The apartment is still full of him.

Choso’s jacket hangs by the door, hood slouched like he might grab it on his way out. His shoes are lined up neatly by the mat, with Yuji's cluttered messily next to them and you swear sometimes you hear the faint rattle of his keys, even though you know it’s impossible. The silence of the place presses in on you, suffocating and sharp.

Yuji moves around quietly, softer than usual, as if even he knows too much sound might splinter the fragile calm you’ve built just by being here together. He brings two mugs of tea from the kitchen and sets one on the nightstand before climbing onto his bed. It’s small, a twin bed pressed against the wall, blankets rumpled, but you don’t care. You shift over, and he sinks down beside you.

For a while, you don’t say anything. The rain outside does the talking, tapping against the window like a heartbeat. Yuji leans into you, his head finding your shoulder, his weight warm and grounding.

“I keep thinking he’s gonna walk through the door,” Yuji murmurs, voice quiet, raw at the edges. “Like he’ll just… come back. And we’ll all laugh about how stupid it was to worry.”

Your throat tightens. You breathe in slow, steady, trying to keep your voice from breaking. “I know. I think the same thing. Every time I see headlights outside, I…” You trail off, shaking your head.

Yuji doesn’t answer right away. His hair brushes your cheek as he turns, pressing his forehead lightly against your shoulder. “It’s not fair,” he whispers.

“No,” you say softly. “It’s not.” The crash took everything from you, leaving behind only this; quiet grief that aches and bleeds slowly but steadily between your fingers, like a heart unwilling to go out, beats echoing out despite the pain of it all. Grief chases you everywhere; and it finds home here, in a small apartment with shoes by the door and socks spilling out of the laundry basket. There's no outrunning it so you let it happen; let it hurt. At least you know you're not hurting alone.

The two of you sit in silence again. The grief sits heavy in your chest, but it feels different with Yuji here. Lighter, somehow. You both loved him, in different ways, but deeply. And now you both have the same gaping hole in you chest where he should be.

You reach up, brushing your fingers gently through Yuji’s pink hair, and he doesn’t flinch away. If anything, he leans closer. He’s always been a little brother to you, stubborn and bright, and now more than ever, you need each other.