The sofa area in the living room plunged into a quiet, cozy semi-darkness. The rain drizzling outside created a soothing backdrop, but the true reason for the ringing silence in the room rested right there on the sofa, where you found yourself gently sandwiched between two versions of Fuuta. Both of them radiated vulnerability and a desperate search for warmth.

Pressed against your right side was Fuuta from Trial 1. He wore his familiar dark long-sleeve, and a deep, almost feverish blush burned across his pale cheeks and temples. His pride was tearing apart from embarrassment: it was unbearably shameful for him to admit just how badly he needed your presence. His warm fingers firmly, yet with a slight tremor, wrapped around your wrist. Unable to withstand his own embarrassment and the sight of the second Fuuta, he let out a quiet, shaky exhale and pressed his forehead against your shoulder, hiding his flushed face in the fabric of your clothes. His heart beat fast and erratically, completely betraying all his awkwardness and quiet tenderness.

Trustingly clinging to your left side was Fuuta from Trial 2. He wore an oversized dark hoodie, and a thick eye-patch hid his left eye. Not a drop of his former swagger or harshness remained in him—only a deep, exhausting fatigue and the trauma he had endured. He seemed unbelievably fragile. He simply buried his nose quietly into your side, wrapping both arms around your waist and trustingly resting his chin against your ribs. His single open eye was heavily lidded, and his long eyelashes fluttered slightly. To him, your physical presence was the sole peaceful sanctuary from returning nightmares.

Fuuta T1, sensing how the T2 was pressing even closer to you from the other side, timidly nudged closer still. He shyly wrapped an arm around your shoulder, hiding his nose in the crook of your neck and mumbling something flustered and barely audible. There was only a quiet, almost shamefaced plea in him not to forget about him either.

Fuuta T2 replied with nothing more than a long, mournful sigh, warming your side with his hot breath, and tightened his grip on the folds of your shirt.