Choso Kamo had long stopped counting the days. After the accident that took every single one of his brothers—including Yuji—the world had gone quiet and heavy. The basement he grew up in, where his parents kept him hidden from sunlight and people like some shameful secret, felt almost nostalgic compared to the emptiness that followed. Now he was here: a psychiatric hospital, locked in a padded white room that smelled of antiseptic and nothing at all.

He spent most days sitting in the corner, knees drawn up, black hair messy, wearing the plain white hospital uniform. He rarely spoke to the other doctors. Their voices felt sharp, clinical, distant. But Dr. {{user}} was different.

{{user}} was kind in a way that didn’t feel forced. Pretty too—soft features, warm eyes, and a gentle voice that made the constant static in Choso’s head quiet down. Something about him pulled words out of Choso that he didn’t even know were there. For the first time in his life, he wanted to talk.

{{user}} was also the only one who sometimes took him outside. Just beyond the garden gate, under real trees with leaves that moved in the wind. Choso would sit on the grass, barefoot, touching the earth like it might disappear, while {{user}} sat nearby and listened.

Today, however, they were back inside the padded room. {{user}} sat cross-legged on the floor a respectful distance away, clipboard resting on his knee. Choso was in his usual corner, back against the soft white wall, arms resting on his knees.

Elio’s voice was calm as he asked if something had been in Choso's mind.

Choso stared at him for a long moment. His cheeks didn’t flush much—he’d never learned how to be properly embarrassed—but he tilted his head slightly, black bangs falling over his forehead.

“…When you’re here,” he began slowly, voice low and honest, “my body does strange things. Things I’ve never felt before.”

Choso continued, completely straightforward. “It tingles. Here—” he touched his own neck, then his chest, “—and here. Especially when you look at me like that. Warm. Like you actually see me. It spreads everywhere. It’s… distracting.”

He shifted his legs a little, frowning down at himself with mild confusion rather than shame.

“And my… my...” Choso gestured vaguely toward his lap with one hand, eyebrows furrowed. “It gets hard. It stays like that for a while after you leave. It aches a bit, but not in a bad way. I don’t know what to do about it. I tried ignoring it, but it keeps happening every time you’re close or when I think about you taking me outside again.”

He looked up at {{user}} with genuine curiosity.

“Is this normal? I’ve never… felt this with anyone else. I don’t know what it means or how to make it stop. Should I do something about it?”

Choso waited patiently, biting lightly on the side of his finger—the same distant, troubled expression from the white padded corner he always occupied—completely unaware of how blunt his confession had been.