Work Text:
The apartment felt wrong without noise in it. Too still.
Hizashi had always filled spaces completely, even accidentally. Music from another room. Half-finished conversations shouted across the apartment. Loud laughter at stupid commercials. The constant hum of someone present and impossible to ignore.
Now there was only the refrigerator buzzing softly in the kitchen and rain ticking against the windows.
Shouta sat on the edge of the couch with his phone face-down beside him.
11:47 PM
Hizashi had left nearly three hours ago. He should call. The thought had been circling endlessly in the back of his mind, dull and repetitive.
Call him. Go after him. Fix it.
But every time Shouta picked up his phone, the argument replayed itself so vividly it made his chest feel tight.
“You could at least look me in the eye while lying to me.”
“That’s not what this is.”
“Then what is it?”
God.
He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. The worst part was that Hizashi had looked hurt long before he looked angry. That was the part Shouta couldn’t stop seeing. Not the shouting or the accusations, just that brief, awful moment where realization had crossed Hizashi’s face as he stared down at the messages on Shouta’s phone. Like something inside him had quietly cracked.
Shouta exhaled shakily and reached for the cooling mug on the coffee table before remembering he’d already finished it an hour ago.
His phone buzzed suddenly against the couch cushion. Shouta grabbed it too fast. Not Hizashi, it was an unknown number. For one irrational second, disappointment hit hard enough to make him feel sick.
Then another thought followed immediately after: Why the hell hadn’t Hizashi answered a single text yet?
The apartment still smelled faintly like Hizashi’s shampoo. It clung stubbornly to everything. The couch blankets, the hoodies hanging near the entryway. The pillow Shouta hadn’t touched since Hizashi stormed out earlier that evening.
Hours later, it still felt temporary. Like any second the front door would slam open and Hizashi would come back already halfway through another argument.
Shouta wished he would, because the silence was worse. His phone buzzed again. Still nothing important. Just another missed message notification from an agency sidekick he’d ignored twice already. Shouta let the screen dim without answering.
Across the room, Hizashi’s charger still sat plugged into the wall beside the couch. He hadn’t taken it. That stupid detail lodged itself painfully somewhere beneath Shouta’s ribs. Because people planning to stay gone usually took their charger.
Right?
The thought should have comforted him. Instead, unease curled tighter in his stomach. Shouta leaned forward, elbows braced against his knees, and scrubbed both hands down his face slowly.
The conversation replayed endlessly whether he wanted it to or not.
“How long were you planning to keep this from me?”
The words hadn’t even been about the messages at first. That was the worst part. The messages only became the explosion afterward.
At first, it had just been the file. One mission report buried deep in old case archives. Restricted access. Half-redacted names. Shouta had only opened it because something about the dates felt wrong. Then he saw it.
Primary Target: Aizawa Shouta.
His stomach twisted all over again.
Twenty years. Twenty years Hizashi had known. Twenty years carrying that truth alone while Shouta mourned Oboro without ever understanding the full shape of what had happened.
And when Shouta confronted him about it, Hizashi had looked terrified. Not guilty, terrified.
That should have mattered more than it did. Instead, the argument spiraled. Voices got louder. Old grief cracked open sharp enough to bleed through everything else.
And then Hizashi saw the messages. Everything after that blurred together into noise. Too many raised voices. Half-finished explanations. Hurt sharpened into anger so quickly Shouta barely recognized either of them by the end of it.
Then the front door slammed. Hours later, the apartment still felt like it was waiting for him to come back.
The kitchen lights remained on. One of Hizashi’s shoes was still kicked carelessly near the entryway. Shouta sat on the floor beside the couch with his phone clenched tightly in one hand. His text conversation with Hizashi stayed open on the screen.
moonlight:
come home.
delivered.
Shouta stared at the tiny word beneath the message until his vision blurred. His thumb moved again before he could think too hard about it.
moonlight:
we need to talk about this properly.
delivered.
Another message.
moonlight:
I promise I'll explain properly this time.
delivered.
The silence afterward felt unbearable. Normally Hizashi answered everything eventually, even during arguments. Especially during arguments.
Shouta swallowed hard before typing again. Deleted it. Typed another.
moonlight:
sunshine?
just please tell me where you are..
delivered.
Rain battered softly against the windows. Somewhere outside, a siren wailed briefly through the night before fading into the distance. Shouta pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead and shut his eyes. He told himself Hizashi probably just needed space. Needed time to cool off. That was all.
People left after fights sometimes. People came back too. His phone screen dimmed in his hand. Still nothing.
──────────
The television played to itself somewhere in the background, volume low enough though neither of them were actually listening. Rain tapped softly against the balcony doors. A half-finished mug of coffee sat cold beside the couch.
Hizashi stood near the kitchen counter with Shouta’s phone in his hand. Shouta hadn’t even realized where he’d left it.
“That’s not what it looks like,” he said automatically.
The second the words left his mouth, he regretted them. Because nothing made a situation look worse faster than that sentence.
Hizashi laughed once, sharp and disbelieving. “Oh, good,” he said. “So there’s another completely reasonable explanation for why you’ve been messaging her at two in the morning?”
Shouta dragged a hand down his face. Exhaustion sat heavy behind his eyes, the kind that had been building for weeks now. “It’s not—”
“Not what I think?” Hizashi cut in. “You know, usually when people say that, it turns out to be exactly what they think.”
The phone hit the counter harder than necessary. The screen was still lit.
Shouta could see the messages from where he stood. A conversation dragged over several nights. Short replies. Missed calls. One message sent at 2:13 AM that simply read:
Aizawa:
I don’t know what to do anymore.
delivered.
God.
“Hizashi,” he said carefully, “I can explain.”
“Then explain.”
But that was the problem, he couldn’t. Not without dragging old ghosts into the middle of the room with them. Not without saying things Hizashi had spent years refusing to hear.
“You could at least look me in the eye while lying to me.”
Shouta flinched slightly. Not because Hizashi raised his voice, because he didn’t. That hurt worse.
“Hizashi—”
“No, seriously.” Hizashi crossed his arms tightly across his chest like he was physically holding himself together. “I wanna hear this one. You’ve been distant for days, you’re sneaking around texting her in the middle of the night, and now suddenly you ‘can’t explain?’”
“I’m not sneaking around.”
“Oh, that’s the defense you’re going with?”
Shouta felt irritation flare hot and fast beneath the exhaustion already grinding at his nerves. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?”
The words snapped through the apartment sharply enough that even the television noise seemed to disappear afterward. For a second, neither of them spoke.
Hizashi looked away first. And suddenly, underneath the anger, Shouta saw it again—that same strained, brittle expression Hizashi had been wearing ever since the archive incident three days ago. Fear. Guilt.
Shouta’s chest tightened painfully. “You knew,” he said quietly.
Hizashi went still. The shift in the room was immediate, sudden enough to make the air feel heavier. “Knew what?” Hizashi asked too quickly.
Shouta laughed once under his breath, tired and humorless.
“Don’t do that right now.”
“Hizashi.” This time his voice cracked slightly around the name. “You knew Oboro died because of me.”
Hizashi’s expression changed instantly. Not surprise or confusion. And somehow that hurt more than either of those would have. Shouta felt something cold settle heavily in his stomach. “You knew,” he repeated quietly.
The rain outside seemed louder suddenly. Or maybe the apartment had just gone that silent.
“Shouta,” Hizashi said carefully, “it wasn’t like that.”
“Primary target: Aizawa Shouta,” Shouta recited flatly. “That’s what the report said.”
Hizashi closed his eyes briefly. That tiny movement felt more like confirmation than words ever could.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Shouta laughed once, the sound coming out wrong. Small and broken around the edges.
“Twenty years,” he said. “Twenty fucking years and nobody thought maybe I deserved to know that?”
“You think I wanted you carrying that?” Hizashi shot back immediately. “You think that would’ve helped anything?”
“It would’ve been the truth.”
“And the truth that would’ve destroyed you.” Something sharp flashed across Hizashi’s face then—anger, grief, panic, maybe all three tangled together. “You already blamed yourself enough after Oboro died,” he continued, voice rising. “If you’d known he was there because of you—”
“Because he died instead of me?” Shouta interrupted.
Hizashi stopped talking, and that silence answered everything. Shouta looked away first this time. God, his chest hurt.
All at once the past twenty years rearranged themselves into something uglier. Every condolence, every nightmare. Every anniversary. Every moment he’d mourned Oboro without understanding the full shape of what had happened. And Hizashi had known the entire time.
“I was trying to protect you,” Hizashi said finally, quieter now.
Shouta dragged both hands down his face hard enough to hurt. “Yeah,” he muttered bitterly. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”
Hizashi recoiled slightly like the words physically struck him. Immediately, guilt twisted hot and ugly in Shouta’s chest. That wasn’t fair. None of this was fair. But exhaustion and grief had already hollowed him out too deeply to stop now.
“So what?” Hizashi asked suddenly. “You found the file and immediately ran back to your ex to talk about me?”
Shouta blinked. “What?”
Hizashi laughed again, sharp and wounded. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. I saw the messages, Shouta.”
“That’s not—”
“She’s the one you go to now?” Hizashi demanded. “After fifteen years together, she’s apparently easier to talk to than I am?”
“That’s not what this is.”
“Then what is it?”
Shouta opened his mouth to explain, before closing it again.
Because the problem was that the messages looked terrible. In isolation, they looked exactly like what Hizashi thought they were. Late-night conversations stretched over days. Missed calls. Half-finished sentences. One message after another written at hours when Shouta should’ve been asleep beside him.
Aizawa:
I can’t stop thinking about it.
Was he ever going to tell me?
delivered.
God.
Hizashi stared at him. Something uncertain flickered briefly across his face before hardening again. “Right,” he said flatly. “Your silence definitely makes this better.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Then say what you mean, Shouta.”
“I was asking for advice.”
The words hung uselessly between them. Hizashi barked out another disbelieving laugh. “You seriously expect me to believe that?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, come on.”
“I’m serious.”
“Your ex?” Hizashi snapped. “Your solution to finding out I kept something from you was running to your ex in the middle of the night?”
Shouta’s patience finally frayed. “Because every conversation with you about Oboro turns into this!”
The second the words left his mouth, regret hit hard. Hizashi went completely still.
Shouta immediately looked away. “...That’s not what I meant.”
“No,” Hizashi said quietly. Somehow the softness hurt worse than yelling would have. “I think it is.”
Rain rattled harder against the windows now, wind pushing against the balcony doors sharply enough to make the glass tremble. Hizashi swallowed once, then looked back down at the phone in his hand.
“What exactly did you tell her?” he asked.
Shouta hesitated. Too long. And that hesitation destroyed whatever fragile ground still existed beneath them. Hizashi’s expression crumpled almost imperceptibly before anger covered it again. “Oh my god,” he said quietly.
“Hizashi—”
“You talked to her about us?”
“No!”
“Then why can’t you answer the question?!”
Because most of the conversations hadn’t happened over text. Because Shouta had called her after midnight twice this week sounding half out of his mind. Because she was one of the only people left who remembered who Shouta had been before Oboro died. Because she’d listened quietly while he admitted things he couldn’t bring himself to say out loud to Hizashi yet.
Not because he loved her. Not because he wanted her back. But because he was drowning and grabbed the nearest familiar thing that knew how to keep him afloat. And somehow, standing here now, Shouta realized too late how awful that looked.
Hizashi stared at him for a long moment, like he was trying to decide whether he even recognized the person standing in front of him anymore. Shouta hated that look more than the yelling and the accusations. That quiet, wounded disbelief was unbearable.
“Hizashi,” he said again, voice rough, “it wasn’t about her.”
“Maybe not for you.”
“That’s not fair.”
A sharp laugh escaped Hizashi. “Fair?” he echoed. “You wanna talk about fair right now?”
Shouta dragged a hand down his face, exhaustion finally cracking into something sharper. “I found out my best friend died because someone wanted me dead,” he said. “Sorry if I haven’t been communicating perfectly.”
The words hit the room wrong immediately. Hizashi flinched, and that flicker of reaction only made everything worse. Shouta felt it—the shift, the fracture widening between them—and he hated that he couldn’t pull it back.
“Hizashi—”
“No,” Hizashi said quickly. His voice was thinner now, less certain. Like something underneath him had started to give up. “You don’t get to throw that at me like I wanted this.”
“I didn’t say you did.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Silence snapped tight between them. Hizashi swallowed once. “So what, then? I see your phone, I see messages to your ex at two in the morning, and I’m just supposed to—what? Smile and trust there’s a reasonable explanation?”
Shouta’s jaw tightened. “She was helping me process what I found.”
“Oh my god,” Hizashi muttered, running a hand through his hair. “You really expect me to believe that?”
“Yes!” Shouta snapped, then immediately exhaled, forcing himself to steady. “Yes, because it’s the truth.”
A beat. Then Hizashi laughed again, but it broke halfway, his grip tightening around the phone. And when he finally spoke, his voice was quieter. “After everything with Oboro…” he started.
Shouta’s stomach dropped slightly, and Hizashi hesitated just long enough. Shouta stepped forward half a pace. “…You still hid it from me,” Shouta said instead, voice suddenly low. “For years.”
Hizashi went still. Shouta felt something inside him sharpen into clarity—not anger anymore. Something colder. “You knew,” he continued. “You knew he died because the target was me.”
Hizashi didn’t deny it. Didn’t confirm it either. But the silence was answer enough. Shouta’s voice dropped further. “And after everything with Oboro—after all these years—you still thought I’d leave if you told me the truth?”
Hizashi’s expression shifted. Something like guilt flickering through it, fast and unsteady. “I didn’t think—” he started.
“You didn’t trust me,” Shouta cut in.
Hizashi stopped. Thunder rumbled against the glass. “I didn’t trust you with it,” Hizashi said finally, voice breaking slightly at the edges. “Because I knew what it would do to you.”
“That wasn’t your decision to make.”
“I was trying to protect you!”
Shouta let out a short, humorless breath. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ve noticed you keep saying that.”
That landed.
Hizashi’s shoulders tensed. And for the first time that night, his anger didn’t rise to meet the pain. It just… faltered. He looked down at the phone in his hand, then back at Shouta. Something in his expression shifted—not resolution or forgiveness. Distance.
“I can’t do this right now,” he said quietly.
Shouta went still. “Hizashi—”
“I can’t,” he repeated. He set the phone down carefully on the counter, like it didn’t matter anymore.
Then he grabbed his jacket. Shouta’s voice dropped. “Don’t leave.”
Hizashi paused at the door just long enough that Shouta almost thought he might turn around. But he didn’t. “I just need space,” he said. And then he was gone.
──────────
A month later, the apartment looked like there wasn't anyone living in it anymore. Just… paused. A life stopped mid-motion. Shouta hadn’t left it properly in weeks.
Hizashi’s hoodie sat on the back of the couch. Shouta wore it more often than he didn’t. It didn’t smell like detergent anymore, it smelled faintly like him if he didn’t move too much. If he didn’t think too hard about how quickly things faded. That was the only reason Shouta hadn’t washed it.
His phone sat beside him, the contact name on the screen seemingly mocking him.
Hizashi.
The chat was open before he even remembered doing it. The last message sat at the bottom like it had never stopped existing.
moonlight:
sunshine, please...
sent.
Shouta started typing again before he could stop himself. Paused. Deleted it before typing again.
moonlight:
I’m not mad anymore.
sent.
He set the phone down carefully, like it might crack if he held it wrong. The apartment didn’t answer his silence, it never did.
At night, the silence was worse. Because silence used to have weight to it—shared silence, the kind that meant someone was just in the next room breathing, existing, making the space feel occupied even when they weren’t talking. Now it was just absence pretending to be normal.
Shouta sat on the edge of the bed fully dressed, hoodie pulled on once more over his shirt even though it was too warm inside. Every time he moved, the fabric shifted slightly, and for a fraction of a second his brain still tried to convince him it meant something.
That it meant return. That it meant presence. That it meant anything other than memory.
His phone buzzed again. He looked at it immediately this time.
Nemuri.
For a second, he just stared at the name. Then, he set the phone face-down on the mattress.
His hand stayed there afterward, resting on the fabric like he was anchoring himself to something physical. The hoodie sleeve covered his wrist. Faintly warm from his own body heat, in a way that hurt more than anything else.
“...You said you just needed space,” he murmured into the empty room.
No response. Not that there ever was.
──────────
The knock came thrice, before the door opened. Nemuri let herself in without waiting. She didn’t pause in the doorway this time, she already knew what she’d find.
The apartment hit her immediately—too still, too dim, like it had stopped expecting movement weeks ago and never corrected itself. The air smelled faintly stale. Coffee left too long, fabric that hadn’t been aired out properly. Something familiar underneath all that made her jaw tighten.
Her eyes moved across the room. Shouta was on the bed, still awake. Still exactly where she had been told he’d be. The hoodie confirmed it before anything else did. Hizashi’s hoodie. Worn too often too long.
Nemuri shut the door behind her more firmly this time, the sound sharper than necessary in the quiet space. “Shouta.”
No response, not even a shift. She walked further in. The phone on the mattress was lit. A contact name flashed before the screen faded.
Nemuri didn’t look away from him. “You’ve been in here for a month,” she said.
Still nothing. That silence wasn’t avoidance anymore, it was collapse.
She exhaled slowly, then stepped closer to the bed. “Look at me.”
A beat. Then, finally, his eyes moved. Not fully, but enough. They were exhausted in a way that didn’t look like lack of sleep anymore.
“You haven't returned any calls.” Still nothing. Her gaze flicked briefly to the phone again. Nemuri crouched slightly so she was in his line of sight. “Shouta,” she said, softer now, “you can’t keep doing this.”
His throat moved like he was about to speak. Nothing came out at first, but when it finally did, it was flat and hoarse. “I know.”
That should have been the end of it, but it wasn’t. Because he didn’t move. Didn’t get up. Didn’t reach for anything. Just lay there like the world had already ended once and wasn’t interested in repeating itself.
Nemuri’s expression softened just slightly. “…He wouldn’t want this,” she said.
A pause. Shouta’s fingers twitched once against the blanket, almost imperceptible, before going still again. “I know,” he said again. But he still didn’t change.
Nemuri didn’t respond right away. She just looked at him for a long moment, like she was measuring how much of him was still left to pull back. Then she stood. “Okay,” she said simply.
Shouta’s eyes shifted faintly toward her, unfocused. That tone meant something was coming. Nemuri crossed the room in three steps and pulled open the curtains. Light flooded in too suddenly. The apartment looked worse in daylight.
Dust that hadn’t been visible at night. Empty cups stacked near the sink. The faint outline of where someone used to sit on the couch more often than anywhere else.
Shouta flinched slightly, raising a hand against the brightness. Nemuri ignored it. “When was the last time you ate something that wasn’t coffee?” she asked.
“I’m fine.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
Silence. She walked out of the bedroom quickly into the kitchen, opening the fridge. She paused before closing it again. “…Right,” she said.
Then she returned to him. “Shower.”
Shouta didn’t move. Nemuri sighed, long and controlled, like she was refusing to let frustration take over. “Stand up,” she said.
Still nothing, so she walked back over to the bed and grabbed the edge of the blanket. Shouta’s grip tightened slightly, but not enough to stop her. She pulled once. Then harder. The hoodie shifted with him, slipping slightly off one shoulder before he caught it again like instinct alone was still functioning. “Nemuri,” he said, warning faint but empty.
“No,” she cut in immediately. “You don’t get to ‘Nemuri’ me right now.”
Another pull. This time he moved—just enough that his feet hit the floor unsteadily. The reaction wasn’t resistance, it was delayed compliance. Like his body had forgotten how to argue.
“Good,” she said sharply. “Now walk.”
“I said I’m—”
“Walking.”
She didn’t raise her voice, she didn’t need to. Shouta stood unsteady for a second longer than he should’ve been, then caught himself on the edge of the bed. The hoodie shifted again.
Nemuri watched him like she was making sure he didn’t collapse mid-step. “Bathroom,” she said.
He didn’t answer, but he moved. Nemuri followed him halfway down the hallway, before stopping at the door. “Shouta.”
He paused, hand on the frame.
“…Ten minutes,” she said. “And if you don’t come out, I’m breaking this door down.” A beat. Then, quieter: “You don’t get to disappear in here.”
Shouta didn’t respond, just closed the bathroom door. And for the first time in weeks, something in the apartment changed shape.
The door opened again quietly ten minutes later. Shouta stepped out with damp hair clinging slightly to his forehead, water still darkening the towel Nemuri had left on the counter.
He looked cleaner, but that was about it. Same posture. Same blank exhaustion behind the eyes. Just… less visibly worn down by neglect.
Nemuri glanced up from where she was leaning against the hallway wall. “Better,” she said.
No response. He didn’t really seem to register her presence fully. He just turned slightly, like he was orienting himself by habit more than awareness. The apartment felt too bright now. Too real.
Shouta stopped near the kitchen without really deciding to. His gaze drifted to the sink, then to the couch. Then he remembered his phone still sitting on the mattress in the other room.
Nemuri watched him carefully. “You need to eat,” she said.
“I’m fine.”
She pushed off the wall and walked past him into the kitchen. She opened a cabinet. Closed it. Opened another. “…There’s nothing in here,” she said flatly.
“I haven’t had time.”
Nemuri let out a short breath through her nose. “We both know that's not the truth.”
Shouta didn’t respond. She pulled out her phone instead, already typing. “Sit down,” she said without looking at him.
He didn’t move. Nemuri stopped typing and looked up. “Shouta.”
A pause. Then, very slowly, he sat at the edge of the kitchen chair.
Nemuri resumed typing. “Good,” she said. “Stay there.”
He stared at the tabletop without really seeing it at all. Nemuri placed her phone down and studied him for a second longer. “You’re wearing one of his hoodies again,” she said quietly.
Shouta’s fingers twitched slightly at the fabric near his wrist. “…Yeah,” he said after a moment.
Nemuri didn’t push further. Because there was nothing left in that answer that she didn’t already understand.
And Shouta—still sitting there, still breathing, still present—looked like someone who had already stopped expecting the world to answer him back.
──────────
The takeout containers sat mostly untouched between them. Nemuri had stopped commenting on how little Shouta actually ate somewhere around the third forced bite.
At least he’d eaten at all. That was apparently the new standard now.
The apartment had gone quieter again afterward, though less oppressively this time. The kind of silence that came from exhaustion instead of avoidance. Nemuri leaned back against the couch with a tired sigh while Shouta stood without a word and wandered toward the kitchen.
Cabinet doors opened. Closed. Water ran quietly from the sink. Then the kettle clicked on.
“Coffee this late?” Nemuri asked absently.
No response again. She rubbed at one eye tiredly and glanced toward the kitchen just in time to see Shouta setting down two very distinct mugs. Her chest tightened slightly. He didn’t even seem to notice he’d done it. Everything about the movement was automatic. Muscle memory carrying him through routines his brain hadn’t caught up to yet.
Coffee poured evenly between both mugs. Sugar in one. None in the other.
Then Shouta stopped, the spoon hovering briefly in his hand. Silence settled heavily across the apartment. Very slowly, his eyes lowered toward the second mug.
And Nemuri watched realization hit him all over again, the quiet devastation settling into familiar places. Shouta reached for the mug. “I’ll have it,” Nemuri said immediately.
He froze slightly, like he'd forgotten there actually was a second person currently in the apartment. For a second, neither of them moved.
Then, without a word, Shouta carried the second mug over and set it carefully in front of her.
His hand shook once against the familiar ceramic before pulling away. Nemuri wrapped both hands around the warmth instantly like pretending this was normal might somehow make it hurt less.
Shouta stayed standing there a second too long afterward, like he’d forgotten what came next. Then he finally sat back down on the opposite end of the couch. The silence returned quietly. After a while, Nemuri took a slow sip of the coffee that was much sweeter than anything Shouta would ever willingly drink. Neither of them commented on it.
And sometime later, so softly it barely sounded intentional, Shouta murmured, “…I keep forgetting.”
Nemuri stared down into the mug for a long moment before answering. “…I know.”
──────────
Nemuri left sometime after midnight. Not abruptly or with false reassurances. Just a quiet hand against Shouta’s shoulder on the way out and a soft, “Try to sleep, okay?” that neither of them believed.
Then the apartment was silent again. Shouta stayed on the couch long after the front door closed. His mug sat empty on the coffee table now, Hizashi’s mug remained untouched beside it. He should wash it. The thought came and went without consequence.
Outside, rain tapped softly against the windows again. Not heavy enough to storm. Just enough to make the city feel distant.
Shouta stared at nothing for a while before finally reaching for his phone. The motion was automatic now, instinct worn into habit. The screen lit his face pale in the darkness.
The conversation opened instantly. Weeks of unanswered messages stared back at him from the screen. Some were long, some were short. Some still coherent, while others were clearly written sometime past exhaustion.
moonlight:
Nemuri came over today.
sent.
A pause. Then another.
moonlight:
she said the apartment smells bad.
I haven't left properly in the past month.
sent.
Shouta stared at the screen for a long time afterward, like he was waiting for the typing bubble to appear. Like some irrational part of him still believed enough messages might eventually reach wherever Hizashi had gone.
His thumb moved again, before stopping. Then typed slowly:
moonlight:
I made your coffee again by accident.
sent.
The apartment stayed silent. Shouta swallowed hard, before typing once more before he could stop himself.
moonlight:
I'm sorry, I know you hate it
when I lock myself out
but I just don't know what
to do without you, Zashi...
I'm really sorry about the fight..
sent.
His hand tightened suddenly around the phone. Not enough to break it, but enough to hurt. Because the worst part was that he couldn’t even remember what Hizashi’s last words to him had been anymore. Only the door slamming shut afterward. The rain. Shouta standing there still too angry, too hurt, too exhausted to follow him.
The memory replayed constantly now, though they were different every time. In some versions, he stopped him. In others, he apologized sooner. Sometimes Hizashi turned around before opening the door. Sometimes he came home.
But never the real version. Never the one where Shouta let him walk out alone. And never the one where he came back to his husband's arms.
moonlight:
I'm sorry I didn't stop you
I'm sorry for being a coward
sent.
moonlight:
you know I never really blamed
you for hiding the truth, right?
sent.
moonlight:
I wasn't trying to replace you
I just needed advice from
someone who knew me before
everything got complicated
sent.
moonlight:
god, she doesn't even like men anymore
I know that's such a weak defense, but I
don't know how else I could prove it to you..
sent.
moonlight:
will you ever forgive me, sunshine?
I really am sorry
baby, please just come back
I don't know how much longer I could
keep going like this without you
sent.
──────────
The storm sounded louder the second Hizashi stepped into the hallway.
It was muted before. Distant. Now the rain hammered hard enough against the building windows to echo faintly through the corridor. The apartment door slammed shut behind him with enough force to rattle the walls.
For a second, he just stood there breathing hard, heart still pounding from the argument. From Shouta’s voice. From the look on his face when everything finally came apart between them.
You hid it from me.
God.
Hizashi dragged a hand harshly across his face and started walking before he could think too hard about turning back around. The elevator took too long. The lobby felt too warm, and everything looked too bright.
By the time he reached the parking garage, the sound of rain had become deafening overhead. Water streamed down the exit ramps in shimmering sheets. Headlights outside blurred against wet concrete and reflected gold across the floor.
His phone buzzed once in his pocket. Hizashi ignored it.
The car door slammed shut beside him, muffling the storm immediately. Silence enveloped him, only the sound of his breathing still present. He leaned forward slowly, resting both hands against the steering wheel.
His chest hurt.
Shouta had looked devastated. That was the problem, because somehow that hurt worse. His phone buzzed again somewhere in his pocket. Then again. Hizashi closed his eyes briefly. He still didn’t check it. Instead, he shoved the keys into the ignition and started the engine with a low rumble beneath him. The headlights swept across wet concrete pillars as he slowly pulled out of the parking space.
The storm grew louder the closer he got to the exit ramp. Then the car emerged from beneath the building overhang, and rain slammed against the windshield hard enough to blur the city lights into streaks of gold and white almost instantly.
The wipers struggled to keep up. Hizashi tightened both hands around the wheel as he pulled onto the road. The city looked smeared beneath the storm, neon signs stretched across wet pavement, brake lights glowing hazily red through sheets of rain. Water sprayed violently beneath passing tires.
His phone buzzed again. Hizashi continued ignoring it, jaw tightening slightly. He drove without really thinking about where he was going. All he knew was that he wanted to get away for a while. Away from the apartment. Away from the fight. Away from the look on Shouta’s face when the truth finally came apart between them.
The rain worsened. Traffic crawled slower at each intersection. By the third red light, Hizashi finally exhaled sharply and reached for his phone. The screen lit his face pale blue in the dark car interior.
Shouta. Of course it was Shouta. A bitter laugh escaped him before he opened the messages anyway.
moonlight:
come home.
Hizashi stared at it before reading the next one.
moonlight:
we need to talk about this properly.
And another.
moonlight:
I promise I'll explain properly this time.
Something tight in Hizashi’s chest twisted painfully, because Shouta never chased people. Not like this. Not immediately. Another buzz interrupted the thought. Hizashi looked down automatically, and felt his anger crack apart all at once.
moonlight:
sunshine?
just please tell me where you are..
The fight vanished instantly. The hurt was still there, of course. The grief. The years of things neither of them had known how to say properly. But suddenly none of it mattered more than the fact that Shouta sounded scared. Not defensive anymore, or angry.
The light turned green. Cars behind him honked almost immediately. Hizashi blinked hard, quickly shoving the phone back down beside him before pulling forward again.
“…Shit,” he whispered.
His chest ached differently now. Softer. Like something slowly unknotting itself. And suddenly all he wanted was to go home.
He could already picture it: going back upstairs, Shouta opening the door looking exhausted and guilty and relieved all at once. Neither of them knowing where to start. Hizashi laughed weakly under his breath. God, they were idiots.
The next intersection ahead glowed red through the rain. Traffic had already started backing up along the main road leading toward the apartment. Normally he wouldn’t care. But tonight, he did. Hizashi tapped restless fingers against the steering wheel before flicking on his turn signal instead.
Right turn, towards the shortcut. Faster.
The roads narrowed almost immediately after the turn, slick with rainwater and reflecting fractured neon from storefront signs. Rain hammered harder against the windshield, the tires slipping slightly over pooled water when he rounded the next corner too quickly.
Hizashi cursed under his breath, tightening his grip on the wheel. Another intersection approached ahead.
Yellow light. He could still make it, just one more turn. Just a little farther.
His phone sat lit beside him. Still open to Shouta’s messages. Hizashi glanced at it once, then reached for it. One hand stayed on the wheel while the other moved clumsily across the keyboard. A helpless smile pulled weakly at his mouth despite everything. “Idiot,” he murmured softly.
The light turned red, but Hizashi didn't notice and accelerated anyway. His thumb hit send, just as headlights exploded across the driver's side. Far too bright, too close.
The horn came next.
Then impact.
Metal screamed violently as the world snapped sideways hard enough to steal the air from his lungs. Glass shattered. Something slammed against his shoulder. His ribs. His head.
The sound afterward was somehow worse. Not silence, just the rain. Endless against crumpled metal. For a long moment, Hizashi couldn’t understand why he was on the passenger side floor.
His ears rang violently. Everything hurt, and breathing hurt worst of all.
The dashboard lights flickered weakly somewhere above him, while the rainwater leaked slowly through shattered glass.
His phone lay only a few inches away, the screen cracked and flickering but still lit. Hizashi stared at it sluggishly through blurred vision, trying to force his thoughts back together long enough to understand what he was looking at.
The message box was still open, cursor blinking weakly. Waiting. His hand twitched toward it instinctively, shaking and slow.
The screen flickered once. Then again. And finally displayed:
sunshine:
I'm sorry too, moonlight
I'm coming home
sending...