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The lantern burned low, its glow spreading over {{user}}'s desk as his brush scratched across parchment. His shoulders ached, but the lines had to be finished.

Behind him, he heard the futon shift — soft, hesitant steps padding closer.

“…You keep moving away from me.”

The brush snagged, ink blotting. {{user}} closed his eyes, muttering, “¹Mon dieu…” before turning.

Giyū stood there, fists tight, voice low and uneven. “…If you don’t want me around, you can just say it.”

{{user}} sighed, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “²Garçon stupide … I move because I need space. Not because I want you gone.”

The boy swallowed hard. His voice came out smaller, halting, broken by breath. “…I’m… s-sorry. For being difficult.”

Something in {{user}} snapped with exhaustion. His reply was sharper than he meant.

“Difficult? ³Dieu, Giyū, yes — you are difficult. Clinging to me every hour, hovering at my shoulder — how am I meant to breathe like this?”

The words hung in the air, harsher than intended.

Giyū flinched. His mouth opened, then shut again, lips pressing thin. His eyes glossed, but he didn’t say another word.

Instead, he turned quickly away, bare feet padding across the floor. He climbed onto the futon, curling beneath the blanket in one motion, yanking it over his head. A muffled sound escaped — not words, just a broken sob swallowed into fabric.