Chapter Text
The trains passed loud and fast, but neither of them moved.
They stood near the barrier, just far enough from the platform to be safe, just close enough for it to feel dangerous. The wind of a passing train pulled at their hair, and for a second, neither of them said a word.
Then Mafuyu spoke, quietly.
“You said you'd come today.”
Yuki didn’t look at him. His hands were stuffed deep into the pockets of his jacket, his shoulders stiff.
“I had practice.”
“You always have practice.”
Yuki scoffed under his breath, shifting his weight to one foot. “We’ve got a show coming up.”
“I know,” Mafuyu said, still quiet. “You always have something coming up.”
There was silence. The sound of another train in the distance rumbled behind them.
Yuki finally looked over. “What are you trying to say?”
Mafuyu’s fingers curled slightly at his sides. “I miss you.”
Yuki’s mouth twitched. “I’m right here, aren’t I?”
“No.” Mafuyu shook his head. “You’re always somewhere else.”
Yuki’s expression hardened. “I’m doing this *for* us. I’m trying to make something—”
“I didn’t ask for that!” Mafuyu’s voice cracked as it rose. “I didn’t ask for music. I just wanted you!”
Yuki froze.
His jaw clenched, the muscle ticking once. “Don’t do this right now.”
“Why not? Because it’s not convenient? Because you’re too busy with your band and your guitar and everything else that isn’t me?”
“Don’t twist it, Mafuyu,” Yuki snapped, his voice sharp and hot. “You don’t understand what it’s like. Music is everything to me. It’s all I have!”
Mafuyu took a breath, but it came out shaky. “What about me?”
Yuki looked at him like the question physically hurt.
“I can’t live without you,” he said, low and hoarse.
Mafuyu swallowed. “Would you die for me?”
Yuki flinched. The air around them dropped, the noise of the street somehow fading under the weight of that question.
Then he turned his head, looking away again.
“That’s not fair,” he muttered.
“No,” Mafuyu said. “It isn’t.”
And with that, he walked away.
He didn’t cry. He didn’t run.
He just left.
Behind him, Hiiragi and Shizusumi stood frozen, having arrived just in time to hear the last part. Neither of them said anything. Shizusumi’s brows were drawn in confusion, Hiiragi’s lips parted like he wanted to say something but didn’t know what.
Yuki stayed rooted to the spot.
He didn’t chase after Mafuyu.
He just stood there, breathless — like something had been pulled out of him and tossed into the wind with the next passing train.
----
Time moved forward, even if it felt stuck.
Yuki, Hiiragi, and Shizusumi went back to their high school — the prestigious one for musicians and composers, where everyone carried instrument cases like badges of honor.
Mafuyu went to his own. A regular school. He was a straight-A student, quiet, withdrawn. People left him alone. He didn’t do music. He didn’t sing. That part of his life existed only because of Yuki — and Yuki had always been the one who played.
---
Two days passed.
No texts. No calls.
Mafuyu hadn’t meant it — not really. The words had come from the ugliest part of him. The part that felt small and invisible when Yuki left for practice again. The part that hated being replaced by a guitar.
But he hadn’t known what those words would do.
---
The second day, after school, Mafuyu took the train to Yuki’s place.
He let himself in.
The room was dark when Mafuyu stepped inside.
The curtains were drawn, lights off, just the soft hum of silence. It felt heavy, like something had already happened here. His shoes barely made a sound as he slipped them off and stepped deeper in.
He found Yuki sitting on the floor.
Not on the bed. Not on the couch. Just the floor. His back against the wall, knees pulled up, hands limp at his sides. A bottle of something strong sat untouched nearby, the cap still on. In the corner, like a ghost of intention, lay a rope. Looped. Waiting.
Mafuyu stopped breathing.
“Yuki,” he said, not loud, not soft—just enough.
Yuki flinched.
His eyes turned, slow and hollow, until they found Mafuyu. And something inside them cracked.
“Mafuyu…?”
Mafuyu walked forward.
No accusations. No yelling. He just knelt in front of him. His voice was steady, even if his hands weren’t.
“I’m here.”
Yuki’s shoulders shook. “I thought you weren’t coming.”
“I came.”
A silence.
And then Yuki laughed—quiet, brittle.
“I’m such a mess.”
“You didn’t drink it,” Mafuyu said.
Yuki looked at the bottle like it wasn’t his. “Didn’t need to, I guess.”
Mafuyu hesitated before reaching out, fingers brushing lightly over Yuki’s sleeve.
“I didn’t mean what I said,” he whispered. “I was just angry. I… just wanted to be important to you again.”
Yuki’s head dropped. “You are. You’ve always been. I just—” His voice cracked. “I don’t know how to be anything else. Without you, there’s nothing. No music. No point. You’re my reason.”
Mafuyu didn’t respond. Not right away.
He knew Yuki meant it. But it felt like a desperate echo of something they used to be. Not fully love—just the fear of losing it. The panic of silence.
Yuki leaned forward, brushing their foreheads together.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, eyes shut tight. “I’m so sorry I didn’t choose you.”
He kissed him.
Mafuyu let him.
It was soft. Familiar. But not the same.
Something in it was broken—like Yuki wasn’t kissing him as much as clinging to the idea of him. And Mafuyu wasn’t pulling away, because maybe he didn’t know how to stop being needed.
They didn’t talk after.
They just sat there, on the floor. And when Mafuyu finally leaned into Yuki, resting his head on his shoulder, Yuki exhaled like it was the only thing keeping him alive.
Classes passed in a blur.
Mafuyu sat by the window in each room, always with a pencil in his hand, his notebook clean and precise. He didn’t speak unless called on. His test scores were always perfect. People whispered things like *“He's quiet but smart”* or *“Maybe he’s just shy.”* No one asked him to hang out.
That was fine.
He didn’t want noise.
He was still trying to breathe in this new, quiet version of his relationship with Yuki. They didn’t talk about that night. Yuki still played music — always for Mafuyu, never with him. And Mafuyu still hadn’t figured out how to ask for something different. Or even what that something was.
It was raining again that afternoon. Not heavy — just a soft drizzle clinging to the windows like static.
Mafuyu finished class early and took the side stairwell instead of the front exit. He liked the quiet there, how the echo of his footsteps felt like a song only he could hear.
Halfway up the stairs, he stopped.
Music.
Real, raw, alive.
At the top of the landing sat a boy with a guitar resting against his chest, foot tapping gently on the step below him, fingers dancing across the strings like they had somewhere else to be. His head was slightly tilted down, messy black hair falling across his forehead, brows drawn tight in concentration.
It wasn’t a full song — more like a sketch of one. Raw chords. Wandering rhythms. But it was real.
And it pulled something in Mafuyu’s chest so tightly he forgot how to breathe.
He didn’t even realize he was standing there until the music stopped.
The boy blinked up at him.
“…Dude,” he muttered. “You been standing there this whole time?”
Mafuyu opened his mouth. Then closed it. Then tried again.
“I… didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You didn’t.” He shifted on the step, resting his guitar against his knee. “I just thought I was alone.”
Mafuyu hesitated, stepping up one more stair. “What was that?”
“Just something I’m working on. Not really a song yet.”
“…It was nice.”
The boy gave a lopsided shrug. “Thanks, I guess.”
There was a pause. Mafuyu looked at the guitar.
It was different from Yuki’s. Smaller. The wood darker, the strings slightly more worn. It looked used. Not like something pretty to show off — like something lived in.
“What’s your name?” the boy asked suddenly.
Mafuyu blinked. “…Satou.”
“…Satou?” A pause. “That’s it?”
Mafuyu’s mouth twitched. “Mafuyu Satou.”
“Ah. Cool.” The boy raised his brows. “Uenoyama. Second year.”
Mafuyu didn’t say anything for a moment. He looked at the guitar again.
“You play a lot?”
“Every day.”
Mafuyu nodded. That made sense. It sounded like something deep in him — not just a hobby, but a habit. A way of being.
Uenoyama tilted his head, watching him. “You play?”
Mafuyu shook his head. “No. I don’t… I don’t really do music.”
“Huh.” Uenoyama’s eyes narrowed slightly, intrigued. “Could’ve fooled me, the way you were staring.”
“I liked how it sounded.”
Uenoyama gave a short laugh. “You looked like you were about to cry.”
Mafuyu didn’t respond. His hands tightened slightly on the strap of his bag.
“Sorry,” Uenoyama said, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck. “Didn’t mean it like that.”
“It’s okay.”
They sat there for a moment, the rain tapping gently against the stairwell windows.
Uenoyama strummed a few aimless chords again, not really playing, just letting the sound exist in the air between them. Mafuyu’s gaze didn’t leave his hands.
He didn’t understand why his chest felt tight. Like something inside him had been gently, unknowingly shaken awake.
It was just music.
But it hadn’t felt like just anything.
He stood slowly. “I’ll go.”
“You don’t have to.” Uenoyama looked up. “You wanna stay?”
Mafuyu paused, one hand resting against the rail. He thought about Yuki. About the silence between them lately. About the guitar Yuki always played for him, and how this was different — this felt like something being offered.
“…Okay,” he said softly.
And he sat down, a few steps below.
Close enough to hear the chords clearly.
Far enough not to break whatever this was.
Uenoyama kept playing. Nothing flashy. Just the same quiet melody again.
And Mafuyu listened.
For the first time in a long while, he felt something like breath returning to his chest — something he hadn’t even realized had been missing.
---