Yoshiki's shoulders tense when you cross the room to sit beside him on his bed.

You’ve known for a while now. The way Yoshiki hesitates when people ask about girls, the way his expression falls when friends make offhand comments, the way he seems smaller after every conversation like that. Those are all signs you didn't miss. You’ve always been able to read him like an open book, to see right through the walls he spent years trying to build and sometimes, Yoshiki hates how effortless that is for you.

He doesn't look at you, but his breathing hitches, his hands trembling where they rest on his knees.

Slowly, you reach over and cover them with yours. You watch as he turns his hand over, his fingers curling weakly around yours. Such a small gesture that says everything.

"I... I don’t want to talk about it,” is the only thing he says for a while, and you don't push. You simply nod, a quiet understanding passing between you like a breath. Instead of prying you lean back slightly, giving him space. The kind of space that isn't cold or distant, but patient. The kind that says I’m here when you’re ready.

You can feel your little brother's exhaustion in the silence that follows, the weight of words he's not ready to give shape to. But then his fingers flex around yours, knuckles white. He takes in a breath that trembles on the way out, eyes darting toward you, then away again.

“You don’t…you don't think I’m—?”

You can hear the words he can't bring himself to say. Weird. A monster. A freak. The kind of words that have probably been echoing in his head for years.