked time in habits, not calendars: watering the plant every morning, feeding the cat when it yowled, sitting by the window with a cup of something warm. The air had begun to soften. Spring had come and gone before he noticed it.

Sonic still messaged him, still sent dumb memes and check-in texts. North dragged him out twice a month like clockwork, even if Kenta just sat at the table quietly while everyone else talked. The group had stopped trying to draw him into conversation -- not out of rejection, but respect. They let him exist. That was a kind of love too.

Pete tried sometimes. Too carefully. A smile that didn’t fit anymore. Kenta never let himself be alone with him. Not yet. Maybe not ever. There was too much left unspoken, too much that wouldn’t be healed with laughter and time. Forgiveness wasn’t the same as forgetting.

Kenta cooked now. Badly at first. He burned rice twice and melted the handle off a spatula. But he kept trying. It gave his hands something to do. Some nights he made things he didn’t eat, just to see if he could. Other nights he got it right, and he would eat slowly, in silence, like each bite mattered.

It happened one evening -- he was standing over a pot, gently stirring soup, and his chest ached without warning.

He saw Kim, clear as if he’d walked in through the door. That night in the tiny kitchen, the dim yellow light, Kim leaning close, clicking his tongue at Kenta’s empty plate.

“You don’t eat enough,” Kim had said, scooping more food onto Kenta’s bowl. “You’re too quiet when you eat. You gotta fight me for the last piece.”

He had laughed. Actually laughed. And Kim had picked up a piece of pork belly with his chopsticks, nudging it toward Kenta’s mouth.

“Open.”

Kenta had glared, embarrassed, but he’d opened his mouth anyway. And Kim had smiled like it was the most ordinary, most important thing in the world.

Now, months later, Kenta’s hand paused above the soup pot. His fingers trembled lightly around the spoon. His throat felt tight, a pressure behind the sternum. He took a breath. Another.

The ache didn’t go away. But it didn’t consume him.

He fed himself.

That night, he wrote in his journal again. Not about Kim. Not directly. Just a memory, described like a dream: warm light, a bowl full of food, the feeling of someone staying close without asking why.

He started leaving the window open during the day. The cat -- he’d finally started calling it Chai -- liked to sun itself on the windowsill. Sometimes, when the wind blew just right, the whole apartment smelled like grass and rain and something faintly sweet. On those days, Kenta would sit with his feet tucked under him and close his eyes. Let the air pass through him.

There were harder days. Mornings when he didn’t speak a word. Nights when the journal stayed shut and the cat had to nudge him into bed. But there were good days too. Days where he laughed at Sonic’s stupid messages. Days where he made extra rice and packed it up to drop off at North’s place, pretending it was just leftovers and not an offering of gratitude.

The plant had grown three new leaves.

Kenta touched each one gently, whispering something that felt like thanks.

He still didn’t call Kim. He didn’t know if he ever would. But when he saw something funny, or tasted something sweet, or sat in silence with someone who didn’t expect anything of him, he thought of him. Quietly. Kindly.

Kim had given him something -- not salvation, but a pause. A breath. A place to begin.

Now he was building something from that.

It was late afternoon when Pete caught him alone.

They were outside North’s apartment -- the others still inside, their laughter echoing faintly through the walls, blurred by distance and time. Kenta had stepped out for air, the same way he always did. The air was warm, the kind that clung to your skin without pressing too hard. The sky above them was a soft gold, bruised faintly pink at the edges -- the kind of light that made things look gentler than they were.

Pete stood by the railing, hands in his jacket pockets. There was a hesitation in his posture, like someone walking barefoot on old glass. He glanced over once before speaking.

“Hey.”

Kenta nodded. That was all.

They stood in silence for a long while. The wind moved Kenta’s hair gently, ruffled Pete’s collar. Somewhere in the distance, a car door slammed. A bird cried out and was gone.

“You’ve changed,” Pete said eventually, almost admiringly. “In a good way.”

Kenta didn’t respond. He didn’t need to.

Pete shifted his weight, eyes still distant. “I’m with someone now. Chris.” He laughed a little, sheepish. “He’s… good to me.”

“Good,” Kenta said quietly.

And he meant it. He didn’t feel the hollow twist he once might’ve -- that ache of not being chosen. The hurt was still there, but faded, dulled into something almost tender. Like a scar he could finally touch without flinching.

Pete looked over at him again, more directly now. “I’ve thought about you a lot, Kenta. Back then… what I left behind. What I didn’t do.”

“You don’t have to,” Kenta murmured. “Explain.”

“I do.” Pete’s voice was soft, but steady. “You were a kid. I was barely more than that. I was scared. But I should’ve looked for you. Should’ve helped you get out.”

Kenta’s fingers tensed slightly on the metal railing, but he didn’t look at him. “But you didn’t.”

“No,” Pete admitted. “I didn’t.”

The wind picked up for a moment, brushing past them like a presence. Kenta exhaled, slow and long, and stared ahead at the horizon.

“I used to think,” he said after a while, “that if you had stayed… maybe things would’ve hurt less. But you left. And it still hurt. And I lived through it anyway.”

Pete said nothing.

There was another pause, longer this time. The light was dimming now, gold slipping into blue.

Pete glanced at him again. “Have you called him? Kim?”

Kenta didn’t answer. His silence was clean -- not sharp like it used to be, not defensive. Just... quiet. Solid.

Pete nodded as if he understood. “He cared about you a lot.”

“I know,” Kenta said softly. And then, “That’s why I haven’t.”

Pete looked confused for a second, but he didn’t press.

Kenta didn’t explain. He didn’t say that maybe love didn’t mean rushing back to what made you feel safe. Maybe love was learning how to stand on your own legs, even if they still shook. Maybe it was letting the past be the past, no matter how soft the hands that once held you.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Pete said after a long pause.

Kenta finally turned to him, just slightly, the ghost of a smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. “I’m not okay. But I’m getting there.”

Pete smiled back. “That’s enough.”

Kenta nodded. He didn’t say goodbye. He just turned and walked down the steps, each footfall quiet and steady. The wind followed him like a whisper.

That night, he watered his plant. It was thriving -- green and alive, stretching toward the light. The cat -- Chai -- rubbed against his leg, purring, tail like a question mark.

Kenta sat down with his journal. He didn’t write about Pete. He wrote about the breeze. The way it felt to be alone and not feel lonely. The way silence, once so suffocating, now felt like space to breathe.

And somewhere in that silence, he smiled.

He didn’t call Kim.

The morning light spilled through the windows like honey, slow and golden, catching in the folds of the curtain. Kenta sat cross-legged on the floor beside his plant, fingers in the soil. He wasn’t repotting it -- not today -- just feeling the cool earth against his skin. He’d read somewhere that grounding helped people feel real again. He didn’t know if it worked, but he liked the texture. It didn’t demand anything of him.

Chai sprawled nearby, half-on the rug, belly exposed to the sun. Her fur shimmered like ink in the light, eyes closed in perfect trust. Kenta envied how simply she existed. No shame. No fear. No history pressing in on her from the edges of the day.

The kettle clicked off in the kitchen.

He moved slowly, a quiet choreography of daily life: pour the water, steep the tea, choose a mug that felt right. He picked the chipped blue one. The one Kim had once used, but it no longer felt like a relic -- just a mug. Just something he liked.

Kenta sat by the open window, tea in hand, breeze brushing against his cheek like a memory he didn’t have to chase. Outside, someone was walking a dog. A couple rode past on bikes, laughing. Life went on. Unbothered. Beautiful in its distance.

And for once, he didn’t feel like a ghost watching it.

He took a sip. Let it sit on his tongue. It was warm. A little sweet. He hadn’t added sugar, but he could still taste something soft in it. Maybe joy wasn’t loud. Maybe it was this -- fingers in soil, a cat purring in the sun, a cup of tea in a room that was finally his.

He picked up his journal, not to pour his pain into it, but just to write. A list. A thought. A sketch of Chai curled into herself. He drew a crooked line -- the plant's stem -- and a small leaf at the end, tilted toward the sun.

His life was still small. But it was his. Every inch of it fought for. Every moment a decision to stay.

And in that moment, Kenta felt something bloom inside him. Not happiness, not exactly -- but peace. A fragile, trembling kind of peace that asked nothing from him but his presence.

He closed his eyes.

The store was brighter than he was used to -- racks of shirts and jackets like flags in a breeze, colours blooming in every direction. Kenta stood just inside the entrance, hands tucked in the sleeves of his oversized black jacket, like he might disappear into the seams. He wasn't uncomfortable. Just... unsure. This wasn’t a place he used to belong in.

Sonic was already halfway through a rack, pulling pieces like a tornado in combat boots.

“This!” he declared, brandishing a mustard yellow hoodie like a victory flag. “This has your name on it.”

“My name isn’t mustard yellow,” Kenta said, deadpan.

Sonic grinned. “It could be.”

North, more methodical, was sifting through a nearby display of silver jewellery -- rings, cuffs, chains that caught the light like threads of moonlight. He picked up a narrow necklace and turned it in his hand, then looked over at Kenta. “You’d look good in this. Minimal, but sharp. Clean lines.”

Kenta blinked at it. He didn’t know how to say thank you without it sounding like apology, so he just nodded. Took the necklace in his hand and felt the cool metal settle against his skin like something honest.

They meant it, he realised. Neither of them were teasing him, or trying to paint over him with colours that didn’t fit. They just saw him -- grey edges and all -- and wanted to give him options. Possibility.

They wandered through the store like explorers in a strange jungle, Sonic tossing shirts onto his arm until he could barely see over the pile.

“You don’t have to buy them all,” he said as he raised an eyebrow. “Just try them on. Let your skin touch something soft for once.”

Kenta didn’t argue.

In the changing room, the mirrors felt less cruel than usual. The pale blue hoodie didn’t look like him, but it also didn’t look wrong. The burnt orange shirt made his skin look warmer. He caught his reflection -- shoulders straight, hair slightly mussed, a ring of silver on his neck -- and for the first time in a long while, he didn’t think of who he used to be.

He thought of who he was becoming.

When they left the store, the sky was stretching into early evening -- violet at the edges, gold bleeding through the clouds like light behind bruises.

They stopped at a little corner shop on the way back, and Kenta wandered into the pet aisle without meaning to. There was a wall of collars. All colours, all sizes. Some plain, some patterned. His fingers brushed over a thin black one with a silver bell -- sleek and simple, just like Chai.

He bought it without hesitation.

That night, after Sonic and North had gone -- their arms around each other, warmth and chaos trailing behind them like perfume. Kenta clipped the collar around Chai’s neck. She blinked up at him, unimpressed, then sauntered across the room with a soft tink trailing behind her.

The sound filled the space.

Kenta sat on the edge of his bed, holding the new hoodie in his lap. The colour was soft. Blue like sky reflected in water. He ran his hand over the fabric, then slipped it over his head.

It smelled like the store. Like change.

He looked in the mirror and didn’t turn away.

Outside, the city moved on -- neon signs blinking, buses sighing, windows lighting up like stars in a different kind of sky.

And in his apartment -- his space, his life -- Kenta breathed in deep.

And for the first time in years, the reflection looking back at him felt like someone becoming.

The second plant wasn’t planned.

He had gone out for groceries -- just milk, maybe some more rice -- but found himself in the corner of a quiet florist tucked between a pharmacy and a bookstore. It smelled like soil and lemon balm, the kind of scent that didn’t ask for anything but reminded you that life was still moving.

He hadn’t meant to stop. But the small fern by the window caught his eye -- delicate leaves unfurling like fingers waking from sleep. It looked like it wanted to grow, even in a cracked pot, even in a shop half-forgotten by the street outside.

Kenta stood in front of it for too long.

When he walked out, the fern was in his hands.

His apartment was still the same, but something inside him was shifting. He’d been opening the blinds lately. Letting the light in. Moving the furniture just slightly, like repositioning his life into a shape that made more sense.

That week, he laughed.

It was sudden-- sharp and surprising, bubbling up like water breaching stone. North had made a dumb comment about how Sonic wore too much plaid, and Sonic had deadpanned that he was "structurally supported by it." The way he said it-- smug, proud, half-serious--  made something break open in Kenta. A real laugh. Loud enough that Chai startled from her nap on the windowsill.

He clapped a hand over his mouth too late.

The others looked at him -- stunned, then warm, then smiling like they’d all been holding their breath.

Kenta turned away, cheeks burning, but inside he felt light. Like maybe laughter wasn’t something stolen, but something he could grow into.

The next morning, he placed the new fern beside the old plant. It was smaller, younger -- still unsure of its roots. But it leaned gently toward the same light.

Kenta stared at them both. A small forest. Survivors.

And maybe it was symbolic -- or maybe he was reading too much into it -- but he liked the idea that one day, the two plants would stretch toward each other. Quietly, without urgency. Just two living things, thriving side by side.

Later that week, he visited a new apartment listing. He hadn’t been planning to move -- not really -- but something about the space felt open, like the kind of silence that welcomed, not haunted. The walls were plain. The light spilled in from high windows. No ceiling cracks. No ghosts.

He didn’t decide right away. But when the agent asked if he could imagine himself here, Kenta simply said, “Maybe.”

That was more than he’d ever said before.

That night, he sat on the floor, tea in hand, both plants beside him and Chai purring in the folds of his sweater. He didn’t write in his journal. He didn’t think about Pete. Or Kim. Or his father.

He just existed. Quiet and whole.

And for a moment, in the gentle hush of evening, he felt joy.

Not loud. Not explosive. But soft. Earned.

Like green things growing.

Like roots settling deeper.

Like finally, finally, blooming.

The new flat had tall windows and pale wooden floors that clicked softly under his footsteps. Light moved freely here -- it poured in unfiltered, touching every corner without apology. The walls were bare, but they didn’t feel empty. They felt ready.

It wasn’t large. Just one bedroom, a small kitchen, a balcony with enough space for two chairs and maybe a plant or two. But it felt like his. Entirely his.

Kenta had paid for it with money that should’ve meant nothing -- his inheritance. The last, bitter gift from a man who only ever gave pain. The money had sat untouched for months, bloated with silence. But eventually, Kenta had made a decision:

He would not let his father’s memory rot on a balance sheet. He would turn it into something he could live inside of.

And now, he did.

The move was small, mostly boxes and bags and a few soft things that had stayed with him over time. Sonic and North showed up early, loud and warm and carrying iced coffees.

“New place smell,” Sonic said, breathing in dramatically. “Smells like possibility and floor varnish.”

Chai explored as if she were surveying new territory -- low to the ground, tail flicking like a metronome. She disappeared behind furniture, reappeared on the windowsill, then settled into a patch of light like she’d always belonged there.

Kenta watched them all -- the chaos of boxes, the hum of laughter, the clutter of beginnings -- and didn’t feel like a stranger in his own life.

He caught himself smiling without meaning to.

The weather had turned, quietly but unmistakably. In Thailand, winter wasn’t snow or frost, but a breath of coolness in the early mornings, a hush in the air that hadn’t been there before. The sky was clearer. Softer. Even the sun seemed gentler, like it had nothing to prove.

Kenta left the windows open during the day.

At night, he sat with a blanket over his shoulders, tea between his hands, and both plants by the balcony door. They thrived in the new light. Even the older one had grown fuller, greener -- its leaves more confident now, no longer reaching desperately for sun. They had space. Air. Time.

Like him.

One evening, he sat alone, the others gone, the room still humming with the residue of their laughter. Boxes had been unpacked, curtains hung, dishes placed with care. Chai slept on the windowsill, her silver bell a soft punctuation in the silence.

Kenta sat on the floor, fingers curled around a warm mug.

He thought of Kim.

Not as an ache, not entirely -- but like a breath caught in his chest. He could still see him clearly: the way his brown hair fell into his eyes, the warmth in his voice, the softness with which he said Kenta’s name. It lingered -- a memory held without pain, but not without weight.

His heart ached. Just a little.

But it was okay.

There was space for that ache now. Space for what might have been, and for what was -- this quiet room, this new beginning, this life he had shaped with trembling, determined hands.

Kenta didn’t reach for his phone.

Instead, he reached for a blanket. Pulled it over himself. Sipped his tea.

Outside, the sky was the colour of pale smoke, and the wind whispered through the city, cool and kind.

Chai stirred slightly in her sleep.

And Kenta, wrapped in soft things, surrounded by small joys.

Spring arrived in the softest ways.

Not in the trees -- though the branches along the main road wore brighter greens -- but in the early mornings that no longer bit at the air. In the market where fruit stalls brimmed with colour again. In the lightness of people’s steps, how strangers smiled more easily.

And in the message that arrived in their shared group chat.

babe & charlie — dress in black, cry freely, and yes, that means all of you!

Kenta read it twice. Then a third time.

He was sitting by his balcony, a bowl of cut mango on the table, Chai napping on the windowsill. The city moved beneath him, unchanged, but his heart was thudding like it had been dropped from somewhere high.

A wedding.

A celebration.

And Kim... would be invited.

He didn’t check if Kim had replied. Didn’t scroll. Just turned his phone over like it might burn his skin if he held on too long.

The next weeks passed with a quiet, steady rhythm. He cooked more -- simple dishes at first, but lately he had started experimenting. New spices. Recipes scribbled out in his journal. He found peace in chopping, in tasting, in watching heat transform ingredients into something that filled the apartment with warmth.

His garden grew -- two plants became five. The fern had multiplied. He learned how to trim and re-pot, how to water without overwatering. It was strange how caring for something else had made him softer with himself.

He still went to therapy.

He still woke some nights with memories clinging to his skin like sweat -- Tony’s voice sharp in the dark, hands like bruises. But now, he had tools. Language. He wasn’t drowning in it anymore. Just wading through, step by step.

Sometimes, Sonic and North pulled him into their adventures -- food markets, movie nights, absurd dares at claw machines. He was the quiet shadow between them, but they never made him feel like a third wheel. Just another spoke in something turning.

He liked watching them. Loved how North looked at Sonic like he was always glowing. Loved how Sonic teased him into laughing, slipping candy into his coat pockets like he might not notice.

And yet.

Some nights, he found himself staring at his phone. Wondering.

Had Kim received the invite? Would he come?

Had he changed?

Had Kenta?

He didn’t call. Didn’t text. Not yet.

He journaled instead, late at night, curled on his bed with a soft lamp glowing beside him.

He wrote in fragments, never full sentences. Feelings. Questions.

it’s been almost a year.

what if he doesn’t see me the same.

what if i’m too different.

what if i’m not.

Then:

what if it’s okay to be scared.

He didn’t tear out the page. Didn’t close the journal in a panic like he used to. Just pressed his pen to the edge of the paper and let the ink settle. Let the silence breathe.

Outside, the air was growing warmer, richer.

Chai slept curled in the blanket by his feet, her little silver bell the only sound.

Kenta looked toward the window. The sky was clear. Wide. A pale spring blue.

The wedding was still a month away.

There was time yet.

Time to grow.

Time to become more of himself.

And maybe -- maybe -- time to be seen again.

The suit was North’s idea.

Not just a suit -- the suit. “You’re not showing up to Babe and Charlie’s wedding in black-on-black like a funeral boy,” he’d said with a smirk. “This is a celebration, Kenta. You deserve to look like someone worth celebrating.”

Sonic made a noise of agreement, already tugging him by the sleeve into a narrow boutique with sheer curtains and mirrored walls. The kind of place where soft jazz played and everything smelled faintly of cedar and fabric softener.

Kenta had stood awkwardly between them as North flitted through colours -- soft greys, warm browns, shades that reminded him of distant things like toasted almonds or river stones. Sonic, meanwhile, held up a pale lavender shirt and said, “You’d look hot in this,” with such unapologetic certainty that Kenta almost laughed.

Almost.

They made him try things on. He stood in front of the mirror in a slate blue blazer, a tailored fit hugging the new shape of him -- stronger now, but not hard. Gentler around the edges.

He blinked at himself.

And again.

And again.

“You look good,” North said, quiet now. Honest.

He didn’t reply. Not out loud.

But in that long look, something inside him softened -- like petals unfurling after too long closed.

The weeks passed.

He cooked. Gardened. Watched his fern grow new shoots. Took up sketching, filling his journal margins with soft lines of cats and leaves and sometimes faceless people whose eyes he couldn’t yet draw.

He didn’t write about Kim again, not directly. But sometimes, his entries lingered in second person.

if you came back

would you still know me

would i still feel like yours

He wasn’t waiting, not exactly. But the wedding was a date marked in quiet ink on his calendar, and as it approached, something in him began to bristle -- like a wound remembering how it was first cut.

The night before, he stayed at Sonic and North’s house. They had turned the guest room into a sort of dressing den -- clothes steamed, accessories laid out like offerings. Chai was curled on his duffel bag, as if she, too, sensed the gravity of the day ahead.

“Sit,” Sonic said the next morning, tugging him down in front of a mirror. “Let me do your hair.”

He expected her to tease him, but he didn’t. His hands were gentle, carding through his strands, sweeping them back and away from his face. The style was looser than he was used to -- soft and undone at the edges. Like a version of himself he hadn’t met yet.

“There,” Sonic said after a moment, stepping back. “You’re gonna break hearts.”

He didn’t say anything.

But he liked it.

He looked... not new. Just undone, in the right way. Like a door left open to light.

They drove together. North at the wheel, Sonic singing under his breath. The sky was a clear gold, sunlight dripping through the car windows like syrup. Everything felt stretched -- the horizon, the silence in Kenta’s chest, the ache that hadn’t dulled but no longer ruled him.

When they reached the venue, he stepped out slowly.

The building stood like something from a dream -- all white stone and green climbing vines, draped in soft fabric and flowers blooming in colours he hadn’t named before. It looked like a promise made physical.

Guests were already arriving.

Laughter floated in the warm breeze. Someone’s heels clicked against the stone path. Strings of music hovered just beneath the air like a secret.

Kenta lagged behind.

His legs weren’t working properly. His chest had gone hollow with something close to dread. His palms were cold. Every step felt like walking into a place where something was waiting to be reckoned with.

One year.

One year since Kim had patted his shoulder goodbye.

One year since the tear in his chest had opened and never quite closed.

He didn’t know what Kim would look like now. If he still smiled the same. If he’d changed completely. If he'd look at Kenta like he was still that same haunted boy from a year ago -- or worse, like he wasn’t anything at all.

The crowd thinned near the entrance, laughter echoing deeper inside the venue.

North turned to look at him. “You okay?”

Kenta nodded, even though he wasn’t sure. But his feet kept moving. The suit fit him. The wind was kind. The ache in his chest was real -- but he was here. Standing on the edge of something.

He could still turn back.

But he didn’t.

Not this time.

The ceremony was already beginning.

Guests gathered in rows beneath a canopy of woven branches and soft fabric, white chairs lined with pale flowers. The sun filtered down in golden shafts, catching the edges of laughter and soft murmurs, the rustle of dresses and suits and champagne flutes clinking in nearby hands.

Kenta stood near the back, half in shadow, half in light.

It was beautiful -- of course it was. Charlie stood radiant in a linen suit the colour of bone, their arm looped with Babe’s, whose suit was like something out of a myth with details that shimmered when the light caught just right. Their smiles were so full of love it made the air around them tremble.

People cried openly. North dabbed at Sonic’s cheek with a tissue. Someone behind Kenta sniffled, unashamed.

Kenta didn’t cry. But something ached deep inside him -- not grief, not envy, just... recognition. Like witnessing a language he didn’t speak, but understood instinctively.

Love like that had always felt far away from him.

Distant. Storybook. For others.

And yet, here he was -- standing among those who’d made it through fire and ruin and still found joy at the end of it. The warmth of it brushed his skin like light through stained glass. He felt seen, even though he hadn’t meant to be.

He caught a few glances in his direction. Familiar faces from the group -- Alan, Jeff, even Pete -- nodding, smiling, as if to say we’re glad you came. Kenta managed a small nod back, polite, contained.

But his spine stayed stiff. Shoulders tense. Heart beating in an uneven rhythm.

Because he couldn't see if Kim wasn’t there.

Not yet.

He told himself it was fine.

He told himself he wasn’t waiting.

The ceremony ended in cheers and applause. Rings exchanged, vows whispered into the warm breeze, kisses shared like promises made new again. Kenta joined in the clapping. Even smiled.

He followed the group toward the open reception garden where food and drink waited, music already beginning to curl in the air like perfume. There were fairy lights above, floating gently in the wind. The tables were set with cream linens, centrepieces of wildflowers, and placeholders in delicate gold ink.

Kenta hovered near the edges again. He had always been comfortable there. Still was.

Until he felt it -- that subtle pull in the air. A shift. A presence.

Before he even turned, he knew.

A hand landed gently on his shoulder. Warm. Familiar.

“Hey.”

That voice.

Kenta froze.

Turned.

And there he was.

Kim.

Hair parted softly into curtain bangs, eyes gentle beneath them. A black suit, clean and elegant. He looked both entirely the same and impossibly different -- like time had passed through him but hadn’t taken anything away. If anything, he shone more now. Softer around the edges. Older, maybe. But still him.

Still Kim.

Kenta’s breath caught in his throat like a held note.

“Hey,” he said back, quiet. Almost instinctive. Like no time had passed at all.

Like they hadn’t been apart for months -- not counted the days in absence, not thought of each other in half-finished sentences. Like Kenta hadn’t written his name into the corners of journal pages and let his heart ache quietly every night he didn’t call.

They stood there, face to face, the din of the wedding soft behind them.

Kim smiled, slow. His eyes didn’t move quickly over Kenta -- they lingered. Like he was memorising the shape of him again.

“You came,” Kim said.

“I did.”

Kenta’s hands were cold again, but not from fear.

Just... feeling. All of it. At once.

Kim’s hand was still on his shoulder. He hadn’t pulled away.

The warmth stayed there, like something living.

Kenta didn’t step back.

He let it stay.

Kim’s hand was still on his shoulder, grounding him.

And somehow, that single point of contact made the noise of the reception fade -- the laughter, the clinking glasses, even the music playing somewhere beneath the fairy lights. It was like standing still while the rest of the world moved in wide, spinning circles.

They stood for a breath longer.

Then Kim’s hand dropped, not abruptly but gently -- like he didn’t want to let go but knew he should.

“You look good,” Kim said, voice casual but threaded with something more careful, more earnest. “Softer, even. I didn’t think that was possible.”

Kenta let out a breath -- a short thing, half a laugh. “Guess I’m not as angry anymore.”

Kim tilted his head, smile crinkling near his eyes. “I liked you angry. But this is... better.”

They wandered toward the quieter edge of the garden, away from the crowd. Chai would’ve liked the ivy-covered stone fence, the slow moths fluttering around the lights. Kenta wondered if she was curled on his duffle bag right now, waiting. It was strange, that thought -- being waited for.

“I wasn’t sure you’d be here,” Kim admitted once they were alone enough to hear the hush between words. “I knew they invited you, but... still.”

“I wasn’t sure either,” Kenta said. He folded his arms loosely. “Tried on the suit three times before leaving the house. Thought about staying home every time.”

Kim gave a quiet hum of understanding. “Yeah. That sounds like you.”

A pause.

“And yet,” he added, “you came.”

“I did.”

Kim looked at him again, more directly this time. “You’ve changed. You feel... different.”

Kenta hesitated, but didn’t shy away. “I’m still me. But I’ve been trying.”

Kim nodded slowly, his gaze softening. “I can tell. It suits you. The trying.”

Kenta looked down at his own hands, at the small silver ring North had given him -- nothing fancy, just a band he said meant strength without needing to fight. He thought of the plant growing new leaves, the journal pages filled with quieter thoughts, the laughter he’d let slip around Sonic and North without immediately pulling it back.

He thought of sleeping through the night. Not always. But sometimes.

“Still dream about the past," he said hesitantly. "But I cook now. I garden. I even bought Chai a collar.”

Kim laughed, warm and full. “Chai?”

Kenta flushed, slightly. “The stray. She’s mine now. I think.”

He took out his phone and showed Kim his screensaver-- it was Chai asleep on the windowsill in the sunshine. 

Kim smiled easy and wide. “You named a cat after tea. That’s... I don’t know. That’s sweet.”

Kenta rolled his eyes, but he didn’t hide the smile curling at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t tell Sonic. He’ll never let it go.”

“I won’t,” Kim said, leaning slightly closer, like he was keeping a secret. “It’s between us.”

That made Kenta’s heart shift. Not in the painful, hollow way it used to -- but in a slow, startled flutter. A reminder of something he’d buried under survival: that gentleness could be real. That someone could return without having to fix him. That maybe nothing needed fixing anymore.

They stood in silence for a while, watching the lights shimmer above the reception.

Kim eventually broke it, his voice quiet. “You know I went back to Korea to keep racing. But also... I needed clarity. I didn’t want to crowd you. I knew you had to figure out who you were, without me taking up space in your head.”

Kenta glanced at him, a little stunned.

“You did,” Kim added, with a proud sort of softness. “You’ve grown. And I’m glad I get to see it.”

Something caught in Kenta’s throat.

“You look the same,” he said after a beat. “But different.”

Kim raised a brow. “Yeah?”

Kenta’s eyes flicked over him -- the curtain bangs, the suit, the way he held himself like he had grown too, just in quieter ways.

“Still warm,” Kenta said. “Still kind. But... lighter.”

Kim smiled. And Kenta’s chest hurt, but it was the kind of ache that came with thawing -- like blood returning to limbs long numbed by winter.

“I missed you,” Kim said simply.

Kenta’s breath hitched.

But this time, he didn’t panic. Didn’t turn away.

Instead, he held the gaze. Let himself be seen.

“I missed you too.”

And for the first time in a long time, that didn’t feel like a wound opening -- it felt like a door. One he might walk through. Maybe not today. Maybe not fully. But soon.

Soon.

The rest of the evening blurred into a golden haze -- not because it passed too fast, but because Kenta had let it.

He stayed beside Kim for a while longer, the two of them lingering just beyond the lantern-lit reception. But eventually, the sound of music, laughter, and the sheer joy of the night pulled them back in. It was impossible not to follow it.

The first song was slow. Babe and Charlie swayed in the centre, holding each other like the world might fall apart if they let go. Everyone clapped. Some couples joined. North tugged Sonic toward the dance floor, his boot heels abandoned somewhere behind a potted plant. Alan and Jeff followed, half-joking, already tipsy.

Someone pulled Kenta too.

He didn’t see who -- it might’ve been Charlie, hand outstretched and smiling, cheeks pink from champagne -- but he went.

His feet were unsure at first. But the music was warm and easy, and the bodies around him moved like waves. No pressure. No eyes. Just rhythm and colour and laughter.

Kim was nearby, talking to someone -- Pete, maybe, or Jeff -- and he looked over just once, catching Kenta in the crowd.

That same soft gaze. The one that hadn’t changed.

And Kenta, for once, didn’t look away.

He smiled. A real one. Bright and unafraid.

The songs picked up tempo. The lights overhead twinkled like stars too close to the ground. And somewhere between dancing with North -- who spun him with flair -- and laughing with Sonic as he mimed falling flat in his socked feet, Kenta forgot what it felt like to carry his grief like armour.

He was light.

Untethered.

He sang along to a chorus he barely remembered, his voice too loud, his movements out of rhythm. But no one cared. Least of all him.

Even the air felt easier in his lungs.

At one point, Kim slipped into the crowd and joined him -- not close at first, just nearby, mirroring his movement slightly. Their arms brushed. Their shoulders bumped. Kenta laughed, head tilted back, and Kim laughed too.

It felt easy. Natural. Like nothing had been broken between them -- only set down, carefully, to make space for healing.

When the next slow song played, Kim offered a hand. No expectation. No pressure.

Just... offered.

Kenta took it.

They moved slowly, barely swaying. No one watched. Or maybe they did -- but again, it didn’t matter. Not to him. Not now.

Kim’s hand was warm in his. Their eyes met once, and held.

Not a single word passed between them. But it didn’t have to.

This was enough.

This was everything.

Later, after dessert and last dances and sparklers lighting up the night, Kenta found himself sitting on the edge of a low stone wall, a drink in his hand, the stars scattered above him like spilled sugar.

Kim joined him again, quiet.

They didn’t talk much. Just shared the stillness. The closeness.

And when Kenta finally rested his head on Kim’s shoulder, Kim didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just leaned into it gently.

Kenta let his eyes close.

The ache he used to carry -- like a stone lodged behind his ribs -- was still there, but it no longer hurt. It simply existed. Like memory. Like shadow. A thing he could hold without letting it swallow him whole.

He was here.

Alive. Laughing. Loved.

And healed -- not because the past was erased, but because he had learned to live despite it.

The night folded around him, soft and warm.

And for the first time in forever, Kenta allowed himself to believe that happiness wasn’t something he’d borrowed from others.

It was his.

THE END.