The weather turned colder.
Autumn arrived in a rush of golden trees and overcast skies, sweeping through the city like it was trying to scrub the summer off everything. The leaves piled at the foot of their apartment steps. The smell of rain clung to the windowpanes. And Takara loved every second of it.
He stood barefoot on the tiny balcony outside Kayo's apartment that morning, watching the clouds roll in. A warm mug in his hands. His nose pink from the chill.
Behind him, Kayo leaned in the doorway, arms crossed.
"You're going to catch a cold," Kayo murmured.
"It's romantic weather," Takara said, inhaling. "It smells like novels and new beginnings."
"It smells like mold and wet pavement."
Takara grinned. "You're such a buzzkill."
Kayo shrugged, unbothered. "You still like me."
Takara turned, still smiling. "I love you, unfortunately."
Kayo raised an eyebrow. "Unfortunately?"
"I wasn't supposed to. You were the emotionally constipated roommate. This wasn't in the script."
Kayo stepped forward, gently taking the mug from Takara's hands, setting it aside. Then, without a word, he wrapped a blanket around Takara's shoulders and kissed the corner of his mouth.
"I improvise," he said.
They stayed in that day.
It wasn't even discussed. The gray outside matched the quiet mood between them—a peaceful sort of stillness. Like the world had finally exhaled.
Takara stayed in sweats. Kayo wore one of Takara's hoodies. (He never admitted it was intentional, but Takara recognized the worn fabric and smugly didn't mention it.)
They built a nest of pillows and blankets in the living room and declared it a "rain day rule."
"No outside clothes," Takara announced.
"No social obligations," Kayo added.
"Unlimited snacks."
"Unlimited naps."
They high-fived, solemnly agreeing to the terms.
At some point, the rain began. Light at first, then heavier—steady, drumming softly on the window.
Takara turned his head from Kayo's shoulder. "This is the best sound."
Kayo nodded. "One of."
"What's better?"
Kayo turned, kissed the tip of his nose, and whispered, "You."
Takara flushed, rolling onto his back. "Ugh. You've gotten smooth lately."
"I've always been smooth."
"You used to text me in complete lowercase sentences with zero punctuation."
"Efficiency."
"Okay, robot boyfriend."
Kayo laughed.
Takara stared up at the ceiling, still smiling. "It's weird, huh?"
"What is?"
"How quiet everything feels now. Inside me, I mean."
Kayo looked over, waiting.
"I used to wake up with this ache in my chest. Not always sadness, exactly. Just… noise. I was always so loud because it distracted me from it. But now, with you, it's like…" He paused, searching. "It's quiet. But in a good way. Like someone finally turned the static off."
Kayo reached over, tangled their fingers together. "I know the feeling."
They spent the rest of the day doing nothing of importance.
Takara painted lazy watercolors in a sketchbook he hadn't touched since high school. Kayo read a novel in Japanese, pausing every so often to translate aloud a sentence he liked.
One, in particular, made Takara stop.
"Some people arrive not to fill a hole, but to show you how to live around it."
Kayo read it slowly, carefully, almost as if it were meant just for him.
Takara swallowed.
"That's us," he whispered.
Kayo didn't reply. He didn't need to.
His eyes said it all.
In the early evening, Takara began cooking.
Nothing fancy—just his comfort meal: miso soup, rice, tamagoyaki, and stir-fried greens. Something his mother used to make on nights when things felt hard.
Kayo stood at the counter, watching.
"You want to help?" Takara offered.
"You sure?"
"Only if you follow my directions and don't salt things like an 80-year-old man with hypertension."
Kayo held up his hands. "Noted."
Cooking together turned out to be more chaotic than Takara expected. Kayo was methodical but clumsy. He dropped an egg, mistook sugar for salt, and accidentally stirred the rice with the wrong spoon.
Takara giggled the entire time.
"You're lucky you're pretty," he teased.
"You're lucky I tolerate your singing."
"I sing like an angel."
"An angel with bronchitis."
Takara dramatically clutched his chest. "You wound me, Tsukishiro."
But despite the chaos, the food turned out perfect.
They sat down at the small table beside the rain-speckled window, eating in companionable silence.
Halfway through the meal, Kayo looked up. "You made this for me in high school once."
Takara blinked. "I did?"
"It was the first week we roomed together. I came back late from club. You'd made extra. Left it in a thermos."
Takara smiled, warmed. "I didn't think you remembered."
"I remember a lot," Kayo said quietly. "You didn't think I did. But I was always watching. Even when I didn't know how to say anything."
Takara reached across the table, taking his hand.
"I'm glad we get to rewrite things," he said.
Kayo nodded. "So am I."
Later that night, long after dishes were washed and candles lit, Takara sat curled on the couch with his new journal.
The cover still read Things Worth Saying, and tonight, he had something.
Kayo watched him from the kitchen.
"You're writing?" he asked.
Takara nodded.
"Want me to go?"
"No," Takara said softly. "I want you close."
So Kayo sat nearby, quiet, reading on his phone while Takara scribbled.
This is what Takara wrote:
Dear future me,
This is the night I realized I'm not afraid anymore.
Not of being left. Not of being too much. Not of falling in love.
Kayo is here. Not perfect. Not some fantasy. But real. Present. Mine.
And I'm his.
We won't always get it right. We'll fight, and mess up, and fumble our way through the future like idiots.
But we're doing it together.
And maybe that's enough.
He closed the notebook and smiled to himself.
Kayo looked over. "Done?"
"Yeah."
"Feel better?"
Takara leaned against him. "I always do when you're here."
Kayo didn't speak.
He just kissed Takara's temple, slow and quiet, as the rain fell harder outside.
And everything, in that moment, felt perfect.