Work Text:
"And the tears come streaming down your face
When you lose something you can't replace"
— Fix You, Coldplay
The key turned in the lock with a hesitant click. Nagi lingered on the threshold, hand pressed to the cool metal, letting the quiet of the apartment greet him first. The streets behind him had been soft and empty, the fading sun brushing everything in pale orange. His shoulders ached faintly, stiff from hours of sitting on a polished wooden chair that had been too small, too formal. The faint scent of flowers clung to his jacket, soft and sweet, lingering in his hair.
He stepped inside.
The apartment was warm, quiet, familiar. Everything was exactly where it should be: the small stack of magazines teetering on the edge of the coffee table, a notebook left open on the sofa, Reo’s sneakers tucked neatly by the door. Even the faint hum of the refrigerator felt comforting.
A sound from the bedroom drew him forward: a soft laugh, low and teasing.
“Finally.”
The voice hit him like a jolt, casual and perfect, entirely impossible.
He froze, hand still resting on the doorknob. His chest tightened. He had just been in a space where strangers spoke in hushed tones, their murmurs polite but distant, where chairs had been lined in rows, flowers everywhere, all soft whispers and careful movements. He could still feel the echo of their hands on his shoulder, soft and cautious, and a paper in his hand, stiff from being folded and unfolded, as if it carried weight he couldn’t measure.
And here, in his apartment, the impossible was true.
Reo lay across the bed, one arm flung lazily over a pillow, the other tucked beneath his head. Hair tousled just so, shirt slightly wrinkled, eyes half-lidded but sharp. Alive. Perfect.
“You’re late,” he said again, stretching and yawning, voice soft, teasing. “Kept me waiting.”
Nagi closed the door behind him with a soft click and took a step forward, muscles stiff and reluctant. His feet pressed against the carpet, a grounding sensation after the cold, polished floors and hard chairs he’d just left. He could feel the faint ache in his neck from bowing, the stiffness in his shoulders from sitting too long, the subtle bruising in his chest from holding himself still and silent while others whispered.
Reo swung his legs off the bed and approached him, bare feet silent, brushing a lock of hair from Nagi’s eyes. The touch was warm, grounding, impossibly real. Nagi flinched slightly—not from fear, but from the intensity of being touched by someone alive, someone he should not have been able to touch again.
“You look exhausted,” Reo murmured, studying him with those violet eyes that had always seen too much. “Sit.”
Nagi sank onto the bed, letting Reo’s arm fall naturally across his shoulders. The warmth pressed against him, steady and alive, and for a long moment, he allowed himself to relax.
“You didn’t eat yesterday,” Reo said softly, tilting his head. “You never do.”
Nagi shook his head faintly, words caught somewhere in his chest. Reo’s fingers traced gentle circles along his collarbone, grounding him further, connecting him to a reality he was desperate to cling to.
Reo rose and moved toward the kitchenette. The soft clink of mugs and the hiss of coffee filled the apartment, domestic and ordinary. Nagi’s eyes followed, memorizing every motion: the tilt of Reo’s head, the way his fingers hovered over a mug before settling, the casual care with which he moved through the space.
“You should shower,” Reo said finally, voice low. “Your shoulders are stiff.”
Nagi’s fingers dug into the edge of the bed. “I—”
Reo crossed the gap and pressed a hand to his back. Light, grounding, steady. “It’s fine,” he murmured. “I’ll wait. Take your time.”
The apartment seemed to exhale around them. Nagi moved through each step slowly: shower, change, brush teeth. Reo stayed nearby, sometimes brushing hair from his face, adjusting a sleeve, nudging him gently. The ordinary intimacy carried a strange, sacred weight, a sense of safety in a world that had just reminded him of absence.
By the time he returned to the bedroom, the apartment was bathed in soft golden lamplight. Reo had folded a blanket neatly across the edge of the bed, set a plate of toast and fruit on the nightstand, and leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed, watching him with that perfect, unflinching attentiveness.
“You’re ridiculous,” Nagi muttered quietly, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
“I know,” Reo said softly, not teasing, not defensive. “And that’s why I like you.”
The words wrapped around Nagi like a tether to life, to warmth, to the present. He reached out, letting his hand rest briefly on Reo’s arm. Warm. Solid. Alive.
Minutes stretched, quiet, unbroken. The apartment breathed with them: the soft scrape of floorboards as Reo moved to the counter and back, the faint hum of the refrigerator, the clink of dishes. Nagi could feel Reo’s presence everywhere, steady, constant, undeniable.
When he finally closed his eyes, pressing his face into Reo’s shoulder, the world outside—the whispered murmurs, the stiff chairs, the papers, the polite hands—slipped away entirely. Reo’s hand stayed in his hair, brushing, guiding, holding. The warmth pressed against Nagi’s side, grounding him, reassuring him.
And for tonight, for this delicate, fragile moment, it was enough.
The apartment seemed to breathe with them. Shadows stretched along the walls as lamps cast a soft golden glow. Nagi shifted slightly, feeling the weight of Reo against him, the warmth, the solid presence that made the impossible feel real.
The day outside—the sun, the streets, the echoes of absence—could wait. Here, in the soft cocoon of the apartment, Reo was alive. Present. Perfect.
And Nagi slept like that, pressed against him, utterly unaware of the truth, utterly anchored to the fragile comfort of a presence that should not exist.
When he woke up, the apartment was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the faint ticking of the small wall clock in the kitchen. He could hear Reo moving around, the soft scrape of a chair against the floor, the gentle clatter of a mug being placed on a counter, each sound precise, deliberate, domestic. The world outside—soft murmurs, faint echoes, distant noises from the street—seemed to fade further, leaving only the apartment and this improbable moment.
“Do you want coffee?” Reo asked from the kitchen, his voice low, casual. Nagi didn’t answer immediately. He simply watched him, tracing the subtle lines of his shoulders, the way his hair fell into his eyes, the tilt of his head as he poured a steaming mug and set it carefully on the counter. The motion was effortless, ordinary, and somehow grounding.
“Yeah,” he said finally, his voice barely more than a rasp.
Reo’s eyes flicked to him, sharp and assessing for just a second before softening. “Coming,” he said, stepping over and handing him the mug. His fingers brushed Nagi’s hand lightly, warm, and Nagi felt the tension in his chest ease, if only slightly.
He took the mug, letting the heat seep into his palms. It smelled of coffee and something faintly sweet, comforting. The taste was bitter but grounding. He drank slowly, carefully, letting the ordinary warmth anchor him to the moment.
Reo leaned back against the counter, watching him with that casual attentiveness he always carried, the kind that made Nagi feel seen in a way no one else could manage. He said nothing for a few moments, just letting Nagi drink, letting the apartment settle around them.
“You’re stiff,” Reo said for the second time that evening, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You’ve been holding yourself too tight.”
Nagi’s lips pressed together. He hadn’t realized it, but his body was aching: shoulders tight, neck stiff, a dull throb running through his back from sitting too long in the chairs at the funeral, from standing too long in his own clothes, from holding his posture and his expression while the world whispered.
“I’ll be fine,” he murmured, though the words felt hollow even to himself.
Reo stepped closer, brushing a hand against his shoulder in that small, deliberate gesture that said more than words could. “You don’t get to just be fine. Not with me here. Come on, stretch a little.”
Nagi let himself be guided, moving slowly through the motions. The simple acts—lifting an arm, twisting a shoulder, tilting his head—felt intimate and safe in a way that should have been impossible. The apartment held them like a protective bubble, warm light spilling across the furniture, muted colors and soft edges.
After a few moments, Reo’s fingers lingered briefly against his neck, pressing lightly, easing a tension he hadn’t even noticed he was holding. “Better?” he asked softly.
“Yeah,” Nagi whispered, almost to himself.
Reo smiled, that small, easy curve that always made Nagi’s chest tighten. “Good. I can tell when you’re lying anyway.”
They moved through the apartment together, almost silently, Reo tidying, adjusting, brushing past him with casual touches, each one grounding Nagi further in the impossible reality that he could exist here, alive, with him. The kettle boiled softly, Reo poured another mug of coffee for himself, set it down beside him, and for a few minutes they simply existed side by side, a quiet domestic tableau that seemed to make the edges of the world outside irrelevant.
At one point, Nagi glanced toward the corner of the room, and for a flicker of a second, he thought he saw the shadow of Reo ripple differently, as if it were slightly disconnected from the rest of him. He blinked. It was gone. He shook his head, dismissing it immediately. He was here. Reo was here. That was enough.
He leaned against the sofa, coffee warm in his hands, and felt the apartment settle around him—the quiet ticking of the clock, the soft hum of the refrigerator, the faint brush of air across the curtains. Every sound and motion reinforced the world he wanted to hold onto. Reo’s presence, steady, alive, pressing against him in small gestures, made the apartment feel like home again, safe and familiar.
And Nagi knew Reo was here. Right here. Alive in the way the world said he shouldn’t be, but tangible, pressing against him with the soft weight of a body that had always been familiar.
Morning light spilled softly through the blinds, casting long stripes across the floor of the apartment. Nagi stirred under the thin blanket, body still stiff from yesterday’s exhaustion. The world outside was quiet, the city waking slowly, but the apartment hummed gently with life.
Reo moved quietly in the kitchen, the soft clink of mugs and the faint hiss of the kettle drawing Nagi fully awake. He could smell the sharp, sweet aroma of lemon tea wafting toward him, and for a moment, the tension in his chest eased. Lemon tea. Always lemon tea—Reo remembered, always, even in moments like these.
“Morning,” Reo called softly, voice low and teasing.
“Morning,” Nagi rasped, voice rough from sleep.
Reo emerged from the kitchen with two steaming mugs. One he handed carefully to Nagi, their fingers brushing, warmth and weight grounding him in the apartment. “Made it just right,” he said. “Lemon tea. You know, so you don’t have to complain.”
Nagi let a small smile tug at his lips, taking the mug and inhaling the familiar scent. He sipped slowly, letting the warmth travel down his throat, grounding him in the small, safe space of the apartment.
They moved through the morning in quiet intimacy. Reo tidied a few scattered clothes while Nagi sat cross-legged on the bed, sipping tea and watching the sunlight stretch across the walls. Every small gesture—Reo folding a towel, brushing hair from his eyes, nudging him lightly—felt like a tether to normalcy, to life.
By mid-morning, they were preparing for the day. Casual clothes, sneakers, a backpack with sandwiches, fruit, and a small thermos of more lemon tea for Nagi. Reo adjusted the straps of Nagi’s backpack, teasing him lightly when he fumbled, and Nagi felt his chest ease again at the familiar, domestic touch.
Outside, the air was crisp, carrying the faint hum of distant traffic and the sound of birds. They rode their bikes along winding streets, Reo always slightly ahead, looking back to make sure Nagi was keeping pace. The wind lifted Nagi’s hair, brushed against his skin, and he felt the quiet thrill of freedom in a way he hadn’t since before everything changed.
They settled on the soft grass by the riverbank, sunlight spilling across the water in glimmering ripples. Reo spread the blanket with practiced ease, shaking the corners to make sure it lay flat, and Nagi watched, his hands busy helping but mostly distracted by the gentle warmth of the sun and the smell of the river carried on the light breeze.
“Careful, it’s muddy here,” Reo said, brushing a few stray blades of grass from the blanket. His fingers lingered on Nagi’s arm for a moment as he adjusted the fabric, and Nagi felt his chest tighten slightly at the contact. It was so ordinary, so domestic, and yet the intimacy of it made him catch his breath.
Reo reached into the basket and pulled out a small thermos, pouring lemon tea into the little cups they had brought. He handed one to Nagi, their fingers brushing, and the familiar citrus scent filled the space between them. Nagi lifted the cup to his lips slowly, letting the warmth flow through him, and Reo watched him with quiet attentiveness, a small, faint smile tugging at his lips.
“Perfect,” Nagi said softly, sipping again, letting the tang of lemon settle in his mouth.
Reo leaned back on one elbow, propping his head with his hand. “I know you’ll tell me it’s too strong,” he said teasingly. “But I didn’t add too much, I promise.”
Nagi shook his head, lips curling in a small grin. “It’s perfect,” he insisted. “Exactly how I like it.”
They ate slowly, sandwiches and fruit shared between them. Reo reached for a slice of apple and held it out for Nagi to take. Their fingers brushed again, lingering longer this time. Nagi leaned slightly closer, and Reo shifted, pressing lightly against him in a casual, protective gesture.
Around them, the river rippled lazily, sunlight catching on the water in golden flickers. Birds chirped overhead, the occasional splash of a fish breaking the surface. Nagi could feel the soft brush of the wind against his skin, carrying the faint scent of water and earth. Every detail felt sharp and vivid in a way that grounded him entirely in the moment, in Reo, in the impossibility of this day.
Reo rested his head briefly on Nagi’s shoulder as they watched a pair of ducks glide across the water. Nagi tilted his head slightly, letting his hand rest on Reo’s, feeling the warmth, the steady pulse of him, and the apartment—this day—faded entirely from his mind.
They laughed softly over small jokes, Reo leaning close to whisper them, breath warm against Nagi’s ear. Fingers intertwined, a shared piece of fruit passed back and forth, small teasing nudges with elbows and knees. Every moment felt intimate, domestic, perfect in its ordinariness.
But as Nagi glanced toward the water, something caught his eye—a flicker of Reo’s reflection that didn’t quite match his movements, a subtle delay as if the image were slightly out of sync. He blinked and looked again. Reo was smiling at him, alive, steady, and the small oddity vanished as quickly as it appeared. He shook his head lightly and focused back on the warmth of Reo’s hand, dismissing the fleeting strangeness.
They lay back on the blanket after a while, shoulders touching, heads tilted slightly toward the sun. Nagi felt Reo’s arm stretch lazily across the grass behind him, fingers brushing occasionally against his side, and he let himself sink into the comfort, the weight, the normalcy. The sun warmed his face, the river whispered softly nearby, and the smell of food and lemon tea mingled with the fresh scent of grass.
Reo’s gaze drifted over the water for a moment, distant and unreadable, before snapping back to Nagi with that small, familiar smile. Nagi didn’t question it. There was no reason to. Reo was here, tangible, warm, alive. That was enough.
They lingered on the blanket as the sun began to lower, stretching lazily, hands brushing, fingers occasionally intertwined, soft teasing exchanged between them. Reo nudged Nagi gently when he tried to rest his head too heavily on his shoulder, and Nagi laughed softly, leaning closer anyway. The warmth pressed against him, the intimacy, the domestic perfection, and he felt a small, quiet surge of contentment in his chest.
On the ride back, Reo leaned closer, whispering little jokes in Nagi’s ear. The warmth pressed against him, steady and alive. The shadows along the riverbank seemed to stretch oddly, flickering at the edges of his vision, but he blinked and ignored them. Reo was here. That was all that mattered.
They arrived home late, the streets quiet, the apartment warm and inviting. Reo immediately poured another cup of lemon tea for Nagi, setting it on the counter beside him. The steam curled upward, the scent familiar and grounding. They settled close together on the sofa, Nagi leaning against Reo, eyes half-closed, letting the quiet of the apartment fill him.
For a long moment, there was nothing but them: the warmth of bodies pressed together, the faint hum of the refrigerator, the clink of mugs, the soft murmur of distant night sounds. Nagi’s chest eased as he traced patterns absentmindedly on Reo’s hand, the rhythm comforting, steady.
And for now, that was enough. The world outside—the echoes of absence, the funeral, the whispers, the impossible truth—was irrelevant. Reo was here. Alive, tactile, grounding, perfect.
Nagi sipped his lemon tea again, letting the citrusy warmth spread through him, and pressed a soft kiss to Reo’s shoulder in a quiet, habitual gesture of comfort and closeness. Reo leaned into it, hand brushing his hair, a small smile tugging at his lips, and the apartment seemed to breathe with them, holding them in a moment that could not last forever—but which they would cling to all the same.
Nagi woke to the soft hum of the city beyond, the familiar quiet of the apartment, and the lingering warmth of the lemon tea Reo had poured the night before. His muscles were still sore from the ride and the picnic by the river. The warmth lingering from the picnic and the bike ride seemed to press gently against his skin, a comforting weight he didn’t want to let go of. But the aches—the feeling—were the sort that made him feel alive, awake, ready.
“Morning,” Reo said softly from the kitchen. His voice was low, teasing, familiar. Nagi inhaled deeply, catching the faint scent of lemon tea drifting in from the counter. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, shivering slightly as the apartment’s quiet wrapped around him.
Breakfast was ordinary, domestic, the kind of morning that could be repeated endlessly. Reo moved around the kitchen with that calm, effortless grace, humming softly as he poured tea, set down toast, and arranged small dishes. Every gesture was casual, but Nagi noticed the reassuring weight of Reo’s presence as he passed behind him, a light brush of a hand on Nagi’s shoulder. He shivered slightly; the fabric of his shirt didn’t move beneath Reo’s touch. Nagi blinked and forced himself to dismiss it.
By mid-morning, they left for practice. Nagi mounted his bike first, the tires humming over asphalt, and Reo followed, always slightly ahead, glancing back with a small grin to make sure he wasn’t lagging. The ride was short, wind in his hair, sunlight glinting off the city streets. The comfort of having Reo near him lingered in his chest like a tether to normalcy.
At the training grounds, the usual chaos greeted him: balls thumping against the grass, coaches shouting instructions, teammates yelling and laughing. Nagi slipped into the rhythm of drills, muscles remembering, reflexes sharp. Yet even amid the familiar cadence of practice, subtle unease tickled the edge of his awareness.
“Hey, Nagi, you okay?” Isagi, his teammate, asked suddenly during a pause. The question was light, but the concern in his voice made Nagi pause.
“I’m fine,” he replied automatically, forcing a grin.
Another teammate, Bachira, muttered under his breath, almost too quietly to hear. “…after… what happened…”
Nagi’s stomach tightened. He glanced up, but the words dissolved before he could register them. He shook his head, forcing focus on the ball, on the drills, on the familiar rhythm of Reo moving nearby. Reo’s presence was steady, grounding—warm shoulder brushing, a hand on Nagi’s back as he passed, always tactile, always comforting.
Practice moved through passing, shooting, footwork drills, then into a scrimmage. Nagi’s chest heaved, sweat pricking his brow, every nerve alive with exertion. Reo’s instructions came when needed, calm and precise. He answered questions, corrected posture, offered advice—but never initiated topics of conversation. Every word was reactive. Nagi noticed it faintly, a flutter of oddness he couldn’t name.
By the time practice ended, Nagi was soaked with sweat and fatigue. Reo leaned against the fence beside him, tossing a towel over his shoulders. “Good session,” he said casually, brushing damp hair from Nagi’s forehead. The touch was grounding, but again, the shirt beneath didn’t move under his hand. Nagi blinked, swallowing the small, uncomfortable thought.
The ride home was quiet. Nagi pedaled slowly, enjoying the sun on his skin, the faint wind in his hair. Reo rode beside him, teasing occasionally, leaning close, brushing elbows and shoulders in the casual intimacy they had always shared. But as they approached the apartment, Nagi noticed something strange: a jacket hung by the door, damp from rain—but it hadn’t rained. He frowned slightly but didn’t mention it, assuming it was a quirk of memory, or his mind still clinging to yesterday’s river ride.
Inside the apartment, the faint clatter of pots echoed from the kitchen. Nagi followed the sound, expecting Reo cooking lunch. He paused, chest tightening: the stove was cold, nothing simmering, no smell of food. Yet Reo stood there, casual, arms crossed, smiling faintly.
“I just finished,” Reo said easily. “Thought you might be hungry.”
Nagi forced a small nod. He stepped closer, feeling the heat from Reo’s body, the familiar presence grounding him—but the moments of strangeness persisted. Another brush of the shoulder—shirt unmoved. Words flowing nonstop from Reo, but entirely reactive. Nagi tried to laugh, tried to immerse himself in normalcy, but small hairs on the back of his neck prickled.
He moved through the apartment, checking on small things. Reo had already set down mugs of tea. Nagi noticed that everything seemed slightly… off. A plate placed down too neatly, the mug’s handle perfectly aligned with the edge of the table. It was ordinary perfection, but the subtle artificiality pressed against his mind in ways he didn’t yet allow himself to recognize.
The day slipped by with quiet domesticity. Nagi’s tea was poured, meals prepared, small touches exchanged—the brush of a hand, the faint laugh, a glance. Every gesture grounded him, and yet, as the afternoon faded into evening, the edges of reality began to fray.
When night fell, Nagi went to bed, exhausted. He felt the familiar weight of Reo nearby, the soft presence like a shield against the darkness outside. But at 3 a.m., sleep pulled him partially away. Something in the room felt… still. Nagi blinked, squinting through the faint moonlight.
Reo sat at the edge of the bed. Silent. Motionless. Staring straight ahead.
Nagi’s breath caught. He reached out, hesitated, then touched his shoulder. The warmth was there, yes, but it was muted—shallow. The world felt strange and hollow, as if the apartment itself were holding its breath.
Reo didn’t move, didn’t blink, didn’t speak. Nagi’s chest tightened, mind struggling against the impossible presence before him. Yet somehow, the familiar comfort lingered. He didn’t wake fully. He didn’t ask questions.
And in the darkness, the soft tick of the clock seemed impossibly loud.
The kettle whistled sharply, breaking the soft hum of the apartment. Nagi stirred from the couch, rubbing his eyes, and Reo moved with his usual fluid grace, stacking dishes in the sink, humming softly. The faint scent of lemon tea curled into the living room, grounding him in the warmth of the apartment, pressing against the ache in his chest with something familiar, something real—or at least, it felt real.
“Tea’s ready,” Reo said, glancing over his shoulder, fingers brushing lightly against Nagi’s arm as he handed him a mug. Nagi’s pulse spiked, a mixture of comfort and unease threading through him. That touch—it should have been grounding, simple, safe—but there was something faintly… off about it, an almost imperceptible weight behind the warmth.
“Thanks,” Nagi murmured, cradling the mug between his hands. He inhaled the steam, letting the tang of lemon fill his senses. Reo’s presence beside him was constant, protective, comforting—exactly what he needed to believe, exactly what kept the world from falling apart.
They moved through the morning in a slow rhythm. Reo tidied the counter, washed a few dishes, and even made a small plate of toast for Nagi. Their hands brushed occasionally, light and fleeting touches that made Nagi’s chest tighten. Each time, he clung to the warmth, to the reassurance, ignoring the small, nagging prickles at the edge of his awareness.
Then the phone rang.
Nagi jumped slightly, glancing at the screen. An unfamiliar number. Reo’s brow furrowed faintly, almost imperceptibly. Nagi’s fingers trembled as he answered.
“Hello?” His voice was careful, cautious.
“Nagi? It’s… it’s Reo’s mother.” The words were soft, gentle, hesitant. “Are you eating?”
Nagi’s stomach knotted, a sharp twist beneath his ribs. He could feel Reo behind him, the warmth steady and tangible, pressing against his back. “Reo’s been taking care of me,” he said quickly, words almost tumbling out in a rush.
Silence. The kind of silence that stretched, pressing down on Nagi’s chest, heavy and impossible to shake.
“Come over,” the voice said finally, low and hesitant. “We… we’d like to see you.”
Nagi’s throat went dry. He swallowed, eyes flicking to Reo. The warmth pressed against him, grounding, protective. Reo’s hand brushed against his arm, light and insistent. “Don’t go,” he murmured, voice low and quiet. “They’ll make you remember things you don’t want to.”
“I—” Nagi’s voice faltered. He wanted to argue, wanted to deny, but the lure of the familiar pressed too hard against him. “I can’t,” he said finally, almost a whisper.
By evening, the insistence of reality gnawed at him, small and persistent. Maybe a visit wouldn’t hurt. Maybe he could survive it without losing the fragile comfort of the world he had reconstructed. Reo’s hand brushed his again as he slipped on his jacket, the warmth pressing him to stillness. “Stay close,” Reo murmured. “I’ll be with you.”
The extravagant penthouse was silent, suffused with the soft gold of late afternoon. Nagi’s steps were hesitant on the cold floor of the corridor, each footfall heavier than the last. Reo stayed at his side, gliding beside him with that effortless presence that had always made the outside world fade.
Inside, the house smelled faintly of polished wood and lilies. Nagi’s eyes flicked to framed photographs along the walls. Some were draped in dark cloth; he couldn’t recall seeing them before. A small, low table held an arrangement of candles and flowers, white and unfamiliar, flickering softly in the dim light. Everything had a weight to it—a quiet ceremony—but he couldn’t grasp it. His chest tightened, but Reo’s hand pressed gently against his back, reassuring.
He blinked and looked away. Reo’s presence was steady, alive—or at least, it felt alive—and that was enough to keep the room from collapsing into something unbearable.
“I—” Nagi started, voice trembling, “I can’t… I can’t stay here.”
Reo’s fingers brushed his shoulder, gentle but firm. “It’s okay,” he murmured. “We can leave. Nothing you don’t want to see has to touch you.”
Nagi didn’t argue. He turned sharply and walked out of the apartment, the sound of his hurried footsteps echoing in the quiet hallway. Reo followed seamlessly, gliding beside him, always present, always warm.
Outside, the wind bit gently at the edges of the evening. Nagi’s chest felt tight, lungs aching, the weight of what he’d glimpsed pressing down on him. He walked faster, wanting to leave the house—and everything inside it—behind. And then, without warning, warmth pressed against him from behind.
Reo’s arms circled his waist, holding him close. Nagi froze, chest tight, mind spinning. Relief and unease tangled in a sharp knot. The warmth was real, grounding—but impossible. The night beyond them seemed muted, hollow, leaving only the steady weight of Reo’s presence and the faint whisper of his voice.
“Don’t listen to them,” Reo murmured, voice brushing against Nagi’s ear. “I’m right here.”
Nagi’s legs weakened slightly. He leaned into the warmth, letting it shield him, letting it press the ache down. He wanted to scream, to cry, to confront the flickers of doubt tugging at his mind—but he couldn’t. Not yet.
They walked in silence, Reo’s arms around him, fingers brushing lightly against his sides. Small inconsistencies pricked at the edges of Nagi’s awareness: the faint chill beneath the warmth, shadows that lingered slightly too long, the perfect stillness of Reo’s gaze. He ignored them all, clinging to the sensation, the smell, the brush of fingers.
Every step home was heavy with quiet tension. The city hummed softly around them, streetlights casting long shadows that stretched across the pavement. Nagi’s pulse raced, but he let himself melt into the familiarity, into the warmth and protection Reo provided.
By the time they reached the apartment, exhaustion clung to him, chest tight, legs heavy. Reo pressed him gently against the doorframe, arms snug, whispering into his ear:
“Shh… I’m here. Don’t worry. I won’t let them take me from you.”
Nagi exhaled shakily, resting his head against the shoulder pressed to his back. He closed his eyes, letting the warmth and weight hold him, letting it shield him from everything else—the glimpses of reality, the unspoken truth he could not yet face.
For now, that was enough.
For now, he could pretend. He could pretend that Reo was still here. That the touches, the warmth, the whispers were real. That nothing had changed.
And so he let himself be held, letting the illusion press into his bones, letting the impossible comfort him in the silence of the city night. Only the faintest drafts of cold air brushed his skin beneath Reo’s arms, but he ignored them, pressed too tightly into the illusion to notice.
For now, Nagi clung to the warmth, to the presence, to the shadow that was all he had left—and all he wanted.
For the first time in years, Nagi woke before the sun, chest tight, sweat clinging to his skin. Reo was already sitting at the edge of the bed, legs tucked beneath him, silently observing. The air between them felt heavier than usual, the apartment thick with a quiet insistence he couldn’t name.
“Morning,” Nagi whispered, rubbing at his eyes.
Reo didn’t move. His gaze, usually warm and teasing, lingered, almost desperate. The subtle distance that had always existed between them in private moments had vanished entirely; it was as if Reo was pressing into Nagi’s every thought, seeking to anchor him before the day could start.
When Nagi reached for him, Reo’s hand clasped his, holding on harder than ever, almost painfully. The warmth that had always been grounding now felt suffocating, insistent. Nagi tried to pull back slightly, but Reo tightened, murmuring, “Don’t let go.”
The day began slowly. Breakfast was silent, the clatter of utensils against plates loud in the tense air. Reo hovered beside him constantly, brushing against Nagi when he moved, pressing fingers to his wrist, resting a hand on the small of his back. The touches were sometimes sharp, sometimes insubstantial, like air, and sometimes Nagi’s own fingers found themselves gripping his wrist in desperation, seeking to remind himself that something solid still existed.
Nagi felt it, then: something was slipping. The world wasn’t as it had been. The edges of reality trembled. Shadows seemed heavier, sounds too sharp, and even Reo’s voice sometimes carried a strange undertone, one that made Nagi’s skin crawl even as he leaned into it.
It all came to a head during lunch. Nagi’s gaze fell on a small trinket on the counter, a candle he recognized from the estate. The memory tugged, faint and unwelcome, and he whispered the name almost without thinking.
“I… I saw it there,” he said, voice tight. “At the—at your parents’ place… with the… flowers.”
Reo flinched, his hand gripping Nagi’s wrist with sudden intensity. “Don’t,” he said, voice calm but unnaturally perfect, too smooth, too measured. “Don’t say it. Not here. Not now.”
“I have to…” Nagi stammered, leaning slightly back. “I can’t ignore it forever—”
The voice glitched, looping unnaturally, the words repeating and curling over themselves.
“Not here. Not now. Don’t. Not here. Not now. Don’t—”
Nagi’s stomach dropped. The calm warmth he had clung to fractured, becoming a jarring echo of itself. He pressed into Reo, seeking the familiar comfort, but sometimes his fingers found nothing—air. Sometimes a touch was sharp, almost like a pinch. And sometimes, in moments too fleeting to anchor, he realized he was gripping his own wrist, believing it was Reo holding him.
His pulse hammered, breath catching. He backed toward the bathroom mirror, seeking clarity, grounding.
“Reo…” he whispered, voice breaking. “Please, talk to me. Tell me it’s okay.”
He froze. His reflection stared back, empty. He was alone.
“Reo?” His voice cracked. “Where—where are you?”
And then, impossibly, Reo appeared behind him in the mirror, shoulders brushing his, hand pressing lightly to his cheek, cool and deliberate. The reflection—perfect, intimate—didn’t match the room. Nagi reached up, pressing his hands to his face, fingers brushing the cold ceramic of the sink beneath him. His own reflection stared back, unyielding, unbroken. No Reo.
“Shh…” Reo whispered, voice soft and pressing against his ear. “I’m right here. It’s okay. You don’t have to be afraid.”
The warmth pressed into him, insistent, tangible, grounding—but uneven. One moment, the hand on his cheek was firm, real. The next, it was light, unsubstantial, like air brushing over his skin. Nagi gripped it instinctively, trying to anchor himself. He could feel the sharp pull of panic rise, clawing up his chest.
“You’re slipping,” Reo murmured, almost tender, but the repetition of the words made Nagi’s stomach churn. “Hold on to me… don’t let go. Not yet.”
“I—I can’t…” Nagi gasped, the fragmented touch failing to soothe him. “Something’s… wrong. I feel it… slipping…”
Reo’s hand tilted slightly, brushing against Nagi’s jaw, pressing his cheek gently. The coolness sent a shiver down Nagi’s spine, and for a fraction of a second, he believed it—believed the world could still be fixed, believed he could cling to Reo forever.
“You’re safe,” Reo said, voice calm, too perfect, almost robotic. “Nothing can touch us here. Just hold on.”
But Nagi’s eyes caught the corner of the mirror. Reo’s expression there flickered, subtle and terrifying: a blink of sorrow, the slightest crack of grief behind the perfect facade. He swallowed hard.
“Don’t leave me again,” Nagi whispered, voice trembling. The words were raw, fragile, desperate.
Reo’s expression softened, crumpling just slightly at the edges in the mirror. The warmth remained, the hand pressed to his cheek, but the flicker of sorrow, almost human, almost unbearable, made Nagi’s chest tighten further.
Nagi clung, gripping at Reo with every ounce of strength he had left. Every part of him needed this presence, needed the impossible warmth to reassure him that he wasn’t alone. He pressed his forehead to Reo’s shoulder, breathing shaky, body trembling. Reo’s hand lingered on his cheek, cool and grounding, but uneven, inconsistent, teasing the edges of a reality Nagi refused to acknowledge.
“You’re here,” Nagi whispered again, almost to himself. “Please… don’t leave me.”
The reflection in the mirror showed the same intimacy, the same closeness—but if Nagi looked carefully, just for a fraction of a second, he could see the cracks, the ghost of sorrow behind the perfect, warm presence.
And still, he held on, letting the warmth press against him, pressing it into the trembling parts of himself that refused to face the world beyond the illusion.
The night pressed in around the apartment. Shadows danced along the walls, streetlight glinting faintly against the glass. Nagi clung to the hallucination, gripping it as though letting go would collapse the world entirely. Reo’s cool hand on his cheek, the warmth at his back, the soft whispering voice—all of it anchored him, even as the edges of the world frayed into dissonance he refused to acknowledge.
And in that fragile, desperate closeness, the hallucination shifted once more: a slight pull of air, a small impossibility in the reflection, a subtle misalignment in the voice—but Nagi didn’t notice. He couldn’t.
All that existed was Reo.
All that mattered was the impossible warmth holding him together, the voice pressing reassurance into his chest, and the shadow of a presence that would not leave, even as the truth hovered just beyond reach.
For the first time that day, Nagi let himself fall entirely into it, into the comfort, into the denial, into the impossible.
The cracks could wait.
The apartment felt impossibly quiet when the courier left. Nagi stared at the box in the middle of the floor, heart tight and trembling. He hadn’t called anyone; he hadn’t expected anything. Yet here it was, sitting in stark, unassuming cardboard, heavy with a weight he couldn’t yet name.
He knelt slowly, hands hovering above the tape, hesitant. When he opened it, the contents spilled out in fragments of reality that his mind refused to stitch together.
First, a phone. Reo’s phone. Dead. Screen shattered, the edges jagged and dark. Nagi’s fingers trembled as he reached for it, imagining he could hear a hum, a faint warmth, a life that wasn’t gone. But it was cold, inert, impossibly still.
Next, a necklace, the one Reo had always worn. Nagi’s fingers curled around it instinctively, feeling the familiar weight, the smooth chain brushing against his skin. He had thought Reo was wearing it just yesterday. He had seen it, remembered the little glint catching the sunlight, imagined the curve of it against his collarbone. Now, in his hands, it was only a relic, a ghost of what had been.
Then, clothes. The clothes Reo had “worn” at home. Folded neatly, pressed, smelling faintly of him, though the scent was faint, teasing the edges of memory. Nagi’s chest felt tight, a sharp, jagged ache blossoming through him.
He looked up, and for a heartbeat, his heart tripped. There, near the edge of the room, Reo was standing. Not a shadow, not a flicker. He was real. Warm, breathing, familiar. His gaze met Nagi’s, steady and impossibly tender.
“I’m sorry, Sei.”
It was the first time Reo had initiated the words in months, the first time he had ever spoken first since the day that had shattered everything. Nagi’s knees went weak. The voice—the warmth—the pressure of presence—it was all so real, so impossibly, cruelly real.
“Reo…” Nagi whispered, faltering, chest tight. His hands reached out, trembling, desperate. “You… you’re here…”
The words hung in the air like fragile glass. And then the truth slammed into him with the subtlety of a storm.
The funeral. The suit. The lilies. The soft weight of a black cloth draped over something that had been alive. The day he had thought was ordinary, mundane, even tolerable—had been the day he lost Reo.
Everything after. Every laugh, every touch, every whispered reassurance had been his mind’s creation. A sanctuary, a dream, a place where Reo could still exist. Where he wouldn’t have to be alone.
Nagi’s vision blurred, the box, the phone, the clothes spinning together in an impossible whirlwind. He tried to reach for Reo, tried to pull him close, to confirm the warmth, to feel the weight of him, to anchor himself to the only thing that had kept the edges of his mind from fracturing.
Reo flickered, not like a ghost, not like a shadow. He didn’t fade or drift. He collapsed—like a memory folding in on itself, the edges fraying and dissolving. The warmth lingered, a phantom, a teasing echo, and then vanished into the cold certainty of the room.
“You… you weren’t ready to be alone,” Reo said softly, voice a whisper threading through Nagi’s chest. “So you… you made somewhere I could stay.”
Nagi’s hands shook violently. He pressed them to his face, as though he could somehow feel Reo through the fabric of his own skin. His knees gave, and he sank to the floor, a trembling heap.
A hand pressed against his cheek—cool, deliberate, grounding. Nagi flinched, eyes snapping open. He expected Reo’s warm fingers, familiar and solid.
Instead, his own hand rested there.
The warmth lingered, faint and fragile, as though memory and longing alone could press substance into the air. Nagi traced the line of his fingers along his jaw, feeling the impossible absence of Reo. Every comforting, tactile moment—the laugh beside him, the brush of fingers, the whispers at night—was revealed now as a bridge he had built with his mind to survive.
He collapsed against the floor, trembling, shaking. He could still feel the echo of Reo’s presence—the brush of hair against his cheek, the weight against his back, the voice murmuring just behind him—but none of it was real. None of it existed outside the fragile sanctuary he had conjured.
“I… I…” Nagi whispered, words breaking in half, useless, futile. Tears streaked down his cheeks, warm and burning. “You… you were here… I needed you…”
The room held only the hollow echo of his voice. The weight of absence was total, absolute, and undeniable.
For the first time since the funeral, Nagi faced the full truth. Reo was gone. Gone in a way that no dream, no memory, no fragment of imagination could restore.
And yet, as he sat on the floor, fingers brushing against the cold necklace, the familiar fabric of Reo’s clothes, he could almost feel him—an imprint left in the world, in memory, in the parts of himself that refused to let go.
His body shook, silent sobs escaping through the apartment. The warmth he had clung to for so long—the impossible, protective presence—was gone, but the trace of it lingered in the soft curl of memory.
Nagi pressed the necklace to his lips, feeling the cold metal against his trembling hands. He closed his eyes, trying desperately to fold the fragments of the last few months into something bearable, something less sharp.
And in that moment, he remembered Reo’s words, whispered during their hallucinated closeness:
“You weren’t ready to be alone.”
Yes. He had built a world where Reo could still exist. Where the fear of solitude, of emptiness, of facing life without him, could be held at bay. And it had been beautiful, and cruel, and sustaining—all at once.
He opened his eyes slowly. The apartment remained quiet. His reflection stared back at him from the windowpane, eyes wet, hair falling into his face, hands clutching the necklace. He reached up instinctively, pressing his fingers to his own cheek, and the memory of warmth flickered—delicate, impossible—but it was gone.
Nagi whispered, voice broken and raw, “I… I love you. I…”
Nothing answered. Only the empty apartment. Only the tangible absence of what had been there. Only the memory of someone who had shaped every day since the funeral without ever being truly present.
He sank to the floor, curled around the necklace, breathing shallow, broken breaths. And though Reo was gone, gone in a way that could never be undone, the imprint of him remained—warm in memory, impossible, untouchable, and painfully real.
For the first time, Nagi let himself mourn—not the Reo he had made, not the Reo who had pressed fingers to his cheek, whispered reassurances in the night, held him through imagined warmth—but the Reo who had existed in the world, who had been lost, and who had been the reason he built a sanctuary to survive.
The room was quiet. The apartment held its usual soft shadows. And in that quiet, Nagi felt both the sharp, unbearable pain of reality—and the fragile, lingering warmth of memory, impossibly sustaining him, even as he faced the truth.
The apartment was still. Soft light filtered through the curtains, pale and quiet, filling the corners of the room with a gentle warmth. Nagi sat on the couch, the necklace still clutched in his hand, the remnants of the past weeks heavy against his chest.
Then, quietly, impossibly, Reo appeared. He sat beside Nagi as if he had never left, shoulder brushing his, fingers lightly resting against Nagi’s arm. But this time, there was no tension, no desperate need to anchor him. He was calm. Still. Almost… gentle.
“Sei,” Reo said softly, and Nagi turned, eyes wide. The voice was real, impossible, familiar, but without the insistent insistence of the hallucinations that had pressed so tightly over the months.
“I’m… here,” Nagi whispered, trembling, voice catching. “You… I…”
“I know,” Reo said, smiling faintly. “It’s okay. You’ve carried so much. It’s alright to let go.”
Nagi shook his head. “Don’t go. Please. Stay with me…”
Reo’s fingers brushed his cheek, light and cool, comforting. “Sei… I was never really here, remember?”
The words hit Nagi like a wave, steady and impossible. He swallowed hard, tears filling his eyes. “You… you died.”
Reo’s smile softened, almost sorrowful, and he nodded. “Yes. But you don’t need me here anymore. You have your own strength. You’ve carried me in your heart all this time, and that’s enough.”
Nagi’s hands shook as he reached for him, desperate to hold what was no longer real. But as he did, Reo’s form flickered, like a shadow dissolving in the sunlight, gentle and slow, pressing the memory into Nagi’s bones before vanishing.
Before he fully disappeared, Reo pressed a light kiss to Nagi’s forehead. The warmth lingered, soft and impossible, like the echo of a dream. Nagi closed his eyes, holding the memory close as the figure faded completely, leaving only the quiet of the room, the weight of absence, and the lingering scent of Reo that existed only in his mind.
Nagi sat alone for a long moment, tears falling freely. The ache in his chest was sharp but tempered by the strange, peaceful quiet. He let himself breathe, let himself feel the grief, the love, the absence, without fear.
Days later, Nagi stood before Reo’s grave. The sunlight was soft, golden and fragile, scattering across the polished stone, casting long shadows over the flowers already beginning to sway in the gentle breeze. He knelt slowly, fingers brushing against the cool surface of the headstone, tracing the carved letters as if he could press the memory of Reo into the stone itself.
From his backpack, he retrieved a small digital camera. The edges were worn, the screen scratched, but it was theirs—the videos of days spent together, unguarded, laughing, living. His hands shook as he held it, thumb hovering over the playback button. The weight of the last months pressed on him, and for a heartbeat, he hesitated.
Then he pressed it.
The screen flickered to life. There they were. Reo, hair falling softly over his eyes, laughing as Nagi fumbled with the camera, both of them caught in sunlight that felt warmer than the world around them. The sound of Reo’s voice—light, teasing, full of life—flooded the quiet of the graveyard. Nagi’s chest tightened so sharply it felt like it might crack. Tears welled and spilled, warm and unstoppable.
“Sei, one day, we’ll watch this when we’re old grandpas at some nursing home.” Reo’s voice echoed in the video, and it was enough to break the dam inside Nagi.
He pressed a hand over his mouth, letting the sobs shake him, letting the grief finally flow after months of clutching at impossible illusions. He watched as Reo’s smile, the tilt of his head, the laughter that had haunted his dreams and hallucinations, played out over and over, impossible, untouchable, yet painfully real.
He paused the video, letting the frozen frame of Reo’s grin burn into his mind. Nagi pressed the camera gently onto the grave, tracing the edges as though he could leave some of himself there with it.
“I’ll keep playing,” he whispered, voice raw, broken, yet steady with determination. “So you can watch.”
For a long moment, he lingered, hands brushing the camera as though it could hold the warmth, the laughter, the life of the boy who had shaped every corner of his world. Then he stood slowly, shoulders aching, brushing a hand over his tear-streaked face. The sunlight warmed his skin, the wind tugging gently at his hair, and the grief that had weighed him down for months felt like it was finally settling—not gone, not softened, but transformed into something he could carry.
He didn’t need the hallucination anymore. He had built it, carried it, loved it—and in doing so, he had carried Reo. But now he could carry the truth. The memory. The love. The warmth that had always been real, even if fleeting.
He turned, walking away from the grave, each step deliberate, each breath steadying him. The path ahead was his own. It was quiet, it was raw, it was painful—but he was moving forward, carrying Reo with him not as a shadow or a phantom, but as a memory that would never fade.
The wind brushed across his face, soft and alive, carrying with it the faintest echo of laughter, the faintest warmth of a boy who had been, who had mattered, who had shaped him even in absence. Nagi’s lips curved into a small, trembling smile. Chest heavy, heart aching, he walked on.
For the first time in a long time, he felt peace—not in forgetting, not in pretending—but in holding onto the memory of someone he loved. And in that memory, Reo would always be there, watching, laughing, and never truly gone.