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yudai is fuma's phantom limb.
he knows everything about fuma. all his tells, his favorite foods, how he takes his coffee, has a mental map of his skin, x's drawn on all the spots that make fuma curl in on himself. his love is ever present, gentle and close like the softness of fuma's own skin.
fuma is nothing if not a lamb in love, afraid when the wolf towers over him, but still he wants. he wants the gentleness and the recklessness all the same. he wants yudai to kiss him goodnight, to fuck him like a rag doll, to hold him and love him and break him just to do it all over. he's so scared, and he wants.
but the thing no one tells you about knowing someone so well is that as soon as they're gone, you must continue to open your eyes and walk around in a world where that love will always exist.
yudai is fuma's phantom limb, and he misses him more than he misses his own heart.
the thing about yudai is that he's in everything, everywhere, all the time. he's supposed to be at fuma and euijoo's apartment every thursday for movie nights. he frequents the same h-mart. it's embarrassing. the last time fuma saw him, yudai had been looking at the grab-and-go onigiri. he didn't even notice fuma. fuma was thankful at first, allowed to move through the shadows. when he got back to his apartment, it hit him, and he sobbed, groceries completely forgotten where he had left them by the door. when euijoo had come home later in the day, he had to throw out a gallon of milk and the salmon fillets fuma had purchased.
yudai is in every little crevice, no matter how small. the library. the uic-halsted platform on monday, tuesday, and thursday mornings.
chicago is a big city. it feels kind of cruel that he sees him everywhere. their social circle might be intertwined, but seeing him almost every single day— it's no coincidence. if god is real, he doesn't seem to like fuma, that much is obvious.
it's been exactly two weeks and three days since yudai broke up with him.
he's been staring at yudai for the past minute or so, glued to his spot in the middle of target.
today was supposed to be nice. fuma had gone out of his way to go to a location he never goes to. the beautiful gothic architecture is wasted on a retail corporation. regardless, he had made it a point to shop here, in the center of the city. so why? why is yudai in front of him, browsing through video games of all things? why is yudai looking straight at him?
"fuma?"
fuck.
"yudai. hi. what are you doing here?" his brain-to-mouth filter is completely useless whenever he's in front of yudai.
"oh. um. shopping?" he says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world. his voice doesn't give anything away either. it's like they're meeting again for the first time— it's the same yudai from then, guarded but kind. fuma kind of wants to die.
"right, yeah, yeah, of course," he doesn't know how to be around yudai anymore. they haven't had movie night in two weeks, euijoo giving everyone barely believable excuses because fuma isn't ready. he won't ever be, not now that he knows what yudai's love is like. not when he took that love and soiled it all on his own.
"do you have somewhere to be after this?" yudai steps a little closer to him, and fuma can't help it when he steps back, flinching as he bumps into someone. he's quick to mutter a string of apologies, but the lady just smiles at him politely and walks on, saying it's alright.
if only she knew.
"no." he looks back up at yudai, then down at his basket, the lego succulents he was going to go home and build looking back at him.
"we can always go back to yours." yudai looks down at the box, then back to fuma. his expression still gives nothing away. or maybe it does. fuma's trying really hard to focus on anything but the man in front of him. he's failing miserably but he's trying. "if that's okay with you," yudai adds.
"yeah, that's fine." it's not. it's far from fine, but fuma needs to get over this, over him, sooner rather than later. yudai isn't going anywhere. he's alive and breathing, even if their relationship isn't. fuma remembers it, every kiss, every single brush of skin against skin. he remembers it, and he'll remember it for both of them for the rest of his life because he's going to die with the memory right behind his eyelids.
he needs to get over this. he's making it hard for everyone else, and he's tired of the guilt it brings. he's already heavy with love that has nowhere to go. the least he can do is pretend for everyone else. "you'll help me build these, right?"
when yudai smiles, fuma finally sees a singular little crack. he's not sure if the light is getting in or if it's spilling out, but it's better than nothing. his teeth are the same as they were two weeks prior, little pearls that he wishes he could memorize with his tongue all over again. he counts all of the teeth he can visibly see, turning the number over in his head. it's a good number.
"of course i will."
they sit on the living room carpet because fuma deems it safer than having yudai in his bedroom. there are little lego pieces scattered all over the ground and coffee table, one mug full of lukewarm tea, and fuma's unfinished iced coffee, leaving rings of water all over the wooden surface.
yudai's hands are working diligently, putting together the three succulents he's already completed. fuma's only gotten one done; most of his attention is on watching yudai work in silence. his hair is still blond, falling over his eyes and curling up the slightest bit.
"all done." the little figures are displayed atop his palms, a shy smile on his face as he shows them off to fuma. "they look so pretty. i should get some to decorate the apartment, don't you think?"
he knows yudai isn't intending to be cruel, but just about everything feels painful right now. not his apartment but the apartment, the one they had basically been sharing for the past year.
"the orchid would look nice on the bookshelf," he says, looking down at his mess of blocks, putting the same two pieces together, and pulling them apart. he does it thrice because it feels like a good number, because it feels right, while everything else feels anything but.
"fuma, i actually wanted to talk to you about everything." he smiles kindly, eyes crinkling ever so slightly. it's the saddest little thing fuma's ever seen. "i wanted to give you space, let you reach out when you were ready, but you haven't, and i..." he trails off like he doesn't know what to say. there's something on his mind, fuma can just tell, but yudai doesn't seem confident about saying just what that thing is.
"i've been busy." it's a complete lie yudai knows. he knows everything about fuma and probably always will. people can only change so much.
"it's okay. you're allowed to have your reasons." his hand reaches out like he wants to grab one of fuma's, but it falls helplessly on the table, fist clenching. "has euijoo been— are you avoiding spending time with our friends because of me?"
yes. "no, fuck, no i haven't— it's complicated." he finally gives up on building anything, placing the messed-up thing on the floor gently beside him. he's finally looking at yudai, seeing him. he's got worry etched all over his pretty face, lips downturned in a frown. "It's weird, getting used to not," he makes a gesture with his hands, palms up as he looks from yudai to himself and back. "yeah."
"yeah."
"i'm working on it." more like his thoughts have been spiraling, and he's been doing things in threes again, pretending everything is fine. "i won't make things weird for anyone anymore."
"fuma…" yudai's voice dwindles, like he's got more he wants to say. so fuma waits, and waits, but the words never come. the other just nods his head in quite resignation, like it's better not to give.
he's sitting less than six feet away, long legs crossed instead of stretching out underneath the table. before the break-up, he'd knock his socked feet against the meat of fuma's thigh, dig his toes into the bare skin until fuma had enough. he'd grab yudai by the ankle, bend down, and kiss his way up until the other was lying down on the floor laughing.
they're less than six feet away from each other, but there's something in the air that won't ever let them go back to what they were. their love is nothing but "past" now, haunting and holding out for something that'll never come.
there were signs, but fuma's always been too busy with keeping himself in check to look for the cracks. the light got in, but when the sun went down, the wind blew and filled the room with its cold.
there was a time when their love felt like it had been plucked straight from a movie.
they're sitting across from each other tonight, yudai's sofa cushions makeshift seats on the hardwood floor.
fuma's got this funny feeling bubbling up inside of him, threatening to spill over and out. his overactive mind makes him believe he might be dying. he doesn't say a word, knees tucked to his chest as he looks up at his friend.
yudai's attention is on the television, subconsciously bobbing his head along to the music. they always do this when they get high, sit on the floor for hours while watching k-pop music videos.
tonight, something inside of fuma is stirring. he's always seen yudai as someone strong, someone capable of love in a capacity beyond human comprehension. yudai puts care into every single little thing, all of his relationships, his plants.
fuma has known he's had romantic feelings for yudai for a while, but in that moment, it's like the world comes to an abrupt stop, pausing to give him time to realize how the feeling has changed, morphed into something larger than life. love. the words reverberate in his head, corner to corner, fold to fold.
yudai's eyes flit over to him, lips quirking up just the slightest bit as his eyebrows knit. "is there something on my face?"
"no," he says, looking down at the pizza on the coffee table in front of him. the box has been left open and he has no doubt that it's gone completely cold. he reaches for a slice anyway. he just wants something to do with his mouth, something that's not talking.
the video ends, and another one automatically queues.
"fuma," yudai calls out to him, voice soft and sweet like springtime roses.
he bites, chewing as he looks up at yudai with wide eyes. he's scared, the sounds of his jaw and teeth working in tandem driving him crazy. he can't stop thinking about how everything is going to change. he's afraid, and that fear is winning because it always does with him.
yudai waits like he always does, his patience never ending despite the fact that they both know fuma is dragging this simple act out. when fuma finally swallows, his jaw hurts enough to worry him a little. he's already on high alert; the last thing he needs is to spiral about another thing relating back to his health.
"yeah?" his voice is hoarse, and yudai pushes his cup of water towards fuma softly. fuma takes a sip and tries not to think about the fact that yudai's spit sits somewhere on the rim.
"i like you." the way yudai says it leaves no room for miscommunication. fuma knows exactly what he means.
and isn't this all fuma wanted? the love in his chest had reached its boiling point. this was always going to happen.
why does it feel so wrong?
he's afraid. what if he hates sharing a bed with yudai? what if this is just limerence and he doesn't love yudai three months from now? would he even be able to break up with him? fuma's not an active participant in his life, not when his mind is the one that runs everything. his thoughts run circles around him. what if they fall out of love and ruin everything? life without yudai sounds miserable.
"i—" he wants to say it, that he likes him; loves him. the words sit in his throat, small like a pebble with all the heaviness of a rock.
"hey, it's okay. i know," he speaks with a grin on his face, eyes going impossibly soft. he's looking at fuma with so much love, unrestrained and deeper than the ocean. it's so terrifying because it's reassuring.
it quiets fuma's mind, something so rare it makes him want to cry.
"i love you." it's a whisper, but he means it more than anything his mind has ever tricked him into accepting.
yudai throws his head back, a giggle spilling from his throat, and it makes fuma feel like a kid. the moment is so precious, and he wants to stop time and live in it forever. there is no noise, just them, smiling like fools because it feels so good to love someone the way they love each other.
when yudai reaches across the table, he knocks the pizza box over, and it makes a gross splat sound when it hits the floor. it only makes yudai smile bigger, pinky outstretched for fuma to take.
and when he wraps his pinky around yudai's, the other seemingly ties their hearts together in a double knot.
it was so easy to breathe then.
things ease back into something semi-normal after their impromptu hangout at fuma and euijoo's apartment. if you could even call it that.
movie nights are back on, though fuma sits on the opposite end of the couch and tucks his knees into his chest. he doesn't speak unless spoken to, never comments on the movie until after everyone else has shuffled out, and he can write a very thought-out review on letterboxd.
euijoo keeps giving him these looks, somewhere between pity and worry, so fuma tries to make himself scarce.
he's been spending most of his free time taking himself to the movies, ironically enough. his little solo dates have started to draw the attention of the employees at the usual amc he frequents, so today he's deliberately gone out of his way to go to a much smaller indie cinema. it's further out than he would usually go, having taken the blue line all the way to cumberland.
he's a stubs member at least, reaping the benefits of his avoidance. he's a cinephile; he's half a heart.
tonight, he watches la la land. he's got a large popcorn and an even larger soda, taking sips every so often to muffle his sniffles.
the theater isn't full by any means, a few other moviegoers scattered here and there. still, his body tenses at the first couple of notes of mia & sebastian's theme. he's seen this movie only once before, what was meant to be another thursday movie night with everyone turned into an intimate thing between just him and yudai.
it's a little bit like self-harm, bringing himself here in order to avoid his reality while simultaneously calling back to it. he wants it back, his life before all of this. he wants late-night dinners again, yudai sitting sweetly at the dining table while fuma cooks away. vodka pasta, duck liver, spinach and feta ravioli, more vodka pasta. fuck, they ate so much pasta, it almost makes him smile. almost.
and when he thinks about it, what he misses the most isn't their kisses, the sex, the dinners— it was never about any of that. what he misses the most is that easy feeling that used to sit in his chest.
he'd come home, only calling it that because home was wherever the other was—the half that made him whole, well loved and well fed. safe, naked, and stripped down until his very bones brushed right against the hardness of yudai's.
he misses that, the feeling like he didn't have to pretend. the knowing that he is loved for all that he is and all that he isn't. he wonders when that changed.
he cries through most of the movie, missing all the important beats because his eyes just fill up with more tears after a wave passes. the worst part is the shame that settles over him like a shroud, embarrassed by the state of himself. the logical side of him reasons that everyone else is too caught up in their own insecurities to notice how he's half dead, but there is only so much he can explain away when his mind is his greatest enemy.
he can reason, fight back against every thought, only for it to return stronger, louder, meaner. it's a nasty fight, one he knows he won't win. he washes his face in a public restroom, turning the faucet on and off thrice. because three feels good, it feels safe. that is, until he's standing back at the train station, realizing it's time to go back home.
he hadn't even realized how dark it had gotten.
he must be a masochist. that's the only explanation for why he's ended up here.
it's nearing eleven now, the temperature is lower than usual for late october. the entire block is decorated, drowned by orange christmas tree lights and tall street lamps, some flickering.
his cardigan is thin, with holes big enough for the wind to blow right through him.
he's got a cigarette burning away between his fingers, taking careful drags as he looks up at yudai's window. the curtains are drawn open, and the shadow of a figure moving around is visible every so often. yudai would probably reprimand him for indulging in such a harmful habit. he'd get so upset too, keeping his interactions with fuma curt and cordial, like they were nothing more than strangers. it always left him reeling, stomach acid burning a hole right through him.
but yudai wasn't here now. instead he was way up high in his ivory tower, so far away that fuma thinks they might as well be strangers now.
strangers who know every line and curve of each other's bodies. strangers that know the mundane things, like how the other takes their coffee (yudai doesn't drink any). fuma knows it all— yudai's favorite meals, favorite color, season, the position his body naturally curls into when he sleeps.
he takes another drag and shivers.
he wants to go home to his bed. he should, but something keeps him rooted in place, as if looking up at yudai's window will change whatever fucked up timeline they're in. he knows it's deranged, he feels it.
the spell finally breaks when he sees ara, yudai's cat, jump up onto the windowsill and stare him down. wherever she goes, yudai is bound to follow, which is why the other stares down at him from the window, eyebrows knit in confusion. fuma breathes out, smoke following. he's trying to be dramatic about it, like a petulant child demanding attention.
he drops it, though, snuffing the half-smoked thing under his beat-up white nikes.
when he waves, yudai makes a gesture with his hand, thumb pointing into his apartment and head tilting to one side.
want to come in?
fuma should shake his head in disagreement, say no. he should put one of his freezing hands into his back pocket and wave goodbye, walk far enough into the night that his figure disappears from sight. instead, he nods nervously, lips stretched into a tight smile.
when yudai comes down and opens the door for him, he hasn't the slightest idea on what to do, just trails behind him up the stairs and hopes that the smell of nicotine isn't as pungent for yudai as it is for him. it lingers on his fingertips, on his septum, on every wispy strand of his jet black hair. it does little to calm his beating heart, moving so fast he's already considering what it could be. he knows nicotine raises his blood pressure and leaves him feeling anxious.
ara greets him sweetly, like she's missed having him around despite her indifference to him before. he bends down to pet her, scratching behind her ears softly and cooing, whispering to her as if she'd understand.
"take off your shoes, i'll go grab your slippers."
fuma hums, trying his best not to read into it. yudai has slippers for all their friends. they are just that, friends again.
he slips off his shoes, lining them up right besides yudai's as he would have before.
"have you eaten yet?" yudai asks, placing the house slippers next to fuma's socked feet softly. he looks up at fuma through long lashes. his hair looks so soft, still wet from the shower. he doesn't ask why fuma was standing outside of his apartment building like a creep. he's always been the more tactful of the two.
"yes, technically." it doesn't count as dinner, not really anyway. he's kind of hungry, stomach warm with it. it had taken almost an hour to get to yudai's, so it's no surprise that his body is craving real food. "i could eat though."
"i'll make us some ramen then."
fuma follows him to the kitchen like a puppy, sitting on the too-small counter and watching as yudai turns on the stove.
"sorry for showing up unannounced."
"you're always welcome here, don't worry about it." yudai brushes him off, waving a hand in the air.
"i should've texted."
"a heads-up would've been nice, yeah. i could've started making dinner before and had it ready, but it's whatever now." he places a pot of water on the stove and then just stands still and stares at it. he's talking a lot, being kind in spite of the fact that he definitely saw fuma smoking.
"sorry. i should shower again, huh?" fuma looks down at his lap, turning his palms face up and looking at every single line on his skin. he slows down his breathing in hopes that it'll lower his resting heart rate. he feels like he's going to die. he looks back up at yudai.
"would you hate me if i said yes?" yudai grins at him awkwardly.
"no." he casts his gaze downward again, afraid that if he continues to look at yudai he'll lose it for good and end up spilling his guts all over the linoleum floor before dying.
he slips off the counter softly, body cold and somewhat shaky. he reaches for yudai's waist when he's stepping through the cased opening. it's an act of muscle memory. his arm stills halfway, and he pulls it back like he's been burnt, closing his hand into a fist and ignoring whatever look is painted on yudai's face.
"is there still anything of mine in your dresser?" fuma knows there is because he's still missing some of his favorite t-shirts. he hasn't asked for them back, and yudai hasn't offered. there's a part of him that hopes it's for the same reason—that they both still want something to tether them to each other, a way of holding on to the past forever.
"yeah, still have your own drawer."
"right, yeah."
the past is good because the version of them that exists is almost picture perfect. everything is moody and highly saturated. it makes it all feel dreamlike, bathed in the sweetest melancholy, because at the end of the day, they're still just human. two lovers on opposite sides of the kitchen table, sharing smiles, words too quiet for the rest of the world.
fuma's cooking tonight.
they're at his place for a change, but it feels strange all the same. he spends all of his time at yudai's, has practically become one with the building.
he went all out today. it's their one-year anniversary. when he thinks about it for too long, it fills him with disbelief. it also suffocates him.
things are so impossibly good it feels too good to be true. sometimes he'll lie awake beside a sleeping yudai and his mind will wander. because what if yudai isn't his one and done? what if they're wrong for each other? why does he get upset over such trivial things? he's scared of resenting the one person who has accepted him without a second thought.
it feels fucked up, and it leaves him wracked with guilt. how can he love someone so much and still wonder if they should really be together? quieting his thoughts is virtually useless, and he knows he needs to go back to therapy. his intrusive thoughts only seem to get worse the longer they're together.
he constantly opens his mouth and seeks out yudai's words, tongue soft and wet to lick over those mental wounds. it helps, but not for very long because here he is again, watching the ravioli spin around in the boiling water.
"almost done?" yudai comes up behind him, head on his shoulder. he leaves a kiss on the junction of fuma's jawline, and fuma can feel the smile on yudai's face. it feels cruel and good and so unfair.
"mhm," he hums, stirring the pasta around one more time for good measure before reaching to turn off the stove. "go sit, i'll plate everything."
"spoiling me tonight?" yudai leaves another kiss, this time on the corner of fuma's mouth. the touch makes everything go silent and still. but then he's gone, fuma listening intently as the sound of his footsteps gets further and further away.
the food is good, yudai tells him so.
it makes pride swell up in his chest. before yudai, fuma had no ambition to cook real meals. he was content with ordering in and microwaving tv dinners. sometimes he still does, but most of the time his belly is warm and full with yudai's cooking. yudai makes the same joke every time, something about his secret ingredient being love.
fuma learned how to cook a few things because he wanted to do the same for yudai. he knows how to cook a plethora of things now, but they always seem to decide on pasta.
today isn't very different except for the fact that fuma went out of his way to make the ravioli himself. his kitchen had been a mess last night, annoyed over the fact that making pasta was so tedious and time-consuming. he could've spent the night at yudai's instead, cuddled up to his side, and trying to get his thoughts to quiet down.
yudai likes the ravioli though and fuma thinks he's worth all the effort in the world.
it's when he looks to his side and watches yudai eat that the ruminating starts again. there's tomato sauce pooling in the corner of yudai's lips, attention caught between the movie playing on the tv and bringing another ravioli square to his mouth.
"do you ever think we're not meant to be together? like maybe we just work better as friends?" and when fuma closes his mouth, the room falls eerily silent, the sounds coming from the tv seeming to cease.
"fuma…" yudai sets his plate down on the coffee table. his tone of voice reveals frustration. "you can't keep asking me these things." still, when yudai looks at him there's still warmth in his eyes. there's still love, but it looks muddied. "we've been together for a year now."
"we have, yeah," he says. he looks down at his hands because it's easier than making eye contact. if he looks at yudai, the guilt will finally break free and drown them both.
"you can't keep doing this to us." yudai reaches out and takes one of fuma's hands into his. the touch feels so wrong, and fuma thinks yudai deserves something better, someone better. fuma doesn't live, his mind makes sure of that. he's kept behind thoughts and constant rain.
"i don't know how to…" live for myself. i don't know how to trust myself. "i'm sorry. sometimes i wish i hadn't said it back."
"that's fucked up. i know you can't help it but that still hurts my feelings." the hand in his feels heavier than before. he wonders why yudai hasn't just up and left.
"i'm sorry." it's all he can say.
yudai sighs, tugging at fuma's hand before telling him to put his food down.
after he does, he's pulled in. yudai is all warmth, something kind and good, where fuma is selfish and awful. he should go to therapy, but the last thing he wants to do is say the things his mind conjures up out loud. saying them makes them real.
yudai's arm is wrapped around his waist, caressing fuma's side every so often. he's looking at the tv but fuma knows him well enough to know he's not watching.
how does the ship love the anchor? when will yudai finally tire? if he leaves, fuma's thoughts win. if he doesn't, they win anyway.
he stays under the spray of the water for far longer than he should, skin pink and warm. the bathroom is nothing but steam, and he just stands there for a few minutes, almost gone.
yudai's still got plants up on the windowsill of his shower, and sometimes fuma feels dramatic for the way he turns over every little thing in his head, but it's just how he's wired. It's been a month of this now, being broken up. he's slow on the uptake, and even something as small and inconsequential as the stupid plants they purchased together on a random weekday feels important now.
when he finally cuts off the water, he turns the knob three times. because three feels good, because three settles the ugly thing inside of him.
yudai knocks on the door not long after that, letting fuma know that their dinner is ready. it's familiar in a way that shouldn't be allowed.
steam escapes the bathroom when he gets the door open, skin still feeling like it's wet. his shirt sticks to his skin in a way that's uncomfortable, making him want to crawl out of it. he can’t quite do that. instead, he sits in one of the chairs of yudai's small dining table, tucked into the very corner of the kitchen.
yudai sets down fuma's bowl first, the steam fogging up his glasses. then comes yudai's bowl, and finally, the white brita they argued over in the middle of target last summer.
yudai's still in possession of fuma's favorite glass. it's tall but not too tall, the glass is smooth and comfortable to hold. there's still so much of himself here, tucked neatly into the yudai's cabinets and drawers. the plants on the windowsill.
they eat in relative silence, fuma taking off his glasses entirely when they won't stop fogging up. it makes yudai giggle from across the table.
the food is good, like always. the broth is rich and flavorful despite knowing that it probably came from a box. yudai probably added something else to it, he usually does—did.
the noodles are perfect, soft in fuma's mouth. it doesn't escape fuma, how yudai put extra eggs in his bowl. a singular one cut in half, floats around in yudai’s own.
it's uncomfortable, quiet save for the sound of slurping and chewing every once in a while. he wants yudai to say something first because he can't. if he does, he knows it'll come out wrong, stupid even.
but still, yudai doesn't say a word, head down and facing his bowl, spooning some broth into his mouth and drinking it slowly.
it pisses fuma off because yudai was never like this before. yudai was always the instigator, the one to initiate. but fuma deserves this. the uncomfortable silence is of his own making, even if it wasn't his intention. he let his thoughts ruin his reality when they never really existed in the first place.
it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, but he's no longer yudai's problem. he's no longer really anything to yudai. they're not friends now, not really. they're two people who care deeply for one another, but that isn't enough.
they end up on yudai's too small couch, uncomfortable and stiff. fuma's got a lap-full of ara, fingers running through her fur every so often. she keeps rubbing her face against his palm, so unlike the relationship they had before. it makes him want to cry a little, the fact that yudai's cat misses him.
yudai's got a movie playing, probably something as equally sad as la la land, and fuma finds that he's emotionally exhausted himself enough for one night.
he looks around the apartment, trying to find little changes, but everything looks to be the same. it's hasn't been long but he would've expected every trace of himself to have been wiped completely. still, yudai's got small, silly little trinkets all around. there's plushies scattered on the floor, the ones fuma had gotten for yudai somewhere in the mix. there's posters, pictures taken by fuma still in frames. there's cds lined up neatly on the bookshelf in the corner.
the lego orchid tucked in to one of the shelves catches him off guard. it's pretty, just like he thought it would be. it matches everything in the apartment and—
"we should talk about it," he drags his fingers through ara's fur one more time before looking over at yudai. this is his first act of bravery, willing to slice himself open and be dissected. yudai's done so much of the heavy lifting—fuma owes him this much.
yudai tires on a wednesday afternoon in september, two weeks after their shit show of an anniversary.
fuma's been avoiding him as much as he can. he keeps his texts short but polite and doesn't say much when they spend time together. he's been sleeping at his and euijoo's place again, and his back hurts because his mattress is too soft.
his body misses yudai and he's sure his mind would agree if it just stopped trying to sabotage him. sometimes he's so aware of his problems, knows that his thoughts are as intrusive as they come, but they have this way of convincing him. the repetition wears him down until he gives in, curled in on himself in quiet resignation. the rest of his life will be like this—it's better this way. yudai deserves someone better, someone normal.
he's laying in bed, blankly staring up at the ceiling when his bedroom door opens.
when he looks up, yudai is shutting the door softly behind him. he's still in his coat as if he's going to leave as soon as they get this over with because fuma knows what's coming next. he feels it in his bones, and it's been on the horizon for sometime.
he wishes he could go back to that version of himself that was so scared but committed anyway. now he's just scared, and he's locked himself in a cage. he wants yudai to hold the key, but that's not fair to either of them.
"fuma," yudai calls out. his voice is hoarse as if he's been crying, like coming to this decision was something so heartbreaking.
he's quick to get up, slipping out of his cocoon of sheets and sitting on the edge of his bed. he wants to call yudai over, pat the empty spot next to him, and maybe enjoy that overwhelming feeling one last time. he can't be yudai's friend after all of this. yudai knows him, inside and out, and he's something ugly and too scared to change.
he doesn't, just looks up at yudai and tries to smile, breathing through his nose. it sounds loud to him, that little huff of acceptance he lets out.
"let's break up." yudai's voice wavers a little as he says it, standing by fuma's door like there is some invisible wall that keeps him from coming closer. there might as well be.
"okay," he whispers. he kind of wants to cry but he'll wait until he's alone.
yudai looks grief-stricken, eyes widening just a fraction, like he was expecting something else. if fuma was a better person, he would've fought for them. he doesn't deserve it. begging yudai to stay is unfair after everything he's done. he'll just live with this love forever, heavy in his stomach like a sunken rock.
"okay." yudai smiles at him because he's kind-hearted, warm, and beautiful, and fuma knows he's going to love yudai forever. it's awful, the way fuma realizes how distracting his thoughts were despite the calm beating of his heart. if he could take it all back, he would. he'd struggle to reach radical acceptance, but he'd get there for yudai. for himself in the future.
but this is the way things are, and he deserves this. maybe in the future, he'll be okay enough to breathe, to love loudly. in this future, he basks in the love of friendship—he doesn't think he'll ever love anyone the way he has yudai. he loves him now, even as he's breaking both of their hearts. he loved him then, and he'll love him forever.
the other takes a deep breath, reaching for the remote to pause the movie. he doesn't look at fuma when he speaks; it's so unlike him.
yudai is so small in this moment, a tall child whose unwavering confidence has finally been shaken.
"i don't regret it," yudai whispers. the words shatter fuma, and for a brief second, he wants to run, wants to hide and lick his wounds even if it solves nothing. but he stays, hanging to every word that slips past the other's lips. "but i miss you more than you probably think."
fuma sucks in a breath, and it fills his lungs like water. everything burns, and he wants to give in to it—needs to give in and let it all wash over him for good.
yudai doesn't say anything else, eyes finally finding fuma's and letting him in. fuma always thought himself to be someone fluent in the language of yudai, but right now, he's beginning to see just how much he had missed. there's so much hurt there, so much lost time and love lingering in the recesses of his mind—there's happiness too, like he's playing back every good moment and reassessing them, trying to grasp all of the details so it doesn't slip away through the spaces between his fingers.
"i've been selfish," and it's the honest truth. all the push and pull, all of his obsessions and corresponding compulsions—he had been so wrapped up in himself he forgot he could breathe. "i can't—it's hard. it's out of my control, but i never meant for it to—" he takes short little breaths through his mouth, nose whistling when he exhales. his throat feels tight with all the things he wants to say, choking him. "i was so scared when i realized i loved you, and i psyched myself out before i could even give us a chance to work."
"i know." yudai smiles sadly, reaching for fuma's hand like that of a child that's lost in the dark. they're each other's monsters. they're each other's light. "i knew, and i pushed because i thought things would sort themselves out over time."
"they did for a little while." he laughs wetly, looking down at the hand in his and playing with yudai's fingers like it'll make talking about it easier. "and then it got bad again. worse than before. and now…" he takes yudai's hand into his completely, feeling every single electron that separates their skin from really touching. "not having you is worse. and not just romantically, i mean, overall you've always been my best friend. you always will be, and things are in such a weird place right now i feel i'm at risk of losing you completely."
"you—" yudai opens his mouth like he's about to say fuma could never lose him, but he stops himself short, looking down at their joined hands and sighing. it comes out wistful. "i don't want you to lose me completely, fuma. so fight for it."
he says it like it's so simple, and if fuma were anyone else, it would be. he is himself, and the way his brain works is as much a mystery to him as it is to medical professionals. why does his brain conjure up the worst thoughts possible? why does he punish himself, over and over again? why does he do anything at all?
the warmth of yudai's hand could be reason enough, and maybe one day, it will be. for now, he sticks to words, as useless as they are when it really matters.
"i'll try. i can promise you i'll try." that's all he can offer right now, fear still all over him like second skin. it's all he can promise, and it doesn't provide any relief but it does feel like quiet acceptance. he can't change in days, weeks, or even months—there's no miracle drug that can fix the way his brain has developed. he's never going to be cured, but he could be okay.
"okay. i'll try too." yudai carefully slips his hand away from fuma's, but he doesn't go far. he gets close, closer and closer until he's wrapping his arms around fuma, dropping his body weight on him like he's afraid that if he doesn't, fuma will disappear entirely.
he's crying, fuma realizes. yudai shakes softly, gentle like a leaf, and his tears fall just as slowly. fuma wraps his arms around him and tries not to think of his own arms as a cage, barbed and ugly.
they fall onto the couch, yudai covering fuma's body entirely. the position is awkward, and yudai's knee is pressing into fuma's groin, while he weeps softly like an angel into the crook of fuma's neck. fuma holds his waist, one hand finding home in yudai's hair. he pets him softly, unsure of what else to do in order to comfort him. he's never been good at this part, always bolts when things get hard, hiding in the same depths that make him feel like the world's worst person.
"i'm sorry for making you cry," fuma whispers, bringing his lips to the top of yudai's head and leaving a chaste kiss there. his mouth lingers, eyes closing, and just letting himself feel for the first time in weeks. no more running, his nervous system has had enough for a lifetime.
"i'm sorry too," yudai mutters, lips tickling the skin of fuma's neck. it makes him smile, thinking about how he and yudai are still just terrified kids to some regard. sometimes, the things that make you shake are so overwhelming that you have to hide—from the good, knowing you won't have to face the world alone; from the bad, knowing that the only way out is through, and life is an endless cycle of this, suffering, and riding through dark tunnels.
one single glimpse of light—it's all fuma can ask for, and he finds it in yudai's red-rimmed, wet eyes.
they're in the bedroom, yudai beneath the comforter and hiding like he's embarrassed. fuma can only see the top of his head, smiling and breathing hard through his nose.
he turns off the light, legs carrying him towards the bed and slipping in. he presses his cold feet against yudai's calves, smiling when the other groans, pulling back the covers the slightest bit just to glare at fuma.
it makes him giggle, his hand reaching for yudai's cheek to caress it. he's still so flushed, pieces of wet hair sticking to his forehead and serving as proof of what they'd just done.
yudai closes his eyes, nuzzling his face against the palm of fuma's hand.
in the dark and quiet safe space they've built, brick by brick, fuma still wishes he could guarantee that yudai's life would always be pink—soft and tender, a love that only knows how to nurture and bring peace. he wants to give yudai all the pink nights he can, stumbling over words just to find the right things to say.
something lives inside of fuma and sometimes it's ugly, like there's a part of him that's missing the little thing that would make him right.
but, something lives inside of fuma and most of the time it's love. he finds it in the quiet of their room, silent except for yudai's breath. it slips through his open mouth, and fuma can see all of the exhaustion leave the longer his thumb strokes the other's cheek.
something, it lives, and it's paradoxical in nature. there's rain, there's fires, and thoughts of things so awful fuma doesn't like to say them out loud most of the time, even though he should. but there is peace in all of that—standing in the rain and letting it wash over him, sitting by an open fire with his palms facing it.
speaking, always speaking, letting the words spill out all wrong and ugly just to hear how ridiculous they sound.
"what are you thinking so hard about?" yudai's voice is thick with sleep, ready to slip into his dreams at any second. still, he clings to consciousness to talk to fuma.
"nothing important."