Chapter Text
The house was always quiet in the evenings.
Not empty. Not lonely. Just steady.
Yuji had grown up inside that steadiness the way other kids grew up around noise. The faint hum of his dad’s laptop from the dining table. The soft clink of ceramic when Kento set down his coffee mug. The low murmur of whatever financial podcast he half listened to while reviewing spreadsheets. It was the sound of a life built carefully, piece by piece.
Yuji stood at the kitchen counter rinsing an apple, listening to it all like background music.
Seventeen years old, and he still measured safety in those small sounds.
His dad was at the table, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms, tie loosened but not fully removed. He always did that. Loosened it. Never took it off until he was done with everything. The lamplight caught in his blond hair, faint lines at the corner of his eyes more visible when he frowned at his screen.
Yuji watched him for a second longer than necessary.
He did that a lot too.
It was strange, sometimes, knowing the story of your own existence like a legend. Yuji had pieced it together over the years from relatives, from old photo albums, from the careful way teachers spoke about his father when they thought he was not listening.
Nineteen.
Nineteen years old with a pregnant girlfriend and online college courses. Nineteen and taking accounting jobs no one else wanted because they were tedious and underpaid but flexible. Nineteen and sitting in a hospital room while machines beeped too loudly.
Yuji did not remember his mother. He only knew her from a framed photograph on the hallway shelf. Soft smile. Tired eyes. One hand resting over a swollen belly.
Hemorrhaging.
He learned that word too young.
Kento Nanami had walked into that hospital a boyfriend and walked out a father. Alone. With a newborn in his arms and grief folded carefully somewhere deep inside his chest.
Yuji carried that knowledge with reverence.
His dad had never missed a parent teacher conference. Not one. He showed up in pressed shirts and asked precise questions about curriculum. He sat through soccer games even when Yuji mostly benched. He remembered dentist appointments without reminders. Packed lunches. Checked homework.
There had been nights, when Yuji was small, that he woke up and padded to the kitchen to find his dad asleep at the table, head resting against his folded arms, laptop still glowing faintly. A baby monitor had once sat beside tax forms and notebooks.
Yuji remembered climbing into his lap back then. Remembered being held automatically, even in sleep.
His dad had built his whole life around him.
Which was why Yuji had spent the last month rehearsing something in the shower.
Just in case.
He dried the apple, took a bite, and leaned against the counter. The front door opened.
“Oh,” Yuji called lightly. “We having company?”
“Yes,” his dad replied, voice even. “An old friend. I told you earlier.”
Oh. Right. He had. Yuji had been half distracted by a text from Megumi and nodded without fully processing.
The friend’s laugh echoed down the hallway a moment later. Loud. A little grating.
Yuji did not mean to eavesdrop.
He just wanted another snack.
He stepped into the kitchen again when the conversation drifted in from the dining area. The friend was talking about someone from work.
“Can you believe it?” the man said, scoffing. “Guy’s kid comes out and suddenly the whole office has to tiptoe around it. Like it’s something to celebrate.”
Yuji slowed.
He told himself not to.
He moved toward the pantry anyway.
Kento made a small sound. Noncommittal. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” the friend continued. “I mean, if that were my kid? I’d feel like I messed up somewhere. Raising them wrong or something.”
Yuji’s fingers curled around a bag of chips but he did not pull it down.
His heart had started beating harder. It felt stupid. Dramatic. It was not even about him.
He waited.
He waited for his dad to say something sharp and precise. Something that cut the comment down cleanly.
Kento sighed instead.
A tired sound.
“Well,” he said, voice calm. “People deal with things in their own way.”
“That’s not what I mean,” the friend pressed. “I mean having a gay kid. That’s not exactly ideal.”
There was a pause.
Yuji could hear the faint scrape of chair legs. The soft tap of his dad’s fingers against the table.
Then Kento spoke again.
“I suppose,” he said evenly, “it can complicate things.”
The friend laughed, satisfied. “Exactly.”
Yuji did not hear anything after that.
The word complicate lodged in his chest like something heavy and immovable.
Complicate.
He stood frozen in the doorway, chips forgotten in his hand.
He waited for his dad to correct it. To clarify. To say something else.
Nothing came.
The conversation shifted to work. To numbers. To old classmates.
Yuji walked upstairs without remembering how his legs moved.
His room felt smaller when he shut the door behind him.
He sat at his desk and stared at the wall. The apple still sat half eaten on his desk because he had brought it up without thinking.
Complicate.
He had planned it for tomorrow.
He had chosen Saturday because his dad did not work Saturdays unless something was urgent. They usually ate breakfast late. Talked about small things. It felt safe.
Yuji had practiced the words under the shower spray.
Dad, I need to tell you something.
Dad, I think I’ve known for a while.
Dad, I’m gay.
Each version felt terrifying but survivable.
He had imagined his dad being quiet. Thoughtful. Maybe surprised. But never disappointed.
Now the memory of that half agreement replayed on a loop.
I suppose it can complicate things.
Yuji dragged his hands down his face.
Maybe he misunderstood.
Maybe his dad was just trying to end the conversation.
But what if he was not?
What if complicate meant burden? Shame? Regret?
Yuji’s mind spiraled easily when given space.
He thought about being five and holding his dad’s hand at the grocery store. About being ten and crying over a scraped knee while Kento cleaned it carefully and told him to breathe. About being fourteen and confessing he failed a math test and bracing for anger that never came.
His dad had never once looked at him like a mistake.
The idea that he might now made Yuji feel physically ill.
He rolled his desk chair back and stared at the ceiling.
Megumi’s name flashed on his phone from earlier messages. He swallowed.
Megumi.
Eight months.
Eight months of quiet touches and shared glances. Of pretending they were just friends when they were not. Of laughter and late night texts and stolen kisses behind the gym.
Yuji loved him.
That was the simplest truth in all of this.
He loved him.
And he loved his dad.
The thought that those two loves might collide felt unbearable.
Downstairs, the friend laughed loudly again.
Yuji pressed his palms against his eyes.
Maybe it was nothing.
Maybe his dad did not mean it.
But what if he did?
He imagined sitting at the breakfast table tomorrow. Imagined saying the words. Imagined his dad’s expression shifting in some small, irreversible way.
He imagined silence.
He imagined distance.
He imagined being looked at like something unfamiliar.
The fear wrapped around his ribs tighter and tighter until breathing felt deliberate.
His dad had given up everything once. Given up a normal college experience. Given up nights out and ease and maybe even parts of himself.
Yuji had always told himself he would never be something that added more weight to that sacrifice.
Complicate.
He laughed weakly under his breath.
As if love was something that could be simplified.
His phone buzzed again.
Megumi: You alive?
Yuji stared at the message.
Barely, he thought.
He typed back something normal. Something light. He did not have the words yet.
He looked around his room. Posters. Textbooks. The small framed photo of him at six years old sitting on his dad’s shoulders, both of them smiling at the camera.
His dad’s hand had been wrapped securely around his ankle so he would not fall.
Secure.
Safe.
Yuji’s throat tightened.
Maybe if I just wait, he thought.
Maybe if I just don’t say anything.
He could keep things the way they were. Keep the steadiness. Keep the quiet evenings and cut fruit and gentle reminders about homework.
He could love Megumi quietly. Carefully. Without risking the one person who had always chosen him.
The laughter downstairs faded into the background hum again.
Yuji leaned back in his chair and stared at nothing.
Tomorrow had felt brave this morning.
Now it felt reckless.
He swallowed hard, chest aching with something he could not quite name.
Maybe if I just don’t say anything, he thought again, the idea settling in like a fragile shield.
Maybe if I stay quiet.
I won’t lose him.