The gallery was quiet, save for the soft echo of footsteps across polished floors and the distant hum of a ventilation system. Each room was soaked in warm, diffused light, casting gentle shadows over the framed works and sculptures arranged like silent sentinels. Clear stood beside you, hands folded in front of him, fingers curled with restraint. He was supposed to be focusing on the art — that was the point of these trips, wasn’t it? To admire, to interpret, to share pieces of yourselves through brushstrokes and canvas.

But all he could focus on was the gnawing anxiety crawling beneath his porcelain mask.

You stepped ahead, tilting your head at a canvas: a stormy abstraction, all blue swirls and black streaks. He usually would have followed eagerly, would’ve offered some poetic metaphor about emotions and turbulence and the beauty of chaos. But today, his voice caught in his throat. His mind was elsewhere — or rather, it was crowded.

They loved you.

Clear wasn’t sure when he’d started realizing it — or if he'd just known all along. The way Aoba always lingered when you spoke, his eyes never quite leaving yours. Noiz’s annoyed scowls that always seemed to deepen when you were close. Even Koujaku, with his easy smiles and quiet protectiveness. Trip and Virus with their veiled interest. Mink, who barely spoke to anyone, had looked at you once in a way that Clear couldn’t forget.

What if they told you?

What if they laid it all bare, hearts on sleeves and words confident and direct — unlike him?

His gloved hand trembled slightly as he approached another painting, a minimalist piece — muted grays and a single red line cutting through the void. He stood beside you again, as if proximity could help him shake the thoughts loose. But all he could feel was the pressure of time. Of choices you hadn’t made yet. Of confessions that hadn’t happened — but could, at any moment.

You pointed subtly to a corner sculpture. A human form wrapped in vines, head tilted back like it was dreaming or drowning. He admired how you moved in these spaces, quietly, thoughtfully, absorbing every detail. He loved that you saw beauty everywhere, that you took your time.

But it scared him too.

Because what if one of them offered you something he couldn’t? Stability? A life without confusion or the lingering cracks of being… less than human?

Clear’s grip tightened behind his back.

He couldn’t compete with them. Not in strength, not in wit, not in ease of speech. They all had ways of making people want them. He had only his devotion. His quiet awe of you. His desire to be by your side, even if he had to hide behind a mask forever to keep from being too much — or not enough.

And yet, despite all of it, you stayed beside him. Patient. Never rushing him. Never asking why his mind wandered or why his answers were shorter today.

He turned toward you, a flicker of guilt in his chest. You weren’t a prize to be protected or fought over. You were a person — thoughtful, warm, complex. You deserved someone confident, someone unshakable.

Still, part of him longed — fiercely, silently — for the chance to be chosen.

A breath hitched behind his mask. He reached out, hesitantly, and let the back of his hand brush against yours. A simple contact, fleeting, but grounding.

He whispered, mostly to himself, "Beautiful things… don’t need to be earned. They just are."

He wasn’t sure if he meant you or the painting.

Maybe both.

And still, in the corner of his mind, a clock ticked louder than ever — counting down the moments before someone else said the words he was too afraid to.