Work Text:
Disclaimer: I do not own gravitation.
WE BELONG TOGETHER
Shuichi let out a long, shaky sigh. Yuki had thrown him out again. The door was still echoing somewhere inside his chest, slamming over and over in a place that refused to heal. Without thinking, his feet carried him to the one place that had always welcomed him without question — the park. He sank onto the familiar bench and allowed the silence to close around him. His thoughts rose like a storm, his heart and mind clashing in a cruel argument he could not escape. One part of him clung desperately to love, insisting that what he felt must be returned, that the warmth he had glimpsed in Yuki could not be an illusion. The other part whispered colder truths: love should not feel like this. Love should not bruise.
He wrapped his arms around himself, trying to hold together the fragile pieces inside. He replayed every excuse he had built for Yuki — deadlines, stress, exhaustion — stacking them carefully like a shield. Yet each justification crumbled under the weight of a single question: why did loving him feel like walking barefoot over shattered glass? There were moments, rare and blindingly bright, when Yuki was gentle. In those moments, a touch or a murmur could melt Shuichi completely, convincing him that everything painful was worth enduring. But those moments faded too quickly, leaving behind long stretches of cold indifference where he felt invisible, tolerated at best, unwanted at worst. The contrast hollowed him out.
The park slowly emptied around him, though he barely noticed. Conversations faded. Footsteps retreated. Above him, clouds thickened into a dark ceiling, swallowing the last light of evening. The first drops of rain struck the pavement with soft taps that grew into a steady roar. People scattered for shelter, coats pulled over their heads, laughter turning into hurried shouts. Shuichi did not move. He sat curled on the bench, knees drawn close, watching the rain soak through his clothes as if the sky were grieving with him. The cold crept into his bones, but it felt distant compared to the ache inside his chest.
He wondered where he stood in Yuki’s heart, if there was truly a place carved for him there or if he existed only in the spaces between convenience and need. The thought tightened around his lungs until breathing hurt. If he was a burden, what was he supposed to do with a love that refused to leave? The idea of walking away felt like stepping into a void with no ground beneath it. Lightning split the sky, thunder rolling a second later, and the rain fell harder, relentless. Still he stayed, small and motionless beneath the storm, as though if he remained there long enough, the answer might fall from the clouds and tell him whether to hold on… or finally let go.
XXX
Thunder cracked so violently it tore Yuki out of his rhythm. His fingers hovered above the keyboard, the words on the screen suddenly meaningless. The storm outside swallowed the room in a heavy roar, and with it went whatever focus he had left. He checked the clock. Nearly five. The house was too quiet. The silence pressed against his ears in a way that felt wrong. He rose, shoulders stiff, and stepped into the dim living room, irritation fading into an uneasy hollow. He called out automatically, expecting noise, movement, something — and instead found only stillness. Then the memory surfaced with brutal clarity. He had thrown Shuichi out.
The realisation settled like a weight in his chest. Noon. It had happened at noon. Hours had passed. Outside, rain hammered the windows in relentless sheets. Yuki dropped onto the couch, staring ahead as the truth rearranged itself into something uglier than he wanted to face. The excuses came easily — deadlines, noise, distraction — the same justifications he had repeated so often they almost sounded reasonable. Yet stripped bare in the quiet house, they rang hollow. Shuichi had only tried to feed him. Only tried to care. And Yuki had answered with shouting, with hands too rough, with a door slammed in his face. The image refused to leave him. Somewhere out there, in this storm, Shuichi was alone.
He reached for his phone to call him — and froze when a familiar ringtone echoed faintly from beneath the couch. He crouched and pulled it out with a curse. Shuichi’s phone. He hadn’t even taken it. The last thin thread of denial snapped. There was only one place Shuichi would go when he had nowhere else. The park. Yuki grabbed his coat and keys and ran, the rain hitting him like a wall the moment he stepped outside.
Shuichi was still there.
He was curled on the bench as if trying to disappear into himself, clothes plastered to his skin, shivering so violently it hurt to watch. The rain had washed all colour from his face. For a second Yuki couldn’t breathe. He dropped to his knees in front of him, umbrella useless against the guilt crashing through his chest. Shuichi’s eyes fluttered, unfocused, searching blindly for something solid. When Yuki lifted his chin, heat burned against his fingers — a fever blazing beneath freezing skin. The sight twisted something deep inside him.
He gathered Shuichi into his arms without thinking. The boy stirred weakly, lips trembling, words barely forming. He whispered that he didn’t want to go home. He whispered that he was a burden. The sentence shattered what little composure Yuki had left. Shuichi’s fingers clutched at his shirt for one desperate moment before going slack.
Rain thundered around them, but Yuki felt only the fragile weight in his arms. He pressed a trembling kiss to Shuichi’s cold lips, the apology catching in his throat, raw and useless and late. He held him tighter and ran, as if speed alone could outrun the damage he had done, as if carrying him home could somehow rewrite the hours that had left him alone in the storm.
XXX
By the time they reached the house, Shuichi was burning. Yuki didn’t remember unlocking the door or crossing the threshold; the moments blurred into a single frantic motion driven by fear. All he knew was the weight in his arms felt wrong — frighteningly light — as if the boy might dissolve into nothing if he loosened his hold for even a second. He kept murmuring for him to stay, the words falling out in a low, desperate rhythm he barely recognised as his own voice.
Inside, the world narrowed into urgent tasks. Towels. Dry clothes. The bed. His hands shook so badly he fumbled with every button and sleeve while stripping away the soaked fabric clinging to Shuichi’s skin. The boy didn’t stir. His face was drained of colour, lips pale, yet heat radiated from him in waves that made Yuki’s chest tighten. Panic sharpened every movement. He wrapped him in blankets, brushed damp hair from his forehead, and reached for the phone with fingers that refused to steady. When he called the doctor, the words came out strained and unfamiliar, scraped raw by guilt and fear.
Waiting stretched into something unbearable. Yuki sat at the bedside and held Shuichi’s hand, counting breaths because he didn’t trust silence. Each inhale was too shallow, each exhale too slow, and every second in between felt like a punishment he deserved. The storm outside faded into distant noise; the only sound that mattered was the fragile rhythm under his fingers. When the doctor finally arrived, the verdict landed like air flooding back into drowned lungs. Fever. Exhaustion. Shock. Nothing fatal. Medicine and rest would be enough. The relief was so sharp it hurt.
After the door closed, quiet settled over the house again — but this time it wasn’t empty. Shuichi’s uneven breathing filled the space, small and real and alive. Yuki leaned down and pressed a careful kiss to his lips, lingering there as if to anchor himself to that proof. He whispered for him to sleep, to rest, the words softer than anything he had spoken all day. Somewhere beneath the fever, a faint smile touched Shuichi’s mouth. It was fragile, barely there, but it struck Yuki with a tenderness that made his chest ache — a silent answer from a place deeper than consciousness, telling him the boy was still with him.
XXX
Yuki tried to return to his work, but the words on the screen refused to stay still. The final chapters waited, nearly complete, yet his mind drifted in restless circles. He forced himself to stare, willing an ending into existence. A happy resolution felt cheap. A tragic one felt closer to the truth. He smirked faintly at the thought, promising himself he would decide later, though he knew the real problem wasn’t the story. It was the silence in the house. It pressed against him, heavy and wrong, unraveling his concentration thread by thread.
His stomach growled loudly, an embarrassing reminder of something he had ignored for hours. Normally a certain loud idiot would have been shouting at him by now, shoving a plate under his nose, refusing to leave until he ate. Shuichi never forgot meals — especially his. Yuki always did. Writing swallowed him whole; inside his manuscripts he ruled an entire universe. Every action bent to his will, every outcome obeyed him. It was the one place where nothing slipped through his fingers. Except hunger. Hunger dragged him back to the real world whether he liked it or not. With a tired breath he saved his file, shut the laptop, and walked to the kitchen.
The lights revealed breakfast still waiting on the table, untouched and painfully neat. Eggs, toast, warm bread arranged with ridiculous care, milk poured into a glass, coffee long gone cold. Sliced oranges sat on a small plate like a bright apology. The sight hollowed him out. Shuichi had built the meal with the earnest devotion he put into everything, the kind of love that asked for nothing except to be accepted. Yuki moved mechanically toward the sink, appetite gone, replaced by a dull ache that made swallowing difficult. He would eat it anyway. Not because he was hungry, but because Shuichi had made it.
Then he noticed the bin. A familiar box stared back at him. Strawberry Pocky. Unopened. Next to it lay a slice of strawberry cake, untouched, and a sealed bottle of strawberry milk. His chest tightened sharply. Shuichi hadn’t eaten either. The implication landed with brutal clarity. While Yuki had shut himself away, snapping and shouting, the boy had waited. And waited. And punished himself with the same hunger he had tried to fix. The kitchen felt smaller suddenly, the air heavier. Guilt crawled up his spine, slow and suffocating.
The quiet that followed drove him toward the bedroom. Shuichi lay there sleeping, breath soft, fever painting faint colour across his cheeks. Even weakened, he looked heartbreakingly gentle. Yuki’s throat tightened at the sight. How had he managed to hurt something so open, so fiercely devoted? Shuichi could have chosen anyone — anyone warm, patient, kind — yet he had chosen him. A man who wrote love stories with perfect endings and failed spectacularly at living one. The irony scraped raw.
He sat on the edge of the bed and watched him, struck by the intimacy of the moment. So few people ever saw Shuichi like this: peaceful, unguarded, completely real. A fragile privilege he didn’t deserve. He brushed pink hair away from his face and whispered his name softly, not as an insult, not as a tease, but as something precious. A smile slipped free before he could stop it, small and unarmoured. When Shuichi shivered, Yuki stiffened. The blanket wasn’t enough. That had to be the reason. The doctor said he would recover. This was nothing. Just cold. He clung to the explanation like a lifeline, set an alarm for the medicine, and slid his phone beneath the pillow.
Then he lay down beside him and wrapped an arm carefully around his body, shielding him from the chill. Shuichi sighed in his sleep and instinctively leaned closer, a faint smile touching his lips as if even unconscious he recognised the warmth. Yuki froze, startled by the simple trust in that movement, before a quiet laugh escaped him. Such a child. He pressed a gentle kiss to Shuichi’s forehead and closed his eyes, holding him there, letting exhaustion finally pull him under — this time determined not to let go.
XXX
It was completely dark when Shuichi surfaced from sleep. Warmth surrounded him — steady, protective, real. For a few seconds he lay still, head throbbing, trying to remember where he was. When he turned slightly, the answer met him in silence. Yuki. His cheek rested against Yuki’s chest, arms wrapped securely around him even in sleep. The rhythm of another heartbeat anchored him. Confusion flickered, followed by a fragile relief he didn’t dare name. He studied Yuki’s face in the dimness, the sharp lines softened by rest, and lifted a trembling hand to trace what he knew by memory: pale hair, the bridge of his nose, the curve of lips that could wound and heal in the same breath. Strength and vulnerability coexisted there, cruelty and tenderness tangled together. The contradiction was the man he loved. The word lover echoed in his mind and tightened painfully in his chest.
Doubt crept in immediately after. The warmth around him felt undeserved. Was this comfort temporary? Was he only tolerated, an irritation Yuki endured out of habit? The questions gnawed until he could no longer stay still. Slowly, wincing against the pounding in his skull, he slipped from Yuki’s arms. The loss of heat stung. He moved carefully, terrified of waking him, and left the bedroom one step at a time, steadying himself against the wall whenever dizziness blurred his vision. By the time he reached the couch, his strength gave out and he collapsed into it. The clock glowed 1:30 a.m. Too early for peace. Perfect for regret.
Memories unspooled the moment he closed his eyes. It had been his day off. He had woken lighthearted, eager to see Yuki, only to find the workroom door still closed, proof that he hadn’t rested all night. Concern had pushed him to knock gently, voice soft with worry. The reply had slammed back harsh and sharp, telling him to disappear. He told himself it meant Yuki was fine, that irritation was better than silence. So he’d gone out to buy breakfast, convincing himself food would fix what exhaustion couldn’t. Taking care of Yuki was a role he embraced willingly; it made him feel useful, needed.
He remembered arranging the plates with ridiculous care around ten o’clock, building a small offering of normalcy: eggs, toast, milk. His own sweets waited beside it untouched. He had called through the door again, asking him to eat. Only shouting answered. Words thrown like knives, telling him to leave, to stop existing in that space. The memory still split him open. Eating alone had felt impossible. The food tasted wrong without the shared ritual, so he had thrown his portion away without thinking, punishing himself in quiet solidarity. By 11:45 desperation outweighed pride. He begged again. At 12:05 the door opened — not with relief, but with force. Fingers in his collar. A drag across the floor. The front door slamming shut. The echo still rang in his ears.
Tears slid down his face on the couch as he told himself, as he always did, that it was his fault. Afterward he had wandered for hours with his hood pulled low, legs moving without direction. Home felt forbidden territory. Yuki would still be angry. So he went to the park, to the bench that never rejected him. The sky darkened and broke open. Thunder split the air. Rain soaked him through, yet he stayed curled there, hugging his knees until the world blurred at the edges. Then a voice cut through the storm — familiar, exasperated, alive. Arms had gathered him up, refusing his weak protests, carrying him through the fog. He remembered warmth, the scent of home, and a whisper that might have been an apology, might have been something softer. Then darkness.
A shaky breath left him. He looked down at himself and noticed the clothes were different. White pyjama trousers scattered with pink bunnies — Kumagoro — and a shirt that fit too perfectly to be his. Yuki had changed him. The thought twisted painfully, equal parts comfort and shame. He swallowed against a throat dry with thirst and forced himself upright. Each step toward the kitchen felt uncertain, but he moved anyway, carrying the weight of memory with him, afraid of what morning would bring and yet unable to stop hoping it might be different.
XXX
Yuki woke to a vibration beneath his pillow, his mind snapping into focus with a clarity that bordered on panic. The alarm. Two in the morning. He had set it himself — medicine time. The doctor’s schedule replayed instantly in his head. He reached under the pillow, silenced the sound, and listened. The room was too quiet. His arm moved automatically toward the empty space beside him.
Cold sheets.
No Shuichi.
His eyes opened fully. The absence hit harder than the alarm had. He was on his feet before he realised he’d moved, storming out of the bedroom with his heart already racing ahead of him. The couch was empty. The air felt wrong, hollow. He checked the bathroom — nothing. The kitchen — nothing. Each empty room tightened something inside his chest until breathing felt sharp. The silence became unbearable, a living thing pressing in from every side. His legs buckled and he dropped to the floor, hands shaking. For one terrifying moment he was a child again, convinced he had lost something irreplaceable. Then the curtain by the sliding door caught his eye, fluttering inward with the wind. He stared. He was sure he had locked it. Hope flared so violently it hurt.
He stood and crossed the room slowly, every heartbeat loud in his ears. The curtain brushed his shoulder as he stepped onto the balcony — and there he was.
Shuichi stood at the railing, bathed in pale moonlight, watching the sky as if the world below didn’t exist. He looked almost unreal under the silver glow, skin luminous, lashes casting soft shadows across fragile cheeks, violet eyes reflecting the night. Beautiful. And breakable. The thought struck Yuki with brutal clarity: he had nearly shattered something that delicate. The guilt burned hot and immediate. He moved forward and wrapped his arms around Shuichi from behind, pulling him gently against his chest. The boy startled, then melted into the hold as recognition settled. Yuki rested his chin on his shoulder, breathing him in. When Shuichi turned slightly and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead before returning his gaze to the moon, the simple kindness of it made his chest ache.
He told him it was freezing, asked what he was doing out there, and felt Shuichi’s body tense. Tears hovered at the edge of his voice. Yuki tightened his grip instinctively, murmuring for him to take his time, surprised by how natural the tenderness sounded when it left his mouth. Shuichi admitted he needed to think, and the weight of those words made Yuki turn him gently to face him. The doctor’s instructions echoed in his head — rest — but Shuichi shook his head, insisting he couldn’t. When he finally whispered that he had been thinking about leaving, about leaving Tokyo and leaving him, the sentence detonated inside Yuki’s chest. Fear, raw and animal, surged up his throat. He lifted Shuichi’s chin and saw pain shining in eyes that should never have carried it.
The confession tore out of him without polish or pride. He told him not to say that again because he couldn’t lose him, and the admission cracked something open he could no longer hide. Tears spilled before he could stop them. He dragged Shuichi into a tight embrace, holding on as if the boy might vanish if he loosened his arms. Shuichi shook against him, apologising, calling himself a burden, repeating the insults Yuki had thrown in anger. Each word landed like a blade. He forced himself to speak clearly, to strip the truth bare. He admitted what he was — cold, selfish, a man who had lived without needing anyone — and how Shuichi had ruined that solitude in the best possible way. He hated the need and loved it in the same breath. Every time he pushed him away, he felt the damage echo back into himself. He wanted him close. With him, the world felt sharp and alive again. Even the habits that once annoyed him had become things he cherished. He apologised, not as a shield but as a promise to change, however slowly it took.
Shuichi stared as if trying to memorise every word, tears spilling freely, and answered not with speech but with a gentle kiss. Warm. Forgiving. Yuki froze, startled by the softness of it, then remembered the clock and the medicine waiting. The urgency snapped back into place. He told him they were going inside before the cold stole what little strength he had left. When Shuichi agreed, Yuki lifted him effortlessly, ignoring the embarrassed flush that coloured his cheeks, and carried him back to the bedroom. He laid him down with care, memorising the fragile rise and fall of his breathing, then turned to fetch the medicine — determined this time to protect what he had nearly lost.
XXX
Shuichi surfaced into consciousness with a fragile thought clinging to him. If this was a dream, he didn’t want it to end. He bit his lip, chasing the sting, and the pain anchored him immediately. Not a dream. Yuki’s gentleness was real. The realisation ached in his chest, too tender to touch for long. A wave of dizziness followed, dragging a heavy headache with it. His fingers drifted to his forehead. Burning. Yet his body shivered as if he’d been left in the cold. The air conditioner sat silent. Nothing explained the spinning room. He clutched the sheets, afraid he might fall even while lying flat, his limbs distant and unreliable, like they belonged to someone else.
Then warmth closed around his hand.
Yuki.
The contact steadied him more than the bed ever could. He tried to form words, to explain that something felt wrong, that the world wouldn’t stop moving, but even speaking felt like wading through water. A quiet chuckle brushed his ears, low and familiar, and he leaned instinctively toward the sound. He didn’t need to see him. His body recognised safety before his mind could catch up. Two fingers pressed gently to his lips. He opened without question, accepting the pill placed on his tongue. Cool liquid followed. He swallowed automatically, and the taste bloomed sweet across his mouth.
Strawberry.
His eyes fluttered open just enough to confirm it. Strawberry milk. A faint laugh escaped him, small and childish, before exhaustion pulled him under again. The sweetness lingered as his thoughts dissolved, carrying with it a simple, floating happiness. He loved sweets. He loved this warmth more.
Yuki watched him surrender to sleep against his shoulder and felt a quiet relief settle deep in his chest. Carefully he lowered him back onto the mattress and brushed a soft kiss over his lips. The strawberry taste remained, but Shuichi was warmer than that, softer, alive in a way no flavour could imitate. He studied him in the dim light, noticing how perfectly the shirt fit. He had bought it weeks ago and hidden it away, waiting for a moment that never seemed to arrive. A silent gift from a man who wrote love easily on paper and struggled to speak it aloud.
Sleep tugged at him at last. Yuki switched off the lights, slid back beneath the covers, and wrapped his arms around Shuichi, drawing him close until their breathing fell into the same rhythm. Only then did he let his eyes close, holding on as if the simple act of keeping him there could protect them both through the night.
XXX
Morning light slipped quietly into the room, pale and gentle, painting the sheets in soft gold. Shuichi woke inside warmth. It took him a moment to realise he was still wrapped in Yuki’s arms, held with a grip that remained protective even in sleep. Memory returned in fragments — the balcony, the confession, the way the night had cracked open and shown him something fragile and real. A small smile found his lips before he could stop it. Hope hadn’t vanished. It was still here, breathing beside him.
Carefully, he leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to Yuki’s forehead. The man stirred immediately, voice rough with sleep as his arms tightened and pulled him back against his chest. Their eyes met — gold and violet locking together — and for a heartbeat Yuki’s expression was unreadable, the familiar mask threatening to return. Then it melted, replaced by warmth so open it stole Shuichi’s breath. He teased him gently about trying to escape, the words wrapped in a possessive softness that made Shuichi blush and stammer. The joke faded into something steadier when Yuki murmured that this was his house too, that he didn’t have to question his place there. The statement landed with quiet weight. You belong here. With me. The certainty in his tone left no room for doubt.
Shuichi hesitated before asking the question that mattered most — if belonging worked both ways. Yuki pretended to consider it, dragging out the moment with a crooked smile before sealing the answer with humour and tenderness. He introduced himself like a stranger meeting him for the first time, offering his real name – Eiri, as if it were a gift rather than a fact. The gesture was small but intimate, an invitation to stand on equal ground. Shuichi answered in kind, voice shy and earnest, and something in the air between them shifted. A new beginning didn’t announce itself loudly. It settled in quietly, in the way their hands fit together, in the way Yuki said his nickname – Shu-Chan, like it belonged on his tongue.
The confession followed naturally, slipping out of Shuichi before fear could catch it. Yuki’s face softened completely, the last of his defences dropping as he answered without hesitation. The seriousness of the moment lasted exactly one heartbeat before he ruined it by launching a sudden tickle attack. Laughter exploded into the room, bright and unstoppable, chasing away the last shadows of the night. Shuichi’s protests dissolved into breathless giggles as they tumbled together, the sound of it filling the space where silence had once lived.
Their future wouldn’t be gentle every day. They would argue, misunderstand, bruise each other with careless words. But the difference lay in what followed — the choice to return, to hold on, to speak instead of running. Morning light wrapped around them as their laughter faded into quiet smiles, and in that simple closeness was a promise neither of them said aloud.
They would stay.
Together.
XXX
owari