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Three long, exhausting months. Three months during which a parent's heart had traversed every circle of hell. Three months when their son, their quiet, always so obedient Noriaki, had simply vanished. No call, no word, only two brief, soul-chilling messages. The first — on the day of his disappearance, a dry "I'm fine," as if he had simply stepped out to the store. The second — two months later, just as carefree, not answering their desperate, pain-filled questions: "Where are you, Noriaki?", "Answer us!", "Call!"
The police, with their indifferent faces and empty phrases, threw up their hands. Yes, there was a missing person case, but everyone understood — this was just another teenager who had run away from home. "Teenagers," they said. "He's having fun somewhere. In a couple weeks he'll show up on his own, hungover and with a girlfriend." The neighbors whispered: "Probably ran off with someone he liked. At that age, they all do it." But his mother knew the truth. He was her boy. Calm, polite, never rude. Didn't drink, didn't smoke. Even among his peers he kept to himself — not out of pride, but because there was no one he could open up to.
But now, on this warm, deceptively peaceful evening, when the sky had taken on a pleasant, almost innocent purple hue, the same color as Noriaki's own eyes, and warm, inviting yellow lights had come on in the windows of neighboring houses, he stood on the threshold. He stood there, not daring to cross the line that separated past from present.
"I... I can't," whispered Noriaki, and his thin fingers clenched into fists, nails digging into his palms, leaving painful marks on them.
The house was just the same — neat, well-tended garden, gentle blue door that seemed untouched by time, and the crack in the porch step. He remembered how he had fallen here at six years old, bloodying his knee, and how his mother had touched the bruised spot so tenderly afterward. Now even the memory of it seemed foreign, distant.
Jotaro stood beside him, his tall, solid figure casting a shadow over Noriaki. He touched his shoulder, and this simple but firm grip calmed Noriaki.
"You can," said Jotaro. His voice was low, calm, without the slightest tremor. It was the voice of a man who always knew what to do.
Noriaki slowly turned his head, meeting Jotaro's gaze. In that look he saw a reflection of that very day in Cairo, when his purple eyes were veiled with the haze of death, and Jotaro's hands were covered with his own blood. He felt again that terror, that cold that chilled him to the bone.
"They..." Noriaki faltered, the words stuck in his throat. He was afraid. Not of anger, not of screaming, but of the most terrible thing — their disappointment. He was afraid to see in their eyes the pain he had caused them with his disappearance.
"They love you," Jotaro stroked his back, as if promising protection. "They don't care where you disappeared to. What matters is that you're here."
Noriaki closed his eyes, breathing in the familiar, though long-forgotten smell of home — a mixture of cleanliness, dust, and something intangibly domestic, perhaps the scent of freshly washed bed linens that had been changed this morning in the most ordinary way.
"Are you sure?" he whispered.
Jotaro didn't answer. Instead, he gently but insistently pushed him forward. He watched him go, as if seeing him off into the unknown, but at the same time making it clear that he was ready to wait. And, as always, continuing to be Noriaki's only support.
"Alright," he took a step forward, and everything inside him clenched with shame. From the understanding that he had become corrupted. He was no longer the naive boy who had left home three months ago while under Dio's control. Now he was different.
The door was the same. The same chip on the edge that he remembered from childhood, the same creak of floorboards underfoot when someone approached.
"Wait."
Noriaki pulled his hand away from the handle. Suddenly it became hard to breathe because of what awaited beyond this threshold. Explanations he couldn't give. Disappointment that he knew would be reflected in their eyes. Silent reproach that would hit harder than any hysteria.
"What will I tell them?" he asked, not turning to Jotaro. "That I wandered the desert for two months? That an immortal vampire who could stop time almost killed me?"
Silence. Jotaro didn't answer immediately, and this pause seemed like an eternity.
"They won't believe it," he finally said, and in his voice sounded that same steely determination that always calmed Noriaki, but now only intensified his own confusion.
"No," Noriaki agreed. "Of course they won't believe it. It sounds like the ravings of a madman."
He lowered his hand, feeling how it trembled.
"Say you were in the hospital," Jotaro suggested. "In Egypt, then in Tokyo. After an accident you lost your phone, couldn't get in touch."
Noriaki turned around, meeting Jotaro's gaze. And in his eyes he saw not only the usual imperturbability, but also a strange, almost tender care.
"You'll say I was with you. You couldn't go home because you felt bad. I brought you to my place, to my apartment. I..." he paused, "took care of you."
"And what?" Noriaki asked quietly. "That we're together? That I live with you? That you're my..."
"Yes," Jotaro interrupted.
The word "boyfriend" remained unspoken. So simple. So crude. And so probably believable to his parents.
"Alright," said Noriaki. "That's what we'll say."
Jotaro nodded.
"So knock."
Noriaki raised his hand, and this time it didn't tremble. He knocked. Somewhere inside the house, footsteps sounded. Noriaki felt his heart beating somewhere in his chest and echoing in his ears.
The door swung open with an almost painful creak — the same one that Noriaki remembered from childhood as part of the ritual of coming home. But now this sound seemed foreign, as if the house itself was protesting his return.
She stood on the threshold. Red hair — the same as Noriaki's, only faded at the roots, as if from constant washing or lack of sunlight. Her face was pale, with thin wrinkles around her eyes that hadn't been there before. Under her eyes were shadows, deep as hollows after long sleepless nights. She wore an old house sweater, worn at the elbows, and jeans with a coffee stain on the right knee that hadn't been washed out. In her hand she held a rag, as if she had just been wiping dust. Dust that she wiped every day, waiting for a son who didn't return.
She froze. Her lips trembled, as if they wanted to say a name but didn't dare, afraid it would turn out to be just a mirage. Then — again. And again. Finally, a hoarse, broken whisper escaped from her throat:
"Noriaki?"
He didn't answer. Couldn't. His purple eyes filled with tears, but he didn't blink, afraid that if he blinked — she would disappear.
"Nori..." she repeated, and this time her voice became softer. "Is it you?"
He nodded. Just a weak movement of his head, almost imperceptible, as if he was trying to convince himself that everything was real.
And then she dropped the rag on the floor. It fell with a dull sound, leaving a wet mark on the wooden floor.
"Oh God..." she exhaled, and in this sound there was so much relief and pain that it seemed as if she was exhaling three months of agonizing waiting. "Oh my God..."
She stepped forward, her hands trembling, as if they couldn't decide — to touch or to strike. Then she embraced Noriaki. Squeezed so hard that he felt his not-quite-healed ribs crack. He didn't resist, just stood there with his eyes closed, letting her hold him.
"My boy..." she whispered, pressing his head to her chest. "You came back... came back..."
Her fingers touched his hair, she pressed her forehead to his temple, breathing rapidly, with intermittent sobs. Noriaki felt his mother's tears on his skin — warm, salty, like the memory of something he had long lost, but which had now returned to him.
"Where were you?" burst from her. "Where were you, Noriaki? We called hospitals, police, the school... You just vanished! As if you never existed!"
Noriaki clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms. The pain helped him hold on.
"I... I couldn't..." he whispered. "I couldn't get in touch..."
"Couldn't?" her voice became sharp, almost hysterical. "You couldn't? You had a phone! You could have written! At least a word! At least something! We thought you were kidnapped... thought you died in some ditch!"
She pulled back, grabbed his shoulders, squeezed so hard that he winced.
"Do you know what happened to your father? He didn't sleep at night. Looked out the window every half hour. I found him once in your room... he was just sitting on the bed."
Her voice trembled. She looked away, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.
"We didn't eat. Didn't sleep. I was losing weight before everyone's eyes. I thought — I'd go insane. And you... you just disappeared. As if you didn't care."
"I do care," Noriaki tried to prove.
"Then why?" she looked at him, and there was no anger in her gaze. There was pain — deep, primal, like a wound that couldn't be stitched up. "Why didn't you say anything? Why didn't you call?"
"I was... in the hospital," Noriaki finally squeezed out. "In Egypt. Then in Tokyo. After an accident... lost my phone. I couldn't get in touch."
She looked at him, and doubt could be read in her gaze. Not anger, not deception, but simply... doubt.
"In the hospital?" she asked quietly. "What accident?"
"Car accident," he said. "I don't remember much. My head... there was trauma."
She looked at him. Tried to understand. Then her gaze slid past — and stopped on Jotaro.
She saw them both. Together.
Noriaki stood in a light cotton shirt over a t-shirt, slightly unbuttoned at the chest, revealing his collarbones and an even, deep tan. This tan clearly wasn't the result of carefree beach vacation. He looked like after several months under scorching sun, like someone who had walked through the desert. His face looked thinner, but not emaciated — on the contrary, there was a strange, almost unnatural endurance in it. He was alive. Too healthy for a person who had been missing for three months.
And next to him stood a stranger.
Tall, broad-shouldered, clothed in a worn leather jacket. Dark, slightly curly hair was covered by an equally dark cap pulled down over his eyes, which gave him even more mystery. His face was stern, with sharp features, with a shadow of stubble on his temples. His gaze was cold, but not hostile. He stood slightly to the side, as if guarding Noriaki, but not showing it.
She noticed how their figures contrasted: one — fragile, almost feminine, with soft facial features and light hair, like a delicate flower. The other — massive and grim, like a wall, indestructible and eternal. However, despite these obvious differences, they seemed to complement each other. Their presence together seemed not accidental, but natural.
"And who is this?" asked the mother, and her voice became quieter, but more tense.
"This is Jotaro," said Noriaki, and slight embarrassment sounded in his voice. "He... helped me."
She slowly shifted her gaze from one to the other, trying to comprehend what she saw. She noticed how Jotaro stood slightly behind, how his shoulder almost touched Noriaki's — not for support, but rather like a silent warning, as if he was protecting him from the whole world. She noticed how Noriaki, responding to his presence, didn't tense up, didn't pull away. On the contrary, in Jotaro's presence he seemed slightly calmer.
"He lives with you?" she asked, like an unspoken accusation.
"Yes," answered Jotaro, before Noriaki could say anything. "In my house. He couldn't come home because he was weak."
She looked at him, trying to read the truth in his stern face. She saw scars on his face, barely noticeable, but fresh, as if received very recently. She saw wear on his jacket, especially at the elbows. She saw how he carried himself — not like a teenager, but like a soldier, accustomed to discipline and danger. As if he had seen too many deaths to fear it.
"And you just... took care of him?" she asked, and distrust mixed with emerging hope sounded in her voice.
"Yes."
"And brought him here?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
He didn't answer immediately. Just looked at her. His gaze was so direct that she felt goosebumps run down her spine. This was the look of a person who had seen too much to lie.
"Because he's my friend," he said. "And he needed me."
She nodded. Didn't believe completely, but couldn't disbelieve either, because in Jotaro's eyes, in his words, in his actions there was something that made her acknowledge — this man, however strange and grim he might seem, sincerely cared for her son. A mother could certainly recognize that.
Heavy but confident footsteps sounded from the corridor, and Noriaki instantly recognized his father. He seemed older than the last time they had seen each other. Gray hair seemed to show more thickly, his back was slightly bent, and a shadow of fatigue had settled on his face.
His father stopped in the doorway, as if not believing his eyes, and fixed his gaze on his son. His face remained almost motionless, but his eyes... his eyes trembled, filled with moisture that gleamed in the dim light, betraying the storm of emotions raging inside.
"Son," he said, and in this simple but so weighty word everything fit: boundless relief at seeing him alive again, former anger for the fears experienced, deep pain from long weeks of uncertainty and, of course, all-consuming, all-forgiving love.
He approached Noriaki, and his large, working hand, accustomed to labor, carefully rested on his son's shoulder, squeezing it slightly. Not hard, just to feel the reality, warmth, life.
"What you put your mother through," he said, and there wasn't a drop of reproach in these words, only quiet, hard-earned fatigue. "We were sure you had died. Every day I came to your school, sat on that same bench in the square and waited."
He patted his son on the back — briefly, in a manly way, without excessive sentimentality, but in this simple gesture there was so much unspoken love, so much relief, that Noriaki's heart clenched.
"You came back. You were found," his father said. "That's what matters. And everything else... we'll get through everything else somehow. We're family. We'll manage."
Then his gaze, until that moment focused on his son, moved to Jotaro. The look became heavy, evaluating, as if the father was trying to understand who this man was, standing next to his missing son.
"Who is this?" he asked.
"Dad, this is Jotaro," Noriaki said embarrassedly, feeling his cheeks flush. He didn't know how to introduce Jotaro, how to explain who he was and what role he had played in his return.
His father nodded, evaluating. He looked at Jotaro, at his tall, strong figure, at his grim but not hostile face, at his calm but intent gaze.
"So you were with him all this time?" the father asked, looking straight into the stranger's eyes.
"Yes," he answered without hesitation.
Father nodded. Slowly, as if weighing each word. He assessed Jotaro's tall figure, his gaze, which held neither fear nor challenge — only firm, unshakeable confidence. He saw how Jotaro stood slightly to the side, as if shielding Noriaki with himself, even without realizing it, as if his natural position was to be a shield for those dear to him.
"You brought him home," the father said. This wasn't a question. A statement, saturated with gratitude and, perhaps, relief.
"Yes."
His father looked at him. For a long time. Then — almost imperceptibly — he nodded. Not with words, but with a gesture: his hand rested on Jotaro's shoulder. Firmly and in a manly way, simple recognition, a silent handshake between two men who had cared for Noriaki.
"Thank you," he simply said.
"Don't mention it," Jotaro replied. "I would do it again."
Silence. The mother looked at Jotaro again, her gaze full of questions she was afraid to ask. Then she shifted it to Noriaki, then returned to Jotaro again.
"Are you... together?" the question seemed to escape on its own.
Noriaki flinched, his shoulders tensed, as if he expected a blow.
"We... live in the same apartment," he said, trying to avoid a direct answer, to hide behind half-truth.
"No," her voice became firmer. "I asked — are you together?"
He didn't answer. Only lowered his eyes, his gaze fixed on the floor, as if there he could find salvation from this unbearable pressure. Jotaro, as if sensing his confusion, stepped forward, gently but confidently.
"Yes," he said calmly. "We're dating."
Mother and father exchanged glances. In their eyes Noriaki saw not condemnation, not anger, but rather confusion mixed with deep fatigue. He involuntarily became worried, because he had absolutely no idea how his parents felt about people like him, about this side of his life that he had hidden for so long.
"I don't know who you are," the mother said, looking at Jotaro. "And I don't know what you went through. I don't know what's between you... and, honestly, I'm afraid to even imagine."
She paused, her fingers still resting on Noriaki's shoulder, and he felt them trembling.
"But..." she suddenly smiled. Quietly, sadly, but sincerely. "I'll try to understand."
Noriaki felt something inside him let go. As if after three months of tension, fear and lies — for a moment it became easier to breathe. His eyes filled with tears again, but now — not from guilt, but from relief, from the realization that perhaps he had finally found his acceptance.
"Alright," his mother smiled, and in this simple gesture there was so much warmth, so much forgiveness, so much love, that it seemed as if it could melt Noriaki's entire heart. "Come into the house."
They entered the house, and the door closed behind them with a quiet but final click, plunging into silence. Inside it was warm and cozy. The air smelled of tea, old books and something else — something elusive but too familiar, etched into memory like the scent of childhood. The scent of lavender from sachets that his mother always put in the closet. The scent of clean laundry hung on the veranda. All of this was familiar, too familiar.
The walls, which used to be filled with laughter, now were silent, as if they had lost their voice along with his disappearance. Photographs on the wall — Noriaki at six years old with ice cream; him at ten with his first bad grade in chemistry; him at fourteen with a shy look on the first day of school after vacation. The carpet in the hallway was worn by the door, as if someone often stood there, peering into the darkness, waiting for someone who didn't return.
His mother immediately headed to the kitchen.
"Tea," she said, and this ordinary gesture seemed like it could fix everything. "Let's have tea. You're probably tired."
The kettle jingled on the stove, water boiled with a hiss. She poured thin, fragrant jasmine tea into four cups. One, the most beautiful, with a delicate floral pattern — for Noriaki. The second — for herself, to feel warmth in her numb hands for at least a moment. The third — for his father, who nodded silently, accepting. The fourth — for their son's silent companion, who accepted it with a grateful look.
They sat at the kitchen table. Modest, wooden, it had witnessed many family dinners, many conversations, many moments of happiness and sadness. At its edge gaped a small chip — a reminder of that time when fifteen-year-old Noriaki, enthusiastic about cooking, dropped the blender. But his mother didn't scold then. She just wiped the floor, collected the fragments and said: "The main thing is that you're okay."
Now she looked at him the same way as then, with the same care and boundless love.
Jotaro sat down next to Noriaki. His eyes slowly glided around the room — over photographs telling the story of Noriaki's life, over bookshelves testifying to his interests, over the old armchair in the corner that seemed to preserve the warmth of former days. He looked at the house where Noriaki grew up, trying to understand who this person was before everything, before their meeting, before their paths intertwined.
His mother took Noriaki's hands in hers. Hers were warm, dry, with light wrinkles at the knuckles, imprints of washing and cleaning.
"You're so warm," she whispered, her fingers gently stroking his palms. "Good that you're healthy."
His father sat opposite, silently, immersed in his thoughts. His eyes gleamed — not from tears, but from something warm, deep, like from awareness of a miracle he didn't deserve, but which had been granted to him.
"Tell us," he said quietly, and his voice was full of hope and fear at the same time. "Where were you?"
His mother nodded, her gaze fixed on her son.
"Yes, tell us. First... first just say — what were you even doing in Egypt? We were there recently as a family. You said then that you didn't want to go — too hot, too noisy. And now suddenly..."
She smiled, in this smile was a sincere attempt to understand.
"What changed?"
Noriaki felt his heart clench, as if preparing for another blow. He didn't know what to say. He looked at Jotaro, their gazes met — a quick, almost imperceptible exchange, but he understood. And barely noticeably nodded. "Speak. I'm with you."
"We..." Noriaki began, and his voice trembled, betraying excitement. "Jotaro and I... went there. Just... decided to run away. For a while."
Silence. His parents seemed frozen in expectation.
"Run away?" his mother asked.
"Well..." he lowered his eyes, feeling his cheeks burning. "Like a honeymoon, you understand, mom?"
This was vulgarity, terrible stupidity, but the best he could come up with. The truth was too vile to speak aloud. And lies should be believable.
His parents exchanged glances, and Noriaki held his breath.
"You... two?" his father clarified.
"Yes," Noriaki answered embarrassedly, feeling color flood his face.
His mother was silent, her lips slightly parted. Then — unexpectedly — she laughed. This was laughter full of relief, laughter that seemed to wash away all fears and anxieties.
"Oh, Nori..." she said, her eyes gleamed, but now — from happiness. "I thought you were dead. And you... you ran away to Egypt with a guy, like some romantic."
His father shook his head, but a smile flickered in his eyes too.
"I knew teenagers were capable of such things," he said, his voice full of irony. "But I didn't think our modest boy... would do this."
"All these years you were so quiet," his mother added, still smiling. "And it turned out you were just saving strength to stage an escape for love at seventeen."
Noriaki lowered his head, and this time couldn't hold back an embarrassed smile.
"And then?" his mother asked, more seriously now. "What happened in Egypt?"
"An accident," Noriaki said. "I got in a car accident, lost consciousness and woke up in the hospital. Without a phone and documents. They kept me there for almost a month. But Jotaro was with me, and then brought me to Tokyo."
"And you lived with him?" his father asked.
"Yes," Jotaro answered, entering the conversation for the first time. "He was very weak and couldn't walk. I couldn't leave him alone."
His father looked at him. In his gaze could be read attempts to understand, evaluate, probe. Then he slowly nodded.
"Good," he said, and in this simple word there was more than might appear at first glance: acceptance, relief, perhaps even respect. "Good."
His mother squeezed Noriaki's hands tighter.
"Why didn't you call? At least once?" she asked. "We were so worried."
"I couldn't," Noriaki whispered, his gaze falling down again. "I didn't remember the numbers. I had a head injury. And then... I became ashamed."
"Ashamed?" she looked into his eyes with a tender smile. "Of what?"
"For disappearing. For making you suffer. I didn't want... I didn't want to be the cause of your pain."
She pressed his hands to her cheek, her skin was warm, tender, as if she was trying to heal him not only morally, but physically. Tears gleamed in her eyes again, but now these were tears of relief, not grief.
"Silly, you shouldn't have blamed yourself. You came back," she said. "That's what matters."
His father leaned back in his chair, as if allowing himself to relax after long tension. He looked at both of them — at Noriaki, with his tan that testified to trials endured, and with new weight in his eyes that spoke of the path traveled. At Jotaro, with his silent aura of a real man, someone you could rely on.
"You... with him... you..." his father hesitated, his fingers nervously tapping the edge of the table, he didn't really understand all these subtleties, these concepts new to him. His generation still thought "LGBT" was an acronym for some new bank. "You're... gay, right?"
Silence.
"Dad, why so direct..." Noriaki looked away embarrassedly. "Yes, I'm gay. And yes, this isn't news. I just... didn't say it before."
His father looked at him. Then, to everyone's surprise, he unexpectedly chuckled. And then, almost playfully, he said:
"Well, I thought so! That's why you didn't chase after girls. Never brought home some girlfriend so I could assess whether she could cook. I was already thinking you'd become a monk."
His mother snorted, covering her mouth with her palm, trying to hold back laughter. Noriaki rolled his eyes, but a smile trembled at the corner of his lips, betraying relief. Even Jotaro, who until that moment had been composure itself, smiled slightly for the first time all evening.
His father looked at him. Not sternly, but with interest. With fatherly, slightly awkward, but warm curiosity.
"Listen, Jotaro," he said, his voice became softer, acquiring notes of respect. "I see — you're a real man. Because you didn't abandon him, because you brought my son home whole."
He paused, looked at his son, then at Jotaro again, their gazes met in silent understanding.
"So... if you continue to be by his side — I trust him to you. Take care of him. But don't forget — you now have not only him, but us too."
Jotaro was silent. But this time not from restraint, but because his father's words touched him deeply, genuinely. He suddenly felt warmth and acceptance.
"Thank you," he finally said. "I'll be there."
His father chuckled cheerfully and looked at his wife. His mother was silent, her gaze full of wisdom and love, as if she had long understood and accepted everything.
"The main thing is that you're alive," she said, and in her voice sounded all the strength of maternal love. "And who you want to be with — that's your choice. You're my son. And if he..." she glanced at Jotaro, "makes you happy — then you need him."
She didn't say more. Didn't ask about the future, about children, about "how you'll live." She simply accepted her son as he was, with his choice, with his love. As if a heavy, oppressive stone that had been accumulating in the house for years had finally come out, leaving behind only fragile but so long-awaited relief.
Then she looked at Jotaro again. Her gaze — not hostile, but cautious. Like someone who sees before them not just a guy, but someone who held her son when he was broken.
"I hope my son didn't cause you too much trouble," she said, trying to speak lightly, almost playfully. "He, you know, can be stubborn when it comes to homework or refusing to eat broccoli."
"He didn't," Jotaro replied with a smile. "He was quiet."
"And how did you... take care of him?" she carefully chose her words, as if afraid to hear something too terrible.
"In Tokyo, my mother mainly helped him," Jotaro said, his voice becoming slightly more serious. "She cooked, changed bandages."
"Bandages?" his mother asked, her voice becoming sharper, fear flashing in it. "What bandages?"
"He had broken ribs," Jotaro lowered his gaze. "And abdominal damage. He had drainage. It needed to be changed every three hours."
His mother froze, her face paled.
"You... were lying with a punctured stomach?" she asked, looking at Noriaki. "And couldn't even get up, right?"
"I couldn't," he said quietly. "The first weeks even sitting was painful. Jotaro helped me with everything."
His father clenched his fists, his face darkened. His voice trembled, pain and rage sounding in it.
"I can't believe it... you were dying in a foreign country. Without us."
"Why?" his mother whispered. "Why didn't you ask us for help?"
"I was afraid," he said. "Afraid that you'd come... and see me like that. Weak, sick. I didn't want you to suffer even more."
His mother closed her eyes. Tears rolled down her cheeks, and she silently held his hand.
"You thought we'd stop loving you if you suffered?" she whispered. "We're your parents. We would have come."
His father put his hand on Noriaki's shoulder.
"You won't run away anymore," he said. "Understood?"
"Understood," Noriaki nodded.
"Alright," his mother said, wiping away tears. "Will you stay the night? We have two free rooms. Or..." she hesitated, looking at them, "if you want, you can... in one."
Noriaki looked at Jotaro. "You don't mind?" Jotaro shook his head.
"I should go," he said.
"But you'll come back?" Noriaki asked hastily. His voice trembled slightly, and his pupils quivered, looking at him with hope.
Jotaro stood up. Approached. And, without saying a word, took his hands. Firmly, warmly. Jotaro's palms were rough, hard... but in that moment when his fingers closed around Noriaki's fingers, they became the gentlest thing in the world.
Jotaro looked at his parents.
"If you allow it," he said, "I'll come back in the morning."
His mother looked at their hands. At how Noriaki slightly tilted his head, as if his body itself was drawn to Jotaro. At how Jotaro, even without smiling, looked at him — and in that gaze was everything.
"If you need it so much," she said with a warm, calm smile, "do what you want."
Noriaki looked at her. In his eyes — immeasurable gratitude, as if a stone had fallen from his soul.
They released their hands, and Noriaki walked Jotaro to the door. On the threshold — silence. Only the wind rustled the leaves in the garden.
"Thank you," Noriaki whispered. "For bringing me here."
"You came yourself," Jotaro replied, his lips curved in a light, almost imperceptible smile. "I just pushed."
"And if I couldn't?" Noriaki raised his eyes.
"Then I would have dragged you by force," Jotaro smiled. "Even if I had to tie you up and carry you myself."
Noriaki almost smiled back, feeling warmth spreading inside him.
"Until tomorrow then," he said.
"Until tomorrow," Jotaro nodded.
He left without looking back. His figure dissolved into the evening, leaving behind only a light trace of presence.
Noriaki returned to the kitchen. Sat down, took his cup. The tea was almost cold, but he still took a sip. The taste with a slight bitterness of jasmine, reminiscent of trials passed, and barely perceptible sweetness, foretelling the future.
"He's... good," his mother suddenly said, looking out the window. "Not what I thought."
"I'm glad you don't mind," Noriaki replied quietly, feeling his heart become lighter.
His father looked at his son. Long, penetratingly. His gaze was not like before, not like at a carefree boy, but like at someone who had gone through something inexpressible that left a deep imprint on him that couldn't be explained in words. In this gaze could be read a mixture of pride, anxiety and awareness that his son was no longer who he had been.
"And what next?" he asked, and in his voice sounded not so much demandingness as sincere curiosity, a desire to understand this new path. "What will you do?"
Noriaki calmly took a sip of the almost cooled tea.
"I'll go back to school," he said. "While I was recovering, I managed to go through all the curriculum I missed. So everything's fine, dad, mom, don't worry."
His mother smiled, and in this smile was so much tenderness and light irony over this amusing responsibility of her son: he had been dying, fighting for life, but still studied, and the most important thing for him now was simply to return to school.
"And living?" she asked, and a note of apprehension sounded in her voice. "Where will you live?"
Noriaki lowered his eyes. Not from fear or guilt, he simply knew that this conversation would be difficult, that his words might hurt.
"If you don't mind... I'd stay with Jotaro," he said quietly. "For now. His house is the only place where I feel truly safe. I don't want to return to the past, to what was before Egypt. I want to move forward. And there... there I can do that. I feel that there I have a future."
His father and mother exchanged glances. They didn't say a word, just looked at each other, long and intently.
"And us?" his mother asked, and barely perceptible pain sounded in her voice. "Will you visit?"
"Of course," Noriaki hastily raised his gaze. "Every week. Every day, if you want. I'm not leaving you. I just... can't live here. The house... it became different."
She nodded slowly and understandingly. In her eyes was tenderness and acceptance, despite the pain of separation.
"We don't want to lose you," she said, and her voice was quiet but full of strength. "But we also don't want to keep you by force."
"I won't leave," Noriaki said. "I'll just... live with him. He's the one with whom I can be myself."
His father stood up, approached his son and put his hand on his shoulder. This gesture was strong and courageous. He didn't say a word, but said more than any words. In it was blessing, recognition and acceptance.
"You've grown up," he said, and in his voice sounded deep, sincere respect. "And it seems you've grown up right."
His mother smiled through tears that still gleamed on her cheeks. Tired from long waiting, confused by sudden changes, but — happy. Truly happy.
"Then tomorrow you can take your things," she said, her voice already more confident. "Everything in your room remained as it was. We didn't touch anything."
"Thank you," Noriaki whispered.
"And..." she hesitated, her gaze darted to the door, then back to her son, "if he wants to... let him come with you. Next time. Don't be shy."
Noriaki raised his eyes, and in them was reflected indescribable surprise, which instantly changed to a warm, almost childlike smile. This wasn't just permission, but an open door, an invitation to a new life where he was allowed to be himself, without hiding and without fear of judgment.
Noriaki knew that tomorrow morning Jotaro would be waiting for him at the door. He imagined his calm face, the same composure that always accompanied him, but in his eyes, as before, all the truth in the world would splash. All the support he silently provided, all the strength he demonstrated, and all the love that was expressed in his actions, not in words.
And that was enough. Enough to start everything over, feeling protected and loved.