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That was the spark.
The beginning of the end.
The sentence that shattered everything.
Gun had run, tears burning down his face, straight into the arms of a confused, worried Yotha — who held him like the world had just cracked open.
Then came the punch.
Yotha, who had thrown plenty of punches in his life — but never, never at his brother — crossed that line.
And Wine — quiet, shy, keep-to-himself Wine, his brother’s boyfriend — moved .
No warning. No words.
He lunged at Yotha and hit him, breath ragged, hands shaking, but eyes full of fire.
It was chaos. It was heartbreak.
And it was the beginning of the end of their Perfect 10 Liners.
____
Yotha regretted it two seconds later.
Wine didn’t.
He wouldn’t .
Not when someone laid hands on Faifa.
And especially not when it was Yotha — the one person who knew, better than anyone, that Faifa would never raise a hand in return.
Not even if he was hit.
Not even if it was Yotha.
And that — that was what made Wine’s blood boil.
If they wanted Faifa to raise his hands, maybe they should’ve hit Wine .
Maybe then he would’ve fought back.
But the second mistake of the day came right after:
Yotha, flushed with rage and still reeling from Wine’s hit, raised his fist again — this time at Wine .
That’s when something cracked.
Something inside Faifa broke open — silently, violently.
In the blur of shouting and motion, in the storm of confusion and betrayal, he moved.
For the first time —
Faifa, the extroverted one, the altruist, the peacekeeper.
The one who smiled for everyone.
The one who preached nonviolence with his whole chest.
Faifa raised his fist.
And he struck.
Not a stranger.
Not a villain.
His own brother.
_____
Gun, who had chased after a Yotha possessed by rage, was drowning in guilt.
If only he hadn’t said anything.
Because of him, Yotha had hit one of the people he loved the most, his brother —
and then hit the most important person in his brother’s life: Wine.
He had no idea how they would get out of this.
All he wanted was to disappear.
To vanish.
To die.
Arm arrived on the scene, shocked, sad, and scared.
He knew the members of his group well.
And although he was aware of Yotha’s history with violence, he had never seen him this angry — not even close.
Not with Faifa, his brother.
Not with Wine, the youngest, the one who had joined last.
He didn’t understand what was happening.
Then, with all the force he could muster, he shouted:
“ENOUGH!”
_____
“Enough,” Arm said, his voice calm but trembling, almost breaking into tears.
Yotha, still on the ground, slowly rose with an indecipherable look — angry, drowning in guilt, shocked from being hit, and terrified that his own brother had snapped.
But it was the guilt that ate at him the most.
He had hit Faifa.
He had hit Wine.
He had hurt his brother — his peaceful, non-violent brother — who now looked at him with a mixture of sadness, surprise, and disbelief.
And he had almost made Arm cry — the senior who had welcomed him with open arms, given him advice, and stood by him through everything.
But Yotha was also angry.
Angry at his younger brother — the one who always did everything to keep everyone happy.
Because now, Faifa had hurt Gun — the love of his life — so deeply that Gun had broken into his arms, bursting into tears.
_____
“Everybody, stand up.”
His voice cut through the silence like a knife.
“Someone’s going to explain to me right now what the hell is going on.
I want every detail — and no arguments.”
***
The day had started happily.
Wine had been laughing in Faifa’s arms as Faifa covered him with kisses and playful bites along his chest and neck.
After some healthy morning sex, they had headed to campus, where they met up with Jay and Ben — Wine’s friends — and had breakfast together.
It had been a day like so many others — light, easy, full of joy.
Faifa teasing his juniors with that familiar sparkle in his eyes, and Wine watching him with quiet adoration, letting him do it all.
Then, like every other day, they had split up.
Each going to their own wing of campus.
No one could have imagined how it would end.
____
Faifa had just finished a math exam he wasn’t entirely satisfied with.
He hadn’t done badly — just not as well as he’d hoped.
Grumbling in that distinctively dramatic, slightly annoying way of his, he had left the classroom alongside Phuri, his classmate and the person he spent the most time with.
The two had headed straight to the cafeteria.
Faifa had ordered a green tea and a slice of cake — a huge one, even though he absolutely shouldn’t have.
He had a lactose allergy.
But with Wine not around to monitor him or launch into one of his concerned lectures, Faifa had let himself indulge, fully aware he’d need his pills afterward to avoid getting sick.
He didn’t care.
The cake was worth it.
____
He and Phuri, between sips of tea and bites of cake, had slipped into one of their usual, easy conversations.
They were talking about Phuri’s friends — the ones outside campus — nothing serious, just passing time.
“What should I do, my boy?” Phuri sighed, half-dramatic.
“I don’t know how to make it up to him. I just made a joke — one of mine — and now he doesn’t want to forgive me.”
He turned toward Faifa with pleading eyes.
“Faifaaa, help me. You must’ve argued with someone before, right?”
That’s when it happened — the moment .
Faifa had laughed, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
There was something different in his voice.
Still teasing, still smiling, but the humor wasn’t real.
And that something in his tone—
That was what triggered everything.
⸻
Wine arrived earlier than expected.
Without missing a beat, Faifa casually slid his second half-eaten slice of cake across the table toward Phuri, subtle and practiced.
He didn’t want an argument — not one he knew he’d lose.
Not with Wine.
Phuri left soon after.
Faifa stood, brushing off crumbs, ready to walk Wine to class.
They were smiling. They were moving.
And then—
Yotha appeared.
Out of nowhere.
Unrecognizable.
Eyes wild, jaw clenched, rage written across his face like war paint.
Before anyone could say a word,
he struck.
A single, sharp blow to Faifa’s left cheek — clean, hard, and deliberate.
____
It had all happened so damn fast.
Wine hadn’t even seen the punch coming — only the moment after , when Faifa hit the ground.
And then his body moved before his mind could catch up.
He had hit Yotha — without hesitation, without thinking — with rage in his fists and fury in his chest.
Because Yotha knew .
He knew exactly who he had hit.
And Wine…
Wine wasn’t going to forgive that.
Not easily.
Maybe not ever.
By the time Arm arrived and the chaos calmed, they had all pulled themselves to their feet.
Wine, his cheek still sore from the brief scuffle, was burning inside.
Faifa, quiet now, sat with sadness in his eyes — disappointment, confusion, and worry for Wine all tangled into one expression.
He couldn’t imagine a single reason in the world that would make Yotha raise a hand against him .
They found a spot far from campus paths, away from people, from curious eyes and whispered voices.
Just the five of them.
Gun was still crying.
Yotha was staring at the ground, unmoving.
Faifa, his cheek red and marked, kept his eyes fixed on his brother — waiting, searching.
And Wine…
Wine sat by the window, jaw tight, fists clenched in his lap, trying not to scream.
Trying to hold it all in.
The silence between them was thick.
Not peaceful — heavy .
Like something sharp and waiting to break.
***
Arm looked at his nongs , still filled with confusion, trying to piece together what the hell had happened.
The silence was suffocating.
Until Gun broke it.
“I’m sorry… sorry, it’s all my fault.”
His voice was broken — small, shaking under the weight of guilt.
Wine turned toward him, eyes sharp with something between curiosity and accusation.
Yotha leaned forward instinctively, wrapping his arms around Gun in a protective embrace.
“…I was wrong. I know I was wrong,” Yotha admitted, his voice low, eyes fixed on the ground.
“But Gun is the most important person in my life. If someone hurts him… I can’t forgive them. Not even if it’s my brother.”
Arm raised an eyebrow, surprised.
Wine’s expression twisted with disbelief, almost disgust.
As if the very idea of Faifa hurting Gun was absurd.
And then Faifa spoke — for the first time.
His voice cut clean through the air.
“And what the hell exactly did I do to you?”
His tone was cold.
Colder than anyone at that table had ever heard from him.
Not mocking. Not warm. Not kind.
Just furious .
His voice was hoarse, frayed at the edges.
And his face — not just his bruised cheek — was flushed red.
From anger, or from shame, or maybe from trying not to cry.
____
Faifa’s voice faltered, breaking into a dry cough.
At first, no one moved.
Then Wine noticed.
The slight tremble in Faifa’s hands. The pallor of his lips. The way his shoulders were rising too quickly with each breath.
“Fai?”
His voice dropped, panic slipping in through the cracks.
“What’s wrong—what’s happening?”
Faifa didn’t answer.
His hand moved toward his throat. His breathing — fast, shallow, wrong.
Wine was on his knees in front of him instantly.
“Hey—hey, talk to me. Did you—”
And then it hit him.
The cake.
”…That cake… wasn’t P'Phuri’s?”
Faifa blinked at him, guilt swimming in his eyes as he tried to nod.
Tried, and failed.
“Oh my god…”
Wine’s heart dropped into his stomach.
“You didn’t take your pills?”
Faifa opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Just a rasp.
Then a whisper, cracked and broken:
“Bag… still in the cafeteria…”
“Shit,” Arm muttered, jumping to his feet.
“He’s reacting—he needs his meds now!”
“He has a dairy allergy,” Wine snapped at no one in particular, his voice rising in panic.
“He’s not stupid—he never eats cake without his pills, I thought— I thought it was Phuri’s !”
Guilt hit him like a tidal wave.
Faifa leaned forward, wheezing, body trembling.
Gun stood frozen. Yotha finally moved, hands twitching at his sides but not knowing how to help.
____
They got him to the hospital just in time.
By the time the emergency team arrived, Faifa could barely sit upright, his lips tinged angry red, his chest heaving uselessly for air that wouldn’t come.
He passed out in the hallway.
Wine was still clutching his hand when they pulled him away.
Now the sterile white walls of the hospital waiting room pressed in on them, suffocating despite all the oxygen in the world.
Yotha sat like stone. His fists clenched so tightly his knuckles had gone pale.
He hadn’t spoken since they arrived.
Gun was crying silently in the farthest chair, eyes swollen and red, hugging his knees like a child.
Arm was pacing, checking his watch even though time had stopped.
Wine didn’t look at any of them.
He stood by the window, arms folded tight across his chest, face unreadable — except for the anger, sitting behind his eyes like a storm with nowhere to go.
Yotha finally tried.
“I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t.”
Wine’s voice was sharp. Final.
Yotha swallowed hard.
He couldn’t sit still anymore.
He got up, dragging a hand down his face, but the guilt didn’t move with it.
“I never should have hit him. Or you. Or—”
His voice cracked.
“I let my anger talk, I always let it talk and this time—”
“This time you almost killed him.”
Wine’s voice was low, venomous.
He didn’t shout. He didn’t need to.
“You think you’re the only one who gets angry? You think you’re the only one allowed to snap?”
He turned to face Yotha now, eyes dark, jaw clenched.
“If you hadn’t made a mess of everything, if P'Gun hadn’t started this, P'Fai would have never forgotten to take his pills. He never forgets. Never.”
Gun flinched.
Yotha opened his mouth, but there was nothing left to say.
“I don’t want either of you near him,” Wine said, and this time his voice did waver — not from uncertainty, but from how close he was to breaking.
“Not now. Not until he’s awake. Not until he’s safe.”
He turned back to the window, and no one followed.
Yotha sat down again like someone had cut the strings holding him up.
_____
It was late. The hospital waiting room had emptied out except for the five of them.
Faifa was still unconscious, stable, the doctors said — but not awake.
Not safe.
Not yet.
Yotha stood outside the room, staring through the small glass window in the door like it was holding him back from the one thing he still had a right to — and the one thing he was most afraid to face.
Wine stepped out of the shadows like a blade drawn too fast.
His voice was low. Controlled. Icy.
“I told you I didn’t want you near him.”
Yotha didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
“He’s my brother.”
Wine’s laugh was bitter, humorless.
“He wasn’t your brother when you raised your damn hand against him.”
Yotha turned now, slowly. His eyes were red, but hard.
“You think I don’t know that?” he growled. “You think I don’t hate myself for it?”
“Good. Then leave.” Wine took a step closer, every line in his body tense.
“If you know what you’ve done, get the fuck out and don’t make it worse.”
“You don’t get to decide that!” Yotha snapped. “You’re his boyfriend. I’m his brother.”
“Then where the fuck were you when he needed one?”
Wine’s voice cracked, but his fury didn’t.
“You hit him. You hit me. And now you’re standing there pretending like you still have some sacred right to be close to him?”
Yotha looked like he’d been slapped.
But he didn’t back down.
“He’s still my family.”
“No.”
Wine’s eyes burned.
“Not tonight.”
His voice turned quieter, more dangerous.
“Tonight you were just another person who hurt him. And the second you did, you lost the right to call yourself his brother.”
Silence. Tense. Bleeding.
Yotha took a step forward.
“Get away from this door,” Wine warned, stepping in front of him.
“Or what?”
Wine stared straight into his eyes.
“Or I’ll show you what protecting him really looks like.”
Arm’s voice broke in behind them, frantic and tight:
“Stop! Both of you—he’s waking up.”
They froze.
For a single second, the rage gave way to dread.
Wine shoved past Yotha and disappeared into the room.
Yotha didn’t follow.
_____
The world came back slowly.
Light, too bright.
A smell — sterile, sharp.
A soft beeping that seemed far away and yet inside his skull.
Breath. Shallow. Controlled. But there.
Oxygen.
Faifa’s fingers twitched first. Then his eyes blinked open, heavy like they’d been filled with cement.
”…Wine?”
His voice was a whisper, like it had been dragged across glass.
His throat burned.
His chest ached.
He saw movement. A blur of someone rushing toward him — hands, gentle, familiar, cradling his face.
“I’m here, I’m here, baby—” Wine’s voice cracked with relief, but there were tears on his cheeks.
“You’re okay now. You scared the shit out of me.”
Faifa tried to smile, but it barely moved his mouth.
Then memory hit.
The cake.
The slap.
The confusion.
Yotha.
He swallowed hard — or tried to.
“Yotha…?”
Wine’s face hardened instantly.
His hands stilled. His jaw clenched.
“Outside.”
He didn’t say it like a fact.
He said it like a prison sentence.
Faifa blinked again, trying to focus, trying to speak, but Wine shook his head, gently shushing him.
“Don’t. You just woke up, your throat’s raw, you had a reaction.”
Faifa’s hand found Wine’s wrist. Squeezed, weak but intentional.
“Did he… cry?”
Wine hesitated. Looked away.
“Not enough.”
Faifa exhaled softly. Not a laugh. Not quite.
His eyes drifted toward the door, the blurred outline of a shadow just beyond the glass.
He could feel it, even without seeing him.
The guilt. The weight. The silence.
Faifa turned back to Wine.
“Did you fight him?”
“Yeah.”
A pause.
“I would again.”
Faifa’s smile was tired. Sad.
“I know.”
Wine brushed back his hair with trembling fingers.
“Just rest now. He doesn’t get to see you like this.”
Faifa nodded faintly, eyelids heavier again, the beeping calm now, steady.
But before he slipped back under, he murmured, hoarse and broken:
“He’s still my brother.”
Wine didn’t answer.
Not because he disagreed —
but because he didn’t want to.
_____
The hospital hallway was quiet. The kind of quiet that comes only after chaos has had its fill.
Yotha sat hunched over on one of the cold metal benches, his elbows on his knees, hands clasped like in prayer — but his head bowed like he had already been damned.
Gun sat next to him, smaller somehow, pulled into himself, eyes red from crying, fists clenched in his lap.
They didn’t speak. Not until footsteps approached, slow and even.
Wine stood in front of them, face unreadable.
Not angry — not anymore.
Just… tired. Tired in a way that made even Yotha flinch a little when he met his eyes.
“I’m not here to scream,” Wine said, voice low.
“I just want to understand. What did he say? What happened?”
Neither answered right away.
Then Gun opened his mouth, only to close it again.
Yotha looked at him, gave a small nod — go on.
Gun’s voice came out shaky.
“He wasn’t even talking to me.”
He took a breath, eyes fixed on the floor.
“I was walking past the cafeteria. He was talking to Phuri, they were just… joking, I think. And I heard him say: ‘I don’t have friends. The 10 Liners aren’t my friends. They’re just people I spend time with sometimes. Fun people.’”
He looked up, barely.
“I thought he meant it. Thought I meant nothing to him. And I— I told Yotha.”
Wine blinked. Slowly.
“So you overheard one sentence, said to someone else, and decided it was worth destroying him over?”
Gun shrank even further into himself.
Yotha let out a breath through his nose. Frustrated. Gutted.
“It’s not that simple.”
Wine turned to him, gaze sharp but not cruel.
“Then explain it.”
Yotha sat up straighter. He didn’t look at Wine — couldn’t. His voice was low, rough.
“Gun was crying. Shaking. He said Faifa didn’t care about us. About him. And I—”
He gritted his teeth.
“I got angry. I thought: how could he say that? After everything? After everything we’ve been through?”
He shook his head, bitter.
“I didn’t even ask. I didn’t stop to think. I went there like a storm. And I hit him before I knew anything.”
Wine crossed his arms. Silence stretched again.
“He was talking to Phuri,” Wine finally said.
“Trying to comfort him. That’s Faifa. He says the stupidest things in the kindest way.”
Neither of them could argue with that.
Wine’s voice dropped, soft but heavy.
“And because of all that? He forgot to take his pills. Ended up fighting to breathe while I held him down and begged the ambulance to get there faster.”
Gun covered his face with his hands.
Yotha pressed a hand to his chest like it physically hurt to hear it.
“You both say you love him,” Wine said.
“Then listen to me: loving someone doesn’t mean you only protect them when it’s easy, or only believe the things that don’t make you uncomfortable. You want to be his brother, his friend?”
He looked between the two.
“Then act like you know who he is. And next time, ask him what he meant before you decide to destroy him over a sentence that wasn’t even yours.”
No one replied.
Wine turned and walked back toward the room, but before he reached the door, he stopped.
“He’s still asleep. When he wakes up… you better figure out who you want to be to him. Because right now?”
He looked back at them.
“You’re not who he needs.”
Then he disappeared behind the door, leaving them with silence, guilt — and the weight of what they’d almost lost.
***
“ Faifaaa, help me. You must’ve argued with someone before, right? ”
Phuri sounded desperate — half whining, half pleading, like he was hanging onto his tea cup and Faifa’s patience at the same time. They were seated across from each other, cake already half-eaten, the buzz of students around them fading into background noise.
Faifa smiled at first, tapping a spoon against his lip, thoughtful.
“I don’t know, friend. I don’t really argue with anyone. I hate having bad relationships.”
He meant it. Anyone who knew Faifa even a little knew that — he avoided conflict the way some people avoided carbs. Even when someone hurt him, he didn’t lash out. He stayed quiet. Smiled anyway.
Phuri sighed.
“But with your friends, though. Like the 10 Liners. You must’ve argued with them at least once?”
Faifa didn’t even hesitate this time. He took another sip of his tea and said it simply, like he was commenting on the weather:
“I don’t have friends. The 10 Liners aren’t my friends. They’re just people I spend time with sometimes. Fun people.”
He didn’t say it with malice.
There was no bitterness, no passive aggression, no drama.
Just the truth, quiet and clean.
Phuri stared at him.
“My boy, you are cruel. I didn’t think you were like that.”
Faifa blinked, genuinely puzzled.
“Cruel?” he echoed.
“I didn’t mean it like that. I’m not angry at anyone. They just aren’t my friends.”
Phuri didn’t understand. Most wouldn’t.
But Faifa didn’t elaborate.
Because to him, there was nothing more to explain.
He liked the 10 Liners. He laughed with them, spent time with them, showed up when it mattered.
But they weren’t in his heart like that.
Not the way Wine was. Not the way people assumed.
And he hadn’t known anyone was listening —
Hadn’t seen the shadow pausing in the hallway.
Hadn’t realized that Gun had heard.
Hadn’t imagined what it would become.
____
⸻
The light in the hospital room had shifted from sterile white to the soft golden hue of a fading sun. Outside, the world went on—cars, birds, students heading home—but inside, the silence was thick. It wasn’t the silence of peace. It was the kind that clung to skin, made you fidget, made you feel like you should speak but didn’t know how.
Faifa was sitting upright in the hospital bed, pale and visibly thinner, the IV line a gentle reminder of just how close things had come. He blinked slowly as he looked around the room, still a little dazed, his mind trying to piece together how everything had spiraled. His fingers were laced loosely in his lap, and his lips were pressed into a faint, thoughtful frown.
Wine sat close to the bed. Arm and Arc leaned against the far wall, uncertain. Yotha stood by the door, half in and half out, like he hadn’t decided if he was staying. Gun was next to him—nervous, eyes flicking between Faifa and the floor.
Faifa cleared his throat softly. It still hurt.
“I… I asked Wine to bring you all here,” he said, voice quiet but clear. “I don’t want to fight. I’m tired. But I need to understand.”
Everyone looked at him. No one dared interrupt.
“I heard everything,” he added, with a short, ironic huff. “Wine didn’t want me to, but the walls here are paper thin. And I was awake, anyway. Couldn’t sleep through yelling.”
He rubbed his temple with one hand, then looked around again—like he was still trying to believe this was real.
“I don’t get it,” he admitted finally. “Any of it. Why it all got so bad. Why Gun was crying. Why Yotha hit me. Why Wine got punched. Why… any of it.”
There was something naked in his voice now—raw confusion, not anger. It wasn’t dramatics. It was honest bewilderment.
“I don’t know what I did wrong. I don’t know what I was supposed to do differently.”
Yotha took a small step forward. “Fai—”
But Gun cut in, voice loud, like a dam breaking.
“You said we weren’t your friends.”
Everyone turned to look at him.
Gun looked… wrecked. Not dramatic. Not theatrical. Just deeply hurt in a way he didn’t quite know how to express.
Faifa blinked. “I—what?”
“You said it. To Phuri. That the 10 Liners weren’t your friends. That we were just people you hang out with. That we’re fun. But not friends.”
“I did say that,” Faifa admitted, confused. “But… I wasn’t attacking anyone. I just said what I felt.”
Gun looked like he wanted to argue—but Faifa’s confusion softened the edge.
“I don’t understand why you were so upset,” Faifa added, honestly. “Do you treat Kong like you treat me? I’m not trying to be mean, I’m asking seriously. Is that what friendship looks like to you? Because I thought we were… different.”
Now Gun faltered.
Faifa turned to the group, his brows furrowed like he was trying to decode something everyone else already knew.
“I didn’t feel like anyone here was really my friend,” he said. “Not because I hated you or didn’t care. But because… I didn’t feel treated like one.”
He gestured vaguely, as if trying to reach for something invisible.
“Arm… you’re nice. You’re a good senior. But we’ve never texted unless it was about going out or drinking. We’ve never spoken about anything real. You’re not cruel. But you’re not close to me either.”
Arm opened his mouth, then closed it again.
Faifa looked at Arc next.
“Arc… we’ve said, what, ten sentences total? We met at a bar. That’s not friendship. You don’t know me.”
He paused and took a breath.
“And Gun,” he said, gentler now. “I was there for you. When you cried, when you couldn’t talk to Yotha, when everything was heavy. I was there.”
Gun nodded silently.
“But you never were, for me. Not once.”
That landed like a slap.
Faifa wasn’t being cruel. He was being quiet. Careful. Honest. And that made it worse.
“You joked with me. You laughed at my silly habits. You dragged me out drinking, dancing. But you never saw when I was struggling. You never looked. You never asked.”
Gun opened his mouth, but Faifa cut in, just as softly.
“You even went to my mom. You told her how I felt—without ever asking me. You told her I was hurting like you knew. Like I couldn’t speak for myself. Do you know how small that made me feel? Like I was a problem being passed along.”
Gun shook his head, eyes glossy. “I was just trying to help—”
“Then help me,” Faifa said, not harsh but tired. “By listening. Now. Please.”
He looked over at Yotha, who hadn’t spoken since Gun’s interruption.
“You’re my brother,” Faifa said. “But when you hit me, you weren’t.”
Yotha flinched visibly.
“You didn’t even ask what happened. You didn’t trust me. You let your fists speak for you. And you know I’ve never— never —raised mine to you.”
Wine stirred beside him, but said nothing. His hand was resting near Faifa’s, like a barrier if things went bad again.
Faifa sat back a little, exhaling. He looked at each of them in turn—tired, not angry.
“I’m not saying this because I want anyone to feel guilty. I just… I want to know what you all think friendship is. Really.”
He gestured toward Wine now.
“Wine, can you explain it? I don’t think I’m explaining it right. Maybe they’ll hear it from you.”
Wine stepped forward again, his voice lower this time. The fire from before was still there, but it was cooler now—focused.
“Friendship is knowing when to stop joking,” Wine said. “It’s knowing when to ask the hard questions. It’s not about being fun. It’s about being present.”
He glanced at Gun.
“It’s not about deciding what someone needs and going behind their back to give it to them. It’s about asking.”
Then he looked to the others.
“And it’s not about showing up after someone ends up in the hospital. It’s about noticing before.”
No one responded. There wasn’t anything to say. At least not yet.
Faifa leaned back again, eyes closing for a moment. When he opened them, they were clearer than before.
“I’m not mad,” he said. “I just want to know. If this is what you call friendship, I need to decide if I want that in my life.”
The silence that followed was finally the right kind—contemplative. No longer defensive. Just the beginning of maybe, finally, hearing one another.
____
Faifa was sitting up in bed, finally allowed something other than IV fluids. He looked a little less pale, though the redness in his cheek still hadn’t faded. Wine sat beside him, pretending to scroll through his phone but very obviously watching him like a hawk.
“I still don’t get how you forgot your pills,” Wine muttered, not looking up.
Faifa blinked innocently. “There was a lot going on…”
Wine turned, slow and dangerous.
“And yet, you didn’t forget to eat cake. Behind my back. The allergic cake.”
Faifa winced, caught. “It was chocolate. Good chocolate. Phuri offered it, and—” Faifa lied
“Oh, P' Phuri offered it ,” Wine mocked, arms crossing. “So naturally, your survival instincts just left the room.”
Faifa pouted. “It was a small piece.” He lied again to maintain his life.
“You couldn’t breathe, P'Faifa.”
Faifa gave a weak shrug. “Worth it?”
Wine shot up from the chair, pacing like a dramatic soap opera lead. “I swear to god, I’m going to start carrying an EpiPen and a leash. You’re worse than a toddler with a sugar addiction.”
“I’m a grown man with refined taste,” Faifa countered, proud, before adding quickly, “…in cake.”
Wine narrowed his eyes. “Refined taste and zero self-preservation.”
“Aw, you love me,” Faifa teased.
“I tolerate you,” Wine snapped, then grabbed a pillow and tossed it lightly at his head.
Faifa caught it, grinning. “That means love.”
Wine just groaned, returning to his chair.
“I’m asking the nurse to install a cake detector,” he mumbled.
_____
Faifa moved quietly along the edge of the campus cafeteria, eyes darting left and right like a kid sneaking cookies. The sun was warm, students lounging and chatting nearby, but Faifa’s focus was locked on a small, unattended plate of cake left on a bench.
He knew it was a bad idea. He knew Wine and the others had warned him — multiple times.
But the cake looked so good.
He glanced down at the pill bottle clenched in his pocket, took a deep breath, then slipped a piece of cake into his mouth.
Just as the sweet taste hit his tongue, a sharp voice cut through the air.
“P'Faifa!”
He froze.
Turning, he saw the group approaching fast — Wine with arms crossed and an almost stormy look, Gun shaking his head in frustration, Yotha frowning deeply, Arm and Arc close behind, all clearly upset.
Wine’s eyes locked on Faifa’s half-eaten cake.
“You know you’re allergic,” Wine said, voice low but fierce.
Faifa swallowed hard, trying to keep calm.
“I have my pills " he said quietly. “I’m fine.”
Gun stepped forward, voice sharper this time.
“This isn’t about the pill, Fai. You’re playing with fire, and we don’t want to lose you.”
Yotha’s face tightened, hurt and worry bleeding through.
“Why do you keep doing this? What are you even trying to prove?”
Faifa looked at each of them, eyes tired but steady.
“I’m not trying to prove anything. I just… I want to live my life. Eat my damn cake in peace .”
Arm sighed deeply, glancing at the cake piece still in Faifa’s hand.
“We care about you. But this? This isn’t just about you anymore.”
Arm added quietly, “It’s about all of us, worried sick because you won’t listen.”
Faifa let the cake piece fall from his fingers, eyes downcast.
The group closed in around him, a mixture of frustration, fear, and love hanging thick in the air.
Faifa’s lips twitched into a half-smile, despite the stern looks around him.
“Okay, okay,” he said, holding up his hands like a peace offering. “I get it. You don’t want me to die of cake overdose.”
He took a small, careful bite of the cake, then winked at Wine.
“Seriously though, I’m like a superhero—just with a weird weakness. Diary is my kryptonite.”
Gun rolled his eyes but cracked a tiny smile.
Yotha sighed, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”
Faifa grinned wider, pushing the plate toward the group.
“Come on, don’t be like that. A little cake won’t kill me—especially if I share.”
He reached out and grabbed a piece, then pointed to Arm.
“P'Arm, you look like you could use some sugar. It’ll make you tougher for those drinking sessions.”
Wine crossed his arms, but his voice lost some of its edge.
“Just… no more sneaking, okay?”
Faifa nodded exaggeratedly, then pretended to balance the cake on his head.
“If I survive this, I’m opening a cake defense school.”
Everyone chuckled, the tension easing slightly.
⸻
The next day, Gun showed up unexpectedly, holding a small box wrapped with a simple ribbon. His usual easygoing smile was tempered by something more serious — a hint of nervousness.
“Hey, Faifa,” he began, shifting awkwardly. “I… I know I messed up. I wasn’t a good friend. I didn’t really see what you needed, and I’m sorry.”
Faifa looked at him, surprised but silent.
Gun took a deep breath and opened the box, revealing a small cake — carefully labeled dairy-free .
“I made this for you. I know how you feel about cake, but I thought maybe… if you want to, we could start over. I want to be your friend. A real one.”
He handed the box gently to Faifa, eyes hopeful.
Faifa’s expression softened just a bit.
“Thanks, Gun. That means a lot. I’m not sure about ‘starting over,’ but… we can see where it goes.”
Gun smiled, relieved.
“That’s all I ask.”