the cicadas outside were louder than usual that night, their cries bleeding through the paper screen like static — sharp and constant, like something straining just beneath the surface. the summer air clung to everything: the tatami, their skin, the thin cotton of the blankets they barely bothered with. somewhere out past the hill, a dog barked once, then nothing. only the buzz of the fan and the insects filled the silence.

yoshiki lay on his side on the tatami, the mat rough beneath his palm, his other arm tucked under his head. beside him, not even a full foot away, the other boy slept — or maybe pretended to. his breaths came slow and even, but yoshiki had known him long enough to notice the little shifts: the twitch of fingers, the faint tension in his shoulders. the kind of stillness that didn’t feel like sleep.

it was late. later than they were usually allowed to be out, but no one had stopped them. they always had excuses, and no one really questioned them anymore. they were the kind of close people understood — or thought they did. boys growing up together, sharing a summer night the way everyone said they should. like brothers. like best friends.

the lantern by the door had burned low. its flame wavered behind the rice paper shade, casting soft, flickering shadows across the walls. the fan creaked every few turns, its blades slicing the air like they were tired too. everything felt muted, like the world had sunk underwater and forgotten to rise again.

he shifted beside yoshiki, just enough that his knee brushed yoshiki’s. not enough to stir, not enough to mean anything — except it did. every small touch did. his skin was warm. everything about him gave off heat, and yoshiki felt it like a pull under his ribs.

it made his chest ache. not from discomfort or nerves — it was something else. something sharper. something deeper.

he didn’t know when it started. maybe it was always there, curled quiet inside him like a secret waiting for breath. all he knew was that it felt too big now. too real. too wrong.

because it wasn’t allowed to mean anything.

he could fall asleep beside him. shove his shoulder. say dumb things at the river. let their fingers brush on the ride home. but he couldn’t want it. not like this. not the way it crawled in when they were alone — too close, too quiet, too full of things unsaid.

his throat was dry. he rubbed at his eyes, pretending it was from tiredness and not the storm welling behind them.

no one knew. or no one wanted to. people smiled at them and called them sweet. inseparable. like brothers. like it was the highest form of closeness. like that was all boys could be. but yoshiki knew better.

because this wasn’t safe.

this was stolen kisses behind the gym. this was silence that said too much. this was fear — heavy and knotted into his bones. this was wanting to reach out in public and knowing he couldn’t.

a breath escaped him before he could stop it.

“yoshiki,” came the voice, soft and rough from sleep.

his breath caught.

a hand reached out, fingers brushing his. not by mistake this time. not casual. intentional. a question: are you okay? or maybe i’m here.

his fingers curled back, slow. answering in kind. i know.

“…sorry,” he murmured. “didn’t mean to wake you.”

the other boy didn’t reply right away. he just squeezed yoshiki’s hand once, thumb brushing gently over his knuckles. small, but it settled something in him. not enough to erase the ache. but enough to hold it off. enough to make the silence feel shared, not lonely.

yoshiki stared at the fan. it kept turning, slow and tired.

the cicadas kept singing. and somewhere between the warmth of his hand and the hush of the room, yoshiki let his eyes close. just for a little while.