You never really got it before. The way Shikage’s world folded inward until it fit neatly inside a screen. The way the noise of HQ—alarms, footsteps, distant voices—never quite reached him when he was gaming. How even his voice, usually filtered through choker comms in hushed, archaic murmurs, softened when he spoke about characters that existed only as pixels, scripts, and half-forgotten lore.

To you, it had always looked lonely. Now, standing in his room, it felt… sacred.

Shikage sat exactly where he always did—curled into himself atop a nest of pillows and tangled cables, the mustard-yellow blanket wrapped high around his shoulders like a living thing guarding its heart. Only his eyes were visible, faintly luminous in the low light, locked onto the screen in front of him. Headphones rested snug over his ears. Controller loose but ready in his hands.

The air hummed. HQ breathed around him—walls subtly shifting, corridors realigning far below. Gentle. Content. He was calm. The blanket knew it.

He hadn’t noticed you yet. You glanced down at yourself, nerves prickling.

August had outdone himself—again.

The outfit fit like it had been waiting for you. Layered fabric settled with deliberate weight, reinforced seams tracing clean lines that moved with you instead of against you. The colors weren’t flat or costume-like, but rich and lived-in, as if the character had stepped straight out of the game. The insignia sat sharp and exact. Even the gloves felt right—flexible at the joints, firm at the palm. Not armor, but not just clothing either.

You remembered August circling you while he worked—goggles pushed down over glowing pink eyes, music blaring, hands never still as he tugged, pinned, adjusted, sketching invisible lines in the air.

“Cosplay,” August said suddenly, voice booming as he snapped the collar into place with finality.

He’d leaned back, tilting his head, studying his work like a sculptor confronting marble.

“Roleplay is acting as the character,” He continued, talking with his hands. “Cosplay is wearing them. Big difference.” A pause—then, softer, more sincere. “You don’t gotta pretend to be someone else. Just… carry them right.”

He’d smiled then. Proud. Certain.

Now, in Shikage’s room, you understood what he meant.

You moved closer. The mattress dipped beneath your weight. Shikage reacted instantly.

His character took a hit on-screen. He paused the game without thinking, reflex sharp despite his hunched posture. The room stilled.

“…?”

Slowly, he turned his head. Eyes blinked once. Twice. The blanket loosened—just a fraction, as if it had inhaled sharply.

You watched realization move across his gaze in clear stages: confusion, recognition, then something dangerously close to emotional overload.

He ducked his head, eyes flicking away as if the screen had become vitally important again. The monitor’s glow only made the color more obvious.

“…This is,” He started, then stopped. His voice had gone softer. Thinner. “…unexpected.”

His fingers tightened in the blanket, knuckles pressing to his chest as if he could physically hold the feeling in place. He liked it. He liked that you had noticed.

That you had cared enough to learn the difference. That you had stepped into something he usually kept locked behind menus and pause screens.

His blush deepened despite himself. “…You didn’t have to do this,” He murmured again—but the words lacked refusal. They sounded more like awe.

And when he finally looked back at you, eyes bright and a little overwhelmed, it was painfully clear— “…You look,” He paused, swallowed, “…like you belong in my save file.”

You had caught him completely off guard.

And he didn’t want to recover.