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It’s been three and a half weeks since Ryouta’s mother died and he was left to bury her. The funeral had been held on a grey February day, and he’d huddled numbly into himself as the priest droned about the virtues of a woman he’d never met. On the other side of the grave Doctor Iwamine’s expression had been unreadable, eyes blurred behind rain-spattered glasses, and the memory of the event makes him shiver with a chill unrelated to the weather.
It’s been three since Ryouta last saw Hiyoko. She’s always been a little lax about checking her phone, but never like this; every text he sends returns unsent, every call he makes bounces to voicemail. He wonders where she is that her phone is out of range, why she didn’t care enough to take him with her. In his lighter moments, he entertains fantasies of them having run away together, but he comes crashing back to earth soon enough. He’s always been the sensible one, the boring one, never on the same level as the cavegirl who lived off udon and determination, and it aches to learn that she agrees with him.
It’s been one since he was able to eat without immediately wanting to throw up. Any food he tries sits like ash in his mouth and lead in his stomach, and no amount of water or medication can make it easier. One lunchtime Okosan notices that he isn’t eating and bullies him into visiting the infirmary, but he finds the room silent and unattended. There’s no Iwamine, no Sakazaki, no Hiyoko, and discomfort squirms in his throat until he forces himself to leave.
His grades are slipping, he makes no less than three mistakes during any given shift at the maid café, and he returns every night to an empty house. A fog seems to have settled over his whole life, draining it of all warmth and color, and he’s so numb he can’t bring himself to care when it will disperse.
But when he arrives to school early that Monday to find Sakuya skulking out of the student council room – well, it’s so odd that he can’t help but be shaken back to himself, however briefly.
“Sakuya!” he calls, and picks up his pace. “Hey.”
When Sakuya turns to face him, he has to force the shock off his face. The other boy looks terrible: he’s too pale, his hair is disheveled, and dark shadows are smudged liberally under his eyes. “Kawara,” he says at last, and his voice lacks its usual bite.
“Um.” Ryouta flounders. “What’re you doing here so early?”
“Crucial student council business.” He shifts a bag from one hand to the other, but not fast enough that he doesn’t catch a glimpse of what’s inside.
“Is that a toothbrush?”
“No, these are cleaning supplies. The room is filthy, and I’ve taken it upon myself to come in early and clean it.”
On the surface, the explanation makes sense. But they’ve been in the same class for a year and, while he’s still not sure where they stand, he doesn’t need to be friends with the aristocrat to have noticed his obvious distaste for menial labor. It’s such a transparent lie that it’s mostly just sad.
“Sakuya,” Ryouta says, weighing his words, “have you been sleeping at school?”
“A preposterous theory, as befitting a commoner.”
“So you have been.”
The boy’s shoulders slump, and that’s as clear a confession as he’s likely to get. “I’m fine. The student council room is equipped with everything I need to live comfortably.”
“I don’t believe that.” But Sakuya still doesn’t seem like himself, folded into a too-small shape and one ill-timed comment from bolting, and Ryouta speaks before he can think better of it. “Look, why don’t you stay over at mine tonight?”
“I have no desire for your charity, Kawara.”
“It’s not–” he begins, but immediately thinks better of arguing. “At least come over and take a proper shower.”
Sakuya wavers, just as Ryouta knew he would. For all St Pigeonation’s facilities, government funding and rich benefactors, the showers in the bathroom off the gymnasium always run about ten degrees too cold.
“Very well,” he allows. “But your plumbing had best be up to scratch.”
“Cool,” he says, fighting down a giddy smile of relief. “Wait for me after class?”
“I… all right.” For a moment, Sakuya looks almost uncertain, but then he frowns and barrels on. “But aren’t you going to ask?”
“Ask what?”
“Why I’ve been staying here.”
“No?” Ryouta says, unable to stop incredulity from creeping into his voice. “I mean, that’s your business, and I’m not going to pry. But you look like you could use some help, so it’s not my place to judge.”
The other boy’s eyes bore into him, a dispassionate light blue, and he struggles not to fidget. He’s not sure what Sakuya sees there, but it probably isn’t particularly flattering.
“See you later,” he says at last, and slips into the council room without a sound.
*
The Kawara residence is on the outskirts of the city and, while they originally moved here because rent was cheap, Ryouta’s come to like the poky house. It takes him and Sakuya an hour on two different buses to get there, though, and his visitor is hardly pleased by the time they arrive.
“You do this every day?”
“Uh-huh,” Ryouta says, rooting in his bag for his keys. “And the traffic is usually way worse.”
Sakuya makes a sound somewhere between outrage and horror as they step inside. He knows the place must seem terribly unimpressive: he does his best to keep it clean, but the silence which hangs inside lends it an oppressive and unforgiving air. Even now, it feels like he’s disturbing something in his own home.
Once they reach the main room, his guest delicately clears his throat. As if he, too, finds the stifling quiet sacred.
“Kawara,” Sakuya asks, “do you live by yourself?”
He swallows around the sudden lump in his throat. “Yeah. My mother passed away a couple of weeks ago.”
“Oh.”
“She’d have liked you,” he blurts out, and immediately regrets it. There’s nothing obvious about his guest to suggest that, but his mother had never met someone she couldn’t win over. Unbidden, the image of her henpecking a nonplussed Sakuya drifts into his mind, and he has to duck his head before the tears start flowing.
Surprisingly, Sakuya doesn’t say anything, just moves past him into the kitchen and dumps his bag on the counter. He rifles through it, emerging with a stack of textbooks and papers.
“Where do you usually work?”
“At the coffee table. The light’s much better in the other room.”
“Then I will be there,” he announces.
“Uh, sure. Can I get you a drink or anything?”
“Water will do.”
By the time he returns to the main room, trying to juggle two glasses of water and his own pile of schoolwork, Sakuya is already ensconced in his favorite armchair. His things are fanned out around him, subjects arranged before a king, and he doesn’t stir even as he receives his drink.
Ryouta takes the seat opposite, sets down his own things, and takes a deep breath.
It’s been a long time since he’s been in an okay enough place to work, but Sakuya’s own studiousness compels him to focus. Progress is slow; he was never the best student even before his life fell to pieces around him, but as the pile of work before him slowly shrinks, it’s hard to deny the lightness rising in him. The weird thing is, though, that every now and then he thinks he can feel Sakuya’s eyes pinning him in place. But whenever he looks up the other boy is completely absorbed by what he’s doing, so he has no choice but to dismiss it as illusion.
After a while, though, he looks up to find Sakuya quite clearly staring. It’s embarrassing to be watched so thoroughly, and he suddenly finds himself very interested in the intricacies of the coffee table.
“Did you want something?”
“Are you quite done?”
“Huh?”
“I’m asking if you’re finished with schoolwork. I am bored, and it’s your role as host to entertain me.”
Actually, he’d just started to hit his stride, but he suspects he won’t be able to get any more done with an irritable guest around. “Um. Okay.”
For want of anything better, he picks up the remote and turns the television on. The channel that comes up is showing Pretty Coore reruns – early second season, judging by the villain and the presence of Coore Grey’s love interest – and he makes it about a minute in before he’s too distracted by Sakuya’s scowl.
“Turn that nonsense off.”
In all honesty, Ryouta’s kind of glad to flick over. The color and optimism of his favorite anime ring a little false right now, and it doesn’t help that he can probably quote this episode by heart. But then Sakuya shoots down a cooking show, his mother’s favorite soap opera, and a historical docu-drama in short succession, and he’s markedly less thankful.
“What do you usually do, then?”
Sakuya slouches handsomely in his armchair. “Study. Read. Discuss business or politics.”
“I… don’t know anything about either of those things.”
“Plebeian,” he says without any real venom, and rises. “In that case, I shall take a shower.”
He checks his watch; it’s almost seven. “I’ll get started on dinner, I guess.”
Sakuya pauses, looking like he wants to argue, then shakes his head and moves to leave. “Towels?”
“Bathroom cabinet.”
Soon enough Ryouta’s rattling around the kitchen, slowly but surely coming to the realization that he’s invited a guest over for dinner when he has no groceries left. The cupboard is bare, and he wouldn’t feel good about reheating and serving leftovers even if his stash wasn’t depleted. In desperation, he checks the fridge one more time, and some deity decides to take pity on him; he spies an egg carton tucked behind a mostly-empty container of yogurt. An egg dish will be easy on his stomach, at least, even if it’s probably too common for Sakuya’s tastes.
It’s easy to lose himself in the business of cooking; it feels good to do something practical again, and better to be able to do it for someone else’s sake. He knows this recipe back-to-front, which means he can disconnect and rely on experience to carry him. It’s the calmest he’s felt in a long time.
The sound of footsteps startles him, and he looks up. Sakuya’s in black silk pajamas that would look ridiculous on any normal person, but just serve to emphasize his long legs and creamy skin. There’s a flush high on his cheeks which brings out the pale color of his eyes, and Ryouta realizes he’s staring. He ducks his head quickly, pretending he can’t feel an inquisitive gaze on him.
“I made an omelet,” he says by way of explanation. “The rice is almost ready, so take a seat.”
He dishes out two portions, and they eat in silence; it’s not quite comfortable, but it could definitely be a lot worse. (At the very least, he’s glad there are no complaints about the food.) He’s beginning to suspect that, for all his presence and bluster, Sakuya is a creature who’s perfectly happy to be left on his own.
Washing up is a quick business, and when he glances back over his shoulder, his visitor is yawning behind one elegant hand. It’s still fairly early, but Ryouta can’t blame him: he’d probably be exhausted too if he’d been sleeping on campus for the last god-knows-how-long.
“Do you want to go to bed?” he asks, then realizes how that must have sounded and backtracks. “I mean, if you’re tired, I can set something up for you now.”
“Yes,” he says, “I think that would be good.”
Sakuya trails after him to his room, where Ryouta drags out a second futon from the closet and lays it out next to his own. It might have been better to give him the other room rather than force their proximity, but, well, he doesn’t think he’s comfortable with that either. Not when he still hasn’t found it in himself to deal with his mother’s old things, and he suspects Sakuya’s had enough of ghosts.
Once he’s done, he finds himself at something of a loose end. Staying feels odd, and almost certainly infringes on his personal space, but he can’t find it in himself to leave someone so fragile alone. Luckily his guest immediately stalks past him to take up a place on the futon, and looks up at him in a clear dismissal. “Your services are no longer required.”
“Um,” he says. “Good night, then.”
*
Ryouta’s too keyed up to sleep, not when he can sense someone else’s presence beside him. Sakuya’s awake, he’s awake, and Sakuya knows he’s awake, and he doesn’t even know how to begin navigating the tension. Their breathing is slightly out of rhythm, overlapping in the silent house.
“Kawara?” he hears quietly, somewhere between a minute and an hour later, and it chases the last possibility of sleep from his mind.
“Uh-huh?”
Sakuya says nothing for a long moment, and when he speaks again it’s much more tentative. “What do you love?”
He turns on his side so he can face the other boy. It’s not hard to make out Sakuya’s profile in the dark, staring up at the ceiling like he’s miles away. Hiyoko, Ryouta doesn’t say, although her name burns in the back of his throat.
“I don’t know,” he says instead, “but if you’re asking what’s important to me, I guess it’s being the kind of person my friends and family can depend on.”
Sakuya goes quiet again, long enough that he begins to doubt himself, and his next words are much softer. “I asked Tosaka the same question once, and she gave me some typical answer. But the last thing she said to me before she disappeared was that, if I really loved something, I should pursue it.”
Ryouta licks his dry lips; it’s starting to come together, now. “And what did you love enough to chase?”
“Music,” he says, and snorts. “A hobby at best, and one more befitting of my patronage than my participation.”
“Oh,” says Ryouta, and then, “I think I’ve still got my old flute around here somewhere. I would’ve dug it up if I’d known.”
“You played the flute?”
“A little. We don’t talk about the year I spent in concert band.”
Sakuya makes a sound that might, under other circumstances, have been called a laugh. “I take it you were terrible.”
“Awful. I stuck with it until they asked me politely to quit.”
He makes a thoughtful noise. “I don’t know much about the flute, but it could be an interesting experiment.”
“I’ll find it for you tomorrow night, then, and you can mess around with it after dinner.”
“You expect me to still be here tomorrow.”
“Yeah.” Ryouta swallows, but the fact he isn’t immediately rejected emboldens him. “You can stay here as long as you need. I don’t mind.”
“I… I can’t do that, Kawara. It would be unbefitting of a Le Bel to take advantage of your hospitality.”
If there’s one thing he’s learned about dealing with Sakuya in the last twelve months, it’s that he needs to be approached on his own terms. He doesn’t even know if tonight has helped, if he feels any better for warmth and food and company, especially when they’re such different people. But his heart is speaking louder than his head, and it’s stupid, but he can’t help himself. On impulse, he reaches over and rests his hand on Sakuya’s where it lies between them; the other boy stiffens, but he doesn’t pull away.
“Please,” Ryouta says. “I don’t want to be alone.”
Every little sound he makes is too loud in his ears as he waits for a response. It’s a more honest admission than he’d been meaning to make, but he’s not sure how else to plead his case. It’s an eternity before Sakuya shifts his hand, moving up but not away, and their fingers slot together neatly.
“Well,” he says, still not looking at him, “only because I owe Tosaka.”
Ryouta’s not sure how long they lie there, holding hands like a secret in the dark, but the last thing he remembers before he drifts off to sleep is the warmth of someone else’s skin against his own.