Work Text:
At first, it doesn’t feel like the beginning of anything at all.
It feels like a season passing—something subtle, something you only notice when you look back and realize the air has changed. Eita doesn’t mark the day or the hour when things begin to shift, because nothing announces itself as a disaster while it’s happening. It arrives disguised as fatigue. As stress. As the quiet wear and tear of a life lived too carefully for too long.
Shirabu Kenjirou has always been precise.
That is the first thing Eita ever learns about him: not just that he’s intelligent, but that he is exact. He lines his shoes neatly by the door, keeps his notes meticulously organized, memorizes schedules down to the minute. When he studies, he does not skim—he commits. When he speaks, he chooses his words like instruments, sharp and deliberate.
So when Kenjirou rubs his temples a little more often, Eita assumes it’s overwork. When he sighs at his desk and blinks at a page like it’s refusing to cooperate, Eita assumes exhaustion. They’re not young anymore. Kenjirou works too hard. Everyone knows that.
“You should rest,” Eita says one evening, half-teasing, half-serious, as Shirabu rereads the same paragraph for the third time.
“I am resting,” Kenjirou replies automatically, not looking up. Then, after a beat, he frowns. “I think.”
Eita laughs, light and easy, and the moment passes.
The first crack is so small Eita almost misses it.
They’re in the kitchen, and Kenjirou reaches for the kettle—then stops, staring at it like it’s unfamiliar. His brow furrows, confusion flickering across his face before he shakes his head sharply, annoyed with himself.
“Did you already boil this?” he asks.
Eita blinks. “You haven’t yet.”
“Oh.” Kenjirou nods, embarrassed. “Right. Of course.”
He turns the stove on a second too forcefully, jaw tight. Eita notices the way his shoulders stay tense long after the water starts to heat, but he doesn’t say anything. Neither of them does.
After that, it’s names.
A classmate Kenjirou has known for years slips his mind mid-conversation. He pauses, mouth open, eyes searching, then recovers with a vague gesture and a laugh. “Sorry. Long day.”
Eita watches him that night as Kenjirou writes reminders in the margins of his notebook—small, careful notes meant to jog memory rather than replace it. It feels harmless. Sensible, even. Kenjirou has always been prepared.
Then come the sticky notes.
Eita notices one on the refrigerator first, bright yellow against stainless steel.
TURN OFF STOVE.
It’s written in Kenjirou's handwriting—neat, deliberate, unmistakably his. Eita’s stomach twists, just slightly. He tells himself it’s nothing. Lots of people do this. It’s practical.
More notes appear over the next few days.
KEYS. WALLET. PHONE.
LOCK DOOR.
CALL EITA BACK.
Eita pretends not to see them. Kenjirou pretends not to notice Eita noticing. It becomes a quiet agreement between them: if they don’t name it, it won’t grow.
But something is changing.
Kenjirou starts double-checking things he never used to. He rereads messages before sending them, checks the calendar repeatedly, sets alarms for things he once did on instinct. Eita catches him standing in a room sometimes, looking around with faint irritation, like he’s been interrupted by his own mind.
“Everything okay?” Eita asks once.
“Yes,” Kenjirou answers immediately. Too quickly. “Just… thinking.”
The lie is small, but it lands heavy.
The real fear arrives on a Thursday.
Eita remembers because Kenjirou doesn’t.
The phone rings in the late afternoon, and when Eita answers, there’s no greeting—just Kenjirou's breathing, tight and controlled.
“Eita,” he says. His voice is steady in the way it only gets when he’s scared. “I need you to listen.”
“I’m listening.”
“I’m outside,” Kenjirou says. “I went to the store. The one near the station. I’ve walked this route a hundred times.” He swallows. “I don’t recognize anything.”
Eita stands so fast his chair tips over.
“Okay,” he says, keeping his voice even, gentle. “That’s okay. Stay where you are. Can you see a sign? A building? Anything familiar?”
There’s a pause. Too long.
“I know I should,” Kenjirou says quietly. “I know this.”
Eita talks him through it slowly, step by step, grounding him in landmarks, keeping him tethered with his voice. When Kenjirou finally gets home, his hands are shaking. He doesn’t say anything—he just sits down on the couch and presses his face into his palms.
Eita sits beside him. He doesn’t touch him at first. He waits until Kenjirou leans into him on his own, like gravity pulling him back to something solid.
“I think something’s wrong,” Kenjirou says finally. His voice is small. Stripped of certainty.
Eita’s chest aches. “We’ll figure it out.”
The hospital smelled of antiseptic and fluorescent light, sterile and cold, the kind of place where silence presses against your skin like a weight. Eita hated hospitals. He hated them when Kenjirou was fine. He hated them even more now. Because he wasn’t here for a routine checkup or a mild flu. He was here for the truth. The kind of truth that had no warmth, no compromise, no soft edges.
The tests are worse.
Simple questions that shouldn’t be difficult. Memory exercises that leave Kenjirou staring at the wall, jaw clenched, as if his own mind is betraying him. Each pause feels like a small theft. Eita sits beside him, heart pounding, wishing he could answer for him, wishing this were happening to someone else.
MRI scans, blood work, memory exercises. Eita is there for all of it, holding him up when he falters, whispering encouragement when words fail. He sees the fear in Shirabu’s eyes every time he hesitates, every time he struggles to recall something that should be automatic.
When the doctor finally speaks, Eita already knows.
And then the doctor speaks.
“Early-onset Alzheimer’s,” he says. The words land without fanfare, but the room feels suddenly smaller, heavier. Shirabu nods, carefully. Controlled. Detached. His pen moves automatically, scribbling notes as though he were taking them for a patient, not himself. Eita wants to scream, to collapse into the floor, to do anything to take the weight away. But all he can do is sit, hold Shirabu’s hand, and watch
The words land without drama. No music. No collapse. Just silence.
Kenjirou nods, slow and thoughtful, like he’s receiving a diagnosis for a patient rather than himself. “I see,” he says. “And the progression?”
The doctor explains. Treatments. Management. No cure.
Eita watches Kenjirou absorb it, compartmentalize it, place it neatly somewhere safe. The doctor in him takes over because the man cannot afford to fall apart—not yet.
The days after are quiet. Deliberate. Fragile.
Eita helps label drawers. Helps rearrange routines. Helps turn their life into something navigable, something safe. Some mornings, Kenjirou wakes up and smiles at him immediately, says his name like it’s still anchored firmly in place.
Other mornings, there’s hesitation.
But there is also hope.
There are days when Kenjirou laughs like nothing has changed, when he remembers everything, when the notes feel unnecessary and the fear recedes into the background. Eita clings to those days. Builds a future out of them. Tells himself that this is manageable. That love will be enough.
And for now—just for now—it feels like it might be.
Because Kenjirou still knows his face.
Because Kenjirou still reaches for his hand.
Because forgetting hasn’t won yet.
Life after the diagnosis is not sudden, not dramatic. It doesn’t announce itself with a crash or a fire. It arrives slowly, quietly, like water seeping into the cracks of a foundation. Eita learns this on the first morning he sees Kenjirou pause by the door, staring at the lock, hand trembling, as if the key itself might vanish if he reached for it.
Some days, Kenjirou remembers everything. He makes coffee, lines up his papers, critiques articles with the familiar precision Eita has always admired. Those mornings, his laughter is clear and easy. His eyes find Eita’s and hold them, like home has not yet been lost. Eita clings to these days desperately, storing them in the corners of his heart.
Other days are harder. Kenjirou forgets the name of the street they walk every evening. He calls Eita “sir” once, “friend” another time, and sometimes just stares at him with a polite, questioning expression.
“You’re… Semi?” he asks one afternoon, squinting like he’s trying to solve a riddle.
“I’m Eita,” Semi says, voice soft. “I’m here.”
Recognition flickers in Shirabu’s eyes for a moment, then fades. He nods slowly, satisfied, but the warmth is gone. It’s not malicious; it’s just… gone.
Eita begins to learn patience he didn’t know he had. He repeats himself constantly. He explains the same things dozens of times a day. He guides Shirabu’s hands when he forgets, brings him back to routines like a shepherd bringing a flock across a fogged valley.
Evenings are the hardest. Shirabu sits on the edge of the bed sometimes, staring at his hands, silent, haunted. “I’m… not the same,” he whispers. “I can feel it slipping. I can’t hold onto myself anymore.”
Eita sits beside him, hand pressed to his back, holding him steady. “You’re still you,” he says. “Even if you can’t feel it, even if it changes. You’re still you.”
Shirabu leans into him, trembling. Some of the old sharpness, the pride, the defiance, softens into trust. Eita clings to those moments, as fragile as they are.
There are fleeting moments of clarity that feel crueler than forgetting itself. Shirabu will look at Eita, eyes bright, voice steady, and say something like, “I’m glad it’s you,” or “You always stay,” and for one shining instant, everything seems salvageable. Then the fog returns. Memory dissolves. Recognition fades.
Eita begins to understand that love is no longer about grand gestures or proof of affection. Love is endurance. It is patience. It is the quiet repetition of “I am here” every day, in every possible way, without expecting gratitude, recognition, or even memory in return.
Still, hope is a careful thing.
It settles into the spaces between fear, fragile but convincing, and Eita lets himself believe in it because the alternative is unbearable. There are good days—days when Kenjirou wakes up clear-eyed and sharp, when he critiques research papers with his usual precision, when he scoffs at the sticky notes like they’re an overreaction. On those days, Alzheimer’s feels distant. Manageable. Almost theoretical.
Eita learns to treasure those mornings without saying so out loud.
They build routines together. Breakfast at the same hour. Walks along familiar routes. Keys always in the same bowl by the door. Kenjirou insists on doing most things himself, jaw tight with determination. Eita watches but doesn’t interfere unless he has to. Independence becomes a quiet battleground neither of them wants to admit exists.
Sometimes, Kenjirou catches Eita watching him.
“You don’t have to hover,” Kenjirou says once, irritation sharp but tired. “I’m not helpless.”
“I know,” Eita answers immediately. Too quickly. “I just—”
Kenjirou exhales. “I know.”
They leave it there.
The forgetting doesn’t arrive all at once. It comes in layers, uneven and cruel. Kenjirou forgets appointments but remembers conversations. He remembers facts but loses the order of events. He knows what something is but not why he needs it. Each lapse is small enough to explain away, but together they begin to form a pattern Eita can’t unsee.
One evening, Kenjirou stands in the doorway of their bedroom, staring at the light switch.
Eita notices only because the silence stretches too long.
“Kenjirou?” he asks gently.
Kenjirou flinches. “I—” He stops, embarrassed. “I forgot which one it is. The lamp. Not the overhead.”
Eita steps forward, flicks the switch. The lamp glows warmly. “That one,” he says, as casually as he can.
Kenjirou nods, jaw tight. “Right.”
Later that night, Eita lies awake listening to Kenjirou's breathing, wondering how many moments like that slip past unnoticed. Wondering how many he has already missed.
The panic doesn’t scream. It whispers.
It’s in the way Kenjirou triple-checks the stove before leaving the house. In the way he clutches his phone like a lifeline. In the way he sometimes asks Eita the same question twice, then apologizes before Eita can answer the second time.
“I know you just told me,” Kenjirou says, frustrated. “I just… need to hear it again.”
Eita never complains. He answers every time.
There are doctor visits. Follow-ups. Adjustments. Kenjirou approaches them clinically, asking the right questions, taking notes on his own decline with an unsettling detachment. Eita watches him observe himself like a case study, and something in his chest twists painfully.
One afternoon, while organizing papers, Eita finds a notebook he hasn’t seen before.
Inside are lists.
Things I Know:
– My name is Shirabu Kenjirou
– I am a doctor
– I live here
– I am not alone
Things I’m Afraid Of:
– Forgetting
– Becoming a burden
– Losing Eita
Eita closes the notebook quickly, throat tight. He presses it to his chest for a moment, grounding himself, before putting it back exactly where he found it.
He doesn’t tell Kenjirou he saw it.
The first time Kenjirou forgets something important, Eita is there to witness it.
It’s Eita’s birthday.
Nothing extravagant—just dinner, something simple. Kenjirou insists on cooking, brushes off Eita’s offer to help. He moves around the kitchen with practiced ease, and for a moment, everything feels normal.
They sit down to eat.
Eita waits.
Kenjirou talks about his day. About a paper he read. About a patient case that frustrated him. He smiles. Laughs. The evening passes, warm and ordinary.
It isn’t until Eita clears the dishes that he realizes.
Kenjirou hasn’t said anything.
No greeting. No acknowledgment. No happy birthday.
Eita doesn’t correct him. He tells himself it doesn’t matter. That it’s selfish to care.
But when Kenjirou goes to bed and Eita stays behind, staring at the empty plates, his chest aches with a grief that feels too big for such a small thing.
The nights grow harder.
Kenjirou wakes sometimes disoriented, heart racing, unsure where he is. Eita learns to soothe him without startling him—soft voice, slow movements, familiar phrases. He learns which words calm Shirabu and which ones only make the fear sharper.
“There you are,” Eita murmurs once, when Shirabu looks at him like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. “It’s okay. You’re home.”
Kenjirou's shoulders sag with relief. He leans into Eita’s touch like it’s the only solid thing left in the room.
But there are nights when relief doesn’t come.
Nights when Kenjirou sits on the edge of the bed, staring at his hands.
“I don’t feel like myself,” he says quietly. “Like I’m… fading. And I can’t stop it.”
Eita sits beside him, heart pounding. “You’re still you.”
Kenjirou looks at him, eyes sharp with fear. “For how long?”
Eita has no answer.
The false hope lingers anyway.
There are days when Kenjirou is brilliant, present, there. Days when they laugh easily, when Alzheimer’s feels like a word rather than a reality. Eita clings to those days, builds plans around them, tells himself they’ll stretch longer than the doctors predicted.
Because sometimes—sometimes—Kenjirou looks at him with unmistakable clarity and says, “I’m glad it’s you, Eita. My Eita.”
And in those moments, Eita believes that love might be enough to hold memory in place.
That belief is what will hurt the most.
The hospital still smells like antiseptic and quiet despair, like the last time they've went. Eita has never hated a place more. He grips the strap of Kenjirou's bag, guiding him through the sliding doors, listening to the echo of their footsteps in a space that feels too bright and too sterile.
Kenjirou moved through the hallways with the same precision he always had, but there was something different in his posture, subtle yet undeniable. His shoulders were tighter, hands slightly shaking as they gripped his notebook. Eita could see the tension in the small movements Kenjirou no longer tried to hide. Even the man who had once memorized entire lecture halls now hesitated before opening a door.
The waiting room was silent, save for the occasional cough or the hum of the overhead lights. Eita sat beside him, his hand resting over Kenjirou's, but neither spoke at first. It was easier not to. Words would have felt meaningless. Instead, Eita traced circles on the back of Kenjirou's hand, holding onto that warmth while it still existed, while Kenjirou still recognized it.
A nurse called Kenjirou's name, and he stood, stiff and deliberate, following her without a word. Eita trailed closely, never leaving his side. Every step down the hall was slow, deliberate, like walking through something fragile, like glass underfoot.
The doctor’s office was quiet, but it didn’t feel safe. The doctor didn’t even need to speak at first; the test results and the files on the desk said everything. Eita watched Shirabu pick up the papers, read them with that clinical detachment he always wore so well. And then, slowly, Kenjirou's hands began to tremble. The man who could diagnose anyone with uncanny precision now studied his own life as if it were a case study, detached yet desperate.
Shirabu leaned into him, trembling, and for a fleeting moment, everything felt like it might be okay.
But Eita knew better.
He knew that Alzheimer’s was patient. That it was inevitable. That it would take Shirabu piece by piece, memory by memory, until there was nothing left but fragments and echoes.
And he also knew, with every fiber of his being, that no matter how much he held onto him, he could not stop it.
Some hope remained, fragile and dangerous.
But it was only a matter of time before it would break.
“Do you need help?” Eita asks gently, stepping closer.
Kenjirou's jaw tightens. “I… I just—” He exhales sharply. “I want to make sure I lock it. I don’t want to… forget.”
Eita nods, says nothing. He slides the key into the lock for him and lets Kenjirou double-check. Three turns of the key. Two glances over the shoulder. It’s meticulous. Exhausting. Necessary.
They start building a new life together, one measured in lists, alarms, and labels. Drawers are tagged, shelves organized with bright sticky notes: MEDICINE, GLASSES, WALLET, EITA’S PHONE. The apartment becomes a map, each note a landmark in the maze that Alzheimer’s is slowly constructing.
Some nights, Eita lies awake long after Shirabu falls asleep, tracing the lines of his face in his mind, memorizing him before Alzheimer’s steals pieces of him. He whispers the small truths over and over: You are Shirabu Kenjirou. You are loved. You are not alone.
He knows the inevitable is coming. But for now, for these fragile slices of time, Shirabu is still here. And that is enough.
The first time he forgets Eita’s name was petrifying.
It happens on a morning that begins like any other. The sun spills softly through the curtains, casting stripes of gold across the bedroom floor. Eita rises first, quietly, and watches Kenjirou still curled beneath the blanket, a small furrow between his brows. He smiles gently—an almost automatic gesture—and wonders, for the hundredth time, how it feels to be loved by someone so brilliant, so meticulous, so alive.
Breakfast is quiet. Kenjirou moves slowly, fumbling with the coffee mug, holding it a moment too long as if trying to remember why it matters. Eita doesn’t comment. He sets a plate of toast in front of him, brushes back a stray lock of hair, lets the small routines carry them through.
Then Kenjirou speaks.
“Who… are you again?”
The words hang in the air, light, almost casual, but the weight is unbearable. Semi freezes, fork halfway to his mouth. He blinks, unsure if he heard correctly.
“Me?” he asks slowly. “I’m… Eita. Semi Eita.”
Kenjirou blinks. His lips part slightly, his brow furrows again, and for a long moment, he simply studies Eita like he is a stranger, an unfamiliar artifact, a puzzle missing pieces he cannot name.
“I… I see,” Kenjirou murmurs finally. “Eita…” He repeats the name slowly, as if tasting it, committing it to memory. “You… you’re here. For me?”
“Yes,” Eita says, voice trembling. “Always.”
Kenjirou nods once, slowly, satisfied. He smiles, but it’s small, fragile, as though the act of recognition takes more effort than breathing. Eita swallows the lump in his throat. He forces a smile back, presses a hand to Kenjirou's, letting him feel the familiar warmth.
The morning stretches, filled with silence that feels too loud. Every small gesture—pouring coffee, lifting a fork, turning a page—is heavy with significance now. Eita keeps talking quietly, describing what he’s doing, what Shirabu should do, grounding him in words: This is the mug. This is the toast. This is me. I am here.
Lunch is harder. Kenjirou asks where he lives, where his things are, what time it is. Eita repeats everything patiently, over and over, until the rhythm becomes a fragile kind of normal. But inside, Eita feels the first deep stab of real fear. This isn’t a mistake. This isn’t temporary. Alzheimer’s is here in full. It has reached inside Shirabu and pulled a name—a thread that Eita has clung to every day—right out of him.
Later, when they sit together on the couch, Eita doesn’t let go of his hand. He doesn’t say a word about the breakfast or the questions. He only squeezes, silently promising, I am here. I will stay. Even if you forget me again.
Kenjirou leans into him, the familiar trust flickering in his eyes. He doesn’t remember the name fully, but the feeling of being safe lingers. It’s enough for now.
But for Eita, it is not enough.
He knows the days of false hope are numbered. He knows that each smile, each fragile recognition, is borrowed time. And yet, he continues. He stays. He repeats the names. He repeats the routines. He repeats love, over and over, like a prayer, knowing the inevitable is still coming.
Some mornings, Kenjirou looks at him and calls him correctly. Other mornings, the words slip away. And each time, Eita feels the edge of heartbreak, sharper than the last.
Because loving someone slowly erasing themselves is nothing like watching them die quickly. It is a gradual unweaving, a slow, relentless unthreading of everything you hold dear, and there is no remedy, no pause, no escape.
Semi knows this. But he will not leave.
Not now. Not ever.
Some days, Alzheimer’s feels almost like a distant shadow rather than a looming storm. These are the days that Eita clings to desperately, the ones that make all the other days—frightening, uncertain, unbearable—slightly bearable. On these mornings, Shirabu Kenjirou wakes with a sharpness in his eyes, a clarity in his movements, a memory of Eita's name already on his lips before the question even forms.
It starts with the smallest things. He remembers the coffee just the way Eita likes it—slightly bitter, the foam skimmed just so. He laughs at the old joke about the mismatched socks that Eita teases him about. He notes the time, the appointments, the little errands. Eita watches him, a strange ache twisting in his chest, grateful and terrified all at once.
“You made breakfast,” Kenjirou says, voice smooth, easy, the ease of a man who remembers. He smiles at Eita, eyes bright. “Like always.”
“I did,” Eita says, voice unsteady. “Did you sleep well?”
Kenjirou nods. “Better, now. Thanks for staying.”
Those words—small, ordinary—land heavily. They are proof that the man in front of him still remembers the tether between them. The connection that Alzheimer’s has threatened is still alive, at least for a while.
They move through the day like this, careful, deliberate. Eita watches as Kenjirou critiques papers with his old precision, hums while preparing a snack, even pauses to show Eita a small drawing he did absentmindedly on a sticky note: We’ll get through this. Together.
The afternoon sunlight pours into the apartment, golden and warm, and for a time, it almost feels like before. The shadow of the disease seems to fade, leaving just the two of them in quiet comfort. Eita dares to laugh, to tease, to hold Kenjirou's hand without fear.
But he knows. Always knows.
Because Alzheimer’s is patient. The good days do not last forever. And while Kenjirou remembers, even fleetingly, the moments feel sharper, more precious, and more cruel, because they are temporary. The joy is a fragile illusion, a glimpse at a life that will slip through their fingers.
Yet, Eita cannot stop hoping, cannot stop believing, cannot stop loving. Every smile Kenjirou gives him, every spark of recognition, is a reminder that love can endure even when memory cannot.
In those rare clear moments, Kenjirou looks at him with that old intensity, that old awareness. “I’m glad it’s you,” he says one afternoon, voice soft but unwavering. “I wouldn’t want anyone else here.”
Eita swallows, heart threatening to break. “I’ll stay,” he whispers. “I’ll always stay.”
Kenjirou nods, small and satisfied, and for one perfect afternoon, it is enough.
But Eita knows it is a borrowed eternity.
Because the disease waits patiently.
And tomorrow, it may come back.
The decline is not sudden.
There is no dramatic moment, no shattering announcement that Alzheimer’s has taken more than before. Instead, it is a slow erosion, a quiet, relentless unweaving of Kenjirou’s mind, and Eita watches it like a tide creeping over a familiar shore, carrying fragments of what he loves with it.
It begins in small ways. Kenjirou forgets to turn off the stove despite the notes stuck everywhere. He misplaces his wallet, his keys, even his glasses—the things that were once extensions of himself. The apartment, carefully labeled, once a map of safety, now becomes a labyrinth, and every corner holds the potential for panic. Eita walks beside him constantly, guiding him, explaining, repeating. He has learned to speak slowly, to let words sink in, to give directions in steps Shirabu can follow without feeling belittled.
Some mornings, Shirabu wakes with clarity. The old Shirabu: sharp, calculating, precise. He remembers Eita’s favorite coffee, the way he likes toast, the route for their evening walk. They laugh together; the warmth is real, tangible, and yet, each good morning feels like a borrowed fragment of life, a temporary reprieve before the shadows return.
And then the shadows come.
One afternoon, Shirabu stares at Eita as they sit on the couch, his brow furrowed in confusion.
“Who… are you?” he asks, voice gentle, uncertain. Eita feels his stomach drop.
“It’s me,” Eita says carefully, swallowing the panic rising in his throat. “I’m Eita. Semi. I’m here with you.”
Kenjirou blinks, hesitation clouding his expression. Recognition flickers for a heartbeat, then fades. He leans back, quiet, unsure, and the weight of those two words—I am here—sinks into Semi’s chest with the heaviness of a stone.
Meals become exercises in patience. Kenjirou forgets how to open containers, pours water twice into a glass, spills rice onto the table. He apologizes endlessly, embarrassed, frustrated, exhausted. Eita corrects him gently, without anger, without hint of irritation, and for a moment, he convinces himself that this is love—that their routine, their repetition, their constant presence, can hold him together.
Some nights, Kenjirou doesn’t even remember to sleep. He paces, murmuring fragments of old conversations, names of people who aren’t there. Semi follows silently, never letting go, keeping him tethered with soft words and steady hands.
The moments of clarity, when they do appear, are sharper than the bad ones. Shirabu looks at him with intensity, voice precise, calling him by name, acknowledging the love between them. “I’m glad it’s you,” he says, and Eita remembers those words clearly. The four words Kenjirou said. Those words, rare and precious, pierce Eita with joy and grief simultaneously, because he knows they are temporary, fleeting sparks in a sea of fog.
He watches Kenjirou slowly lose himself in the little things: the order of books on the shelf, the arrangement of cutlery, the familiar weight of his pen in hand. Even these small certainties fade. Questions start to replace statements. Confusion replaces answers. Recognition, once automatic, now becomes a fragile guess.
Eita’s hands shake as he helps Kenjirou, guides him to eat, reassures him that he is not alone, that he is loved. But the truth presses relentlessly: Alzheimer’s cannot be bargained with. It cannot be reasoned with. It will take Kenjirou piece by piece, memory by memory, until there is almost nothing left.
And yet, Eita stays. He repeats himself endlessly, repeats routines endlessly, repeats love endlessly. Because giving up is impossible. Because even in the fog, in the moments when recognition slips entirely, the warmth of Eita’s presence is the only anchor Shirabu has left.
Somewhere in the apartment, the notes are still there: MEDICINE, KEYS, CALL EITA. Eita doesn’t remove them. He leaves them as reminders, as lifelines, as fragile proof that love can endure beyond memory.
But night after night, as Kenjirou murmurs names he doesn’t remember and reaches for hands that feel familiar yet distant, Eita understands fully: the inevitable is closing in. The good days are growing shorter. The shadows are growing longer. And eventually, the man he loves will be gone from him, even if his body remains.
The apartment is quiet now. Not the quiet of early morning, of careful routines and whispered reassurances. Not the quiet of good days where Alzheimer’s has been held at bay by routine and love. This is a different kind of quiet—a hollow, weighty silence that presses into every corner, filling every empty space Shirabu Kenjirou has left behind.
Eita sits beside him, hand resting lightly on Kenjirou's arm. The man he loves is still there in body, but the fire in his eyes, the sharpness of his mind, the presence that once anchored Eita’s world, are slipping away, dissolving like mist under the sun. Kenjirou stares at him blankly, mouth opening as if to speak, then closing again. Recognition flickers, disappears, returns in uneven, painful waves.
“Who… are you?” Kenjirou asks quietly. The words no longer carry fear or confusion—they carry a distant, innocent curiosity, a stranger’s question aimed at the person who has devoted himself to him.
“I’m Eita,” Eita whispers, choking back tears. “I’ve always been here. I’m here now.”
Shirabu tilts his head, studying him for a long moment.
A pause.
“I like your name,” he smiles, repeating his name “Eita..”
The old recognition is faint, almost ghostly. “You… are kind?” he asks finally. His voice is small, uncertain, fragile.
“Yes,” Eita says, voice breaking. “I’ve always tried to be. For you.”
Kenjirou's lips twitch, maybe into another smile smile, maybe just a reflex. The moment is fleeting, fragile, and yet it is all Eita has. He grips Kenjirou's hand gently, feeling the warmth that still lingers beneath the fog.
The days have blurred together. Alzheimer’s has taken birthdays, anniversaries, small jokes, shared habits—the intangible things that once made Kenjirou himself. Now, names are guesses, memories are fleeting, and sometimes, Eita doesn’t know whether Kenjirou is confused or simply unaware.
One evening, the silence stretches too long. Kenjirou looks at Eita with that fragile, searching gaze. “I… I feel like I should know you,” he says softly, almost lost in thought. “But I don’t. I don’t…”
Eita squeezes his hand, his chest tightening as though he could hold the world together with his grip. “It’s okay,” he whispers. “It’s okay. I’m here. I won’t leave.”
Kenjirou leans slightly against him, weakly, as if even the act of sitting up has become exhausting. The once meticulous, precise doctor now drifts in and out of awareness, words and names slipping through his fingers like water. Eita murmurs the stories they’ve lived together, recalls the small, ordinary moments that built a lifetime—because if Kenjirou cannot remember, he will.
Night comes, slow and oppressive. Kenjirou grows silent, eyes fixed somewhere beyond the walls, somewhere unreachable. Eita watches the rise and fall of his chest, counting breaths, memorizing the small, imperceptible motions that remain.
“Eita,” Kenjirou whispers finally, voice weak, uneven. “I… I’m sorry.”
“For what?” Eita asks, holding him gently. “There’s nothing to be sorry for. You’re still here.”
“I… can’t… remember,” Kenjirou says. His lips tremble. “I can’t… remember you…”
Eita's throat tightens, and tears run freely now, hot and bitter. “It’s okay,” he whispers, over and over, rocking him gently. “It’s okay. It's okay, baby. I’ll remember for both of us. I will never forget you. I will never leave you.”
Kenjirou's eyes flutter closed, then open, then close again. His body leans more heavily into Eita. His hand weakly curls around Eita's, and for one last moment, he grips him as if holding onto reality itself.
And then, just like that, he is gone—not violently, not with a final scream, but quietly, subtly, almost peacefully. Alzheimer’s has claimed him fully. The mind, the sharpness, the recognition—all gone. Only a body remains, warm against Eita’s chest, a vessel of what once was.
Eita stays with him. He does not leave. He holds Kenjirou through the night, whispering their stories, whispering names, whispering love, even though the man he loves can no longer hear them. He does not stop, cannot stop, because this is the only thing he can do: bear witness, remember, love, endure.
In the morning, the sunlight falls across the empty apartment, slicing through the stillness. Eita stares at the space where Kenjirou slept. The warmth of his body is gone. The fire in his eyes is gone. But Semi knows, somewhere, in the fragile residue of memory or in the infinite quiet beyond it, that Kenjirou would want him to stay.
And so he does.
Even when hope is gone, even when love is unreturned, even when Alzheimer’s has won everything else.
Eita remains. Holding on. Remembering. Loving.
Years have passed in the slowest, cruelest way. Alzheimer’s continued its patient erosion, claiming Kenjirou piece by piece, memory by memory. Eita remained, tireless, unwavering—his presence the only constant tether to the man he loved, the only anchor in a world that Shirabu could no longer navigate alone.
The apartment, once full of routines and notes, had become a landscape of small victories and quiet defeats.
One evening, the sun spilled gold through the kitchen window, painting the familiar tiles and countertops in light that felt too warm, too fleeting. Kenjirou stood in the center of the room, frail but steady in Eita’s arms. Eita smiled softly, guiding him gently, heart hammering in his chest.
“Dance with me,” Kenjirou whispered, voice thin but certain.
Eita hesitated, but then he stepped closer, letting Kenjirou rest his head lightly against his shoulder. They swayed slowly, to no music at all, their steps careful, intimate, like a ritual preserved from before the disease began. For a few heartbeats, Alzheimer’s was just a shadow beyond the walls; here, there was only the two of them.
The sunset painted everything in amber and rose. Eita could feel the warmth on his cheek, the faint strength left in Kenjirou's grasp, the rhythm of a heartbeat he had memorized through years of holding on. And then Kenjirou spoke, quietly, without warning, without hesitation.
“Eita.”
“Yes, Kenjirou,” Eita whispered, tightening his hold.
“I think… it’ll finally take me. The one last trick.”
“No… you can’t—I… I’m not—I’m not ready yet, please—” Eita’s voice broke, tears spilling freely. His chest ached in a way words could never touch.
“Eita… no one is ever ready, and i don't think anyone will ever be.”
The words landed with the quiet inevitability of everything he had feared. Eita could only hold him closer, whispering through the tremble in his voice, through the sobs that would not stop, through the grief that had been years in the making.
Kenjirou smiled faintly, just enough for Eita to see the man he had loved—beyond the disease, beyond the forgetting, beyond the relentless, cruel erosion of time. He closed his eyes, resting his forehead against Eita’s, and for one final moment, the world was warm, steady, and safe.
Then, as the last light of the sunset faded from the kitchen, Kenjirou’s hand relaxed, his chest stilled, and he was gone.
Eita stayed there long after the quiet settled. He traced the lines of Shirabu’s face one last time, pressed his lips to his temple, whispered the names and memories they had collected like fragile treasures over the years. And though he had lost him, though the disease had won, the love remained—imperfect, enduring, eternal.
Because even when Alzheimer’s steals everything else, it cannot steal the heart.