Kin is two breaths away from losing it.
His mind is running in tight, vicious circles, each thought worse than the last, each possibility sharpening into something ugly and unbearable. He can feel it happening—the shift, the slide—like a crack spreading across glass. His grip on the cake box tightens until the thin plastic crinkles loudly in the quiet house, and for a split second he imagines tearing through every room, flipping furniture, ripping down boards just to prove that Sute hasn't somehow dissolved into thin air.
He takes a step toward the hallway.
Another.
"Sute?"
He calls again, and now the name sounds strained, frayed at the edges.
And then he hears it.
A soft and fragile cry.
A little shaky, like it's being pushed out through tears.
"Kin? Kin-san? I—I need help. I'm in the bathroom."
Everything stops.
It is almost comical, the way the rage drains out of him in an instant, like someone has pulled a plug at the base of his spine. The wildness in his eyes softens. The black, endless abyss recedes into something warm and focused and achingly attentive.
He exhales.
'There he is.'
Kin's face transforms so quickly it's almost unsettling. The tension in his jaw melts. His lips curve upward, bright and relieved, and he lets out a soft, breathy laugh as though he had simply been startled by nothing at all.
"Oh, Sute-chan…"
He murmurs, already moving.
"You scared me."
He heads toward the bathroom at once, still holding the cake carefully in one hand, as if presenting it properly now that the crisis has been resolved. His steps are quick but light, eager rather than frantic, and by the time he reaches the doorway, he's smiling again—open, kind, almost boyishly affectionate.
"I brought you—"
He stops.
The rest of the sentence dissolves on his tongue.
Sute is sitting on the bathroom floor.
His knees are tucked slightly under him, thin and pale against the tile, and his arms are lifted awkwardly above his head, tangled helplessly in the oversized pale blue shirt that has twisted itself around his shoulders and forearms. The fabric is bunched high enough that his upper body is exposed—skin so sickly pale it almost seems translucent under the bathroom light, ribs faintly visible beneath the surface, collarbones sharp and delicate like porcelain edges.
And then there is the contrast.
Soft, vulnerable skin.
And the startling flush of vibrant pink at the center of his chest, small and perky and entirely unguarded.
For a moment, Kin forgets how to breathe.
It isn't that Sute is trying to be anything.
That's the problem.
There's no artifice here, no awareness. His expression is tear-streaked and confused, eyes wide and watery beneath the tangled mess of fabric, cheeks flushed from panic rather than intention. He looks small and overwhelmed. Completely unaware of how the scene appears.
That innocence hits harder than anything deliberate ever could.
Kin's face goes bright red in an instant.
Heat rushes to his cheeks, his ears, the bridge of his nose, and before he can stop it, there's a warm, humiliating trickle beneath his nostrils. He touches his upper lip absently and then blinks down at the smear of red on his fingers, stunned.
"I—"
His knees feel weak.
His vision swims, just slightly.
He sways where he stands, overwhelmed in a way that makes absolutely no sense and yet makes perfect, terrible sense all at once. The cake slips from his grasp, the plastic bag crumpling as gravity claims it, and the box inside lands sideways on the tile with a soft, disastrous thud.
The scent of sugar bursts into the air.
Sute, who has been blinking up at him from beneath the twisted collar of the shirt, freezes.
He smells it first—the sweet, creamy richness of bakery frosting—and then, through a small gap beneath the fabric that has finally shifted enough for him to see through, he catches sight of the fallen box.
The lid has popped slightly open.
A smear of pale pink cream decorates the floor.
Sute's lower lip trembles.
His tears pause, caught in confusion, and then new sadness wells up to replace them. He hadn't meant to cause trouble. He hadn't meant to ruin anything. And now—
"Ah…"
His voice is small. Soft. Genuinely mournful.
"Cake…"
There is no accusation in it, just disappointment.
Kin, still flushed—holding a tissue to his nose as though he's been personally attacked by his own emotions—stares at the fallen dessert and then back at Sute's exposed, trembling form.
The absurdity of it hits him all at once—his panic, the cake and Sute, sitting there like a trapped, confused kitten who has somehow gotten stuck in the world's largest sweater.
Kin lets out a shaky breath that almost turns into a laugh.
"It's okay!"
He says quickly, kneeling at last, setting the cake box upright with gentle hands even though the frosting is clearly smudged.
"It's still fine. We can fix it. I'll fix it."
His eyes flick back to Sute—and immediately he has to look away again because the sight is simply too much.
"Umm, first…"
He adds, voice softening into something impossibly tender.
"Let's get you out of that shirt. I wouldn't want you to suffocate yourself trying to escape it."
He reaches forward carefully, as though approaching something precious and breakable, his earlier rage completely erased, replaced by warmth so intense it almost seems to glow around him.
Kin kneels in front of him and gently, carefully begins untangling the shirt, working the fabric down inch by inch as though he's defusing something delicate rather than just freeing a boy from an oversized T-shirt.
"How…"
He asks lightly, a teasing lilt returning to his voice now that the panic has completely drained away,
"Did you even manage this, Sute-chan? Did the shirt attack you first?"
There's a soft sniff from beneath the fabric.
"I just… wanted water…"
Sute answers, voice small and thick from crying.
"I thought I could drink quietly. I didn't want to spill anything. But I did. I spilled it all over. And I didn't want you to think I was careless, so I tried to take it off quickly and then it…"
His arms twitch weakly as if reenacting the betrayal.
"It wouldn't let me."
Kin bites back a smile, easing one sleeve free at last and sliding it up Sute's thin arm.
"Ah, so the villain is the shirt. I see. We'll have to interrogate it later."
But Sute isn't smiling.
When the fabric finally lifts over his head and Kin frees him completely, he catches sight of Sute's face—and the change makes something inside him tighten.
Those eyes.
When Sute watches television, especially those cooking shows, they glow. Bright, crystalline, almost ocean-blue. Curious. Hopeful.
Now they're different.
Muted, dull gray-blue, like a cloudy winter sky before snow. A color that seems to flatten everything around it, draining warmth from his expression and settling back into that familiar, heavy gloom.
Kin's smile fades just slightly.
His own eyes narrow without meaning to, a faint tick of irritation flashing across his face. He hates that color. Hates the way it creeps in when Sute starts blaming himself for things that don't matter. Hates the way it reminds him of how Sute used to look before he brought him here—hollowed out and apologizing for breathing.
"It was just water…"
Kin says, softer now, brushing damp strands of dark hair away from Sute's forehead.
"The shirt will survive. And even if it didn't, I have more. You're more important than a shirt, okay?"
Sute nods automatically, but the gloom lingers.
Kin exhales slowly and gives him a deliberately relaxed smile, the kind that crinkles faintly at the corners of his abyss-dark eyes. When he sees the faintest flush returning to Sute's cheeks—whether from embarrassment or relief, he doesn't care—and his eyes grow a slight bluer, Kin's shoulders loosen.
"There…"
He murmurs.
"Much better."
He gathers the damp shirt in one hand, then slides his other arm around Sute's shoulders before tucking the first beneath Sute's bottom and lifting him smoothly from the floor.
The ease of it still surprises him sometimes.
The way Sute rises as though gravity simply forgets to apply itself.
There's barely any resistance, barely any weight at all, just warmth and fragile bones and the subtle curve of a body that feels far too light for someone who's supposed to be eighteen. Kin adjusts his hold instinctively, careful not to squeeze too tightly, and for a brief second his jaw tightens.
'He needs to eat more. He needs to gain weight. He needs to stay healthy.'
'If Sute is going to live a long, comfortable life here, I will have to be more attentive—more food, better meals, maybe structured exercise so the weight settles properly.'
He doesn't want Sute to be fragile. He wants him strong enough to last.
"I'll have to fix that too."
Kin murmurs under his breath, though he doesn't clarify what he means.
They leave the bathroom, the scent of cake still lingering faintly behind them, and move down the hallway toward the bedroom. Kin sets Sute gently on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping slightly under his minimal weight, and tosses the damp shirt into the nearby hamper with a careless flick.
Then he turns to his dresser.
Drawers slide open one after another as he rummages through neatly folded stacks, searching for something appropriately soft and not quite so absurdly oversized. He glances back occasionally, making sure Sute hasn't shifted too far or curled in on himself again.
Sute sits exactly where he was placed.
Hands folded loosely in his lap. Shoulders slightly rounded. Eyes lowered, that dull gray-blue haze still hovering like mist over water.
He's patient. He always is.
He doesn't fidget. Doesn't complain. Doesn't ask for reassurance. He just waits, quiet and subdued, as though he believes waiting is what he does best.
Kin watches him for a moment longer than necessary.
Then he pulls out a softer, slightly smaller shirt—still too big, but less dramatic—and shuts the drawer with a quiet thud.
"Okay…"
He says, turning back with a lightness in his tone that feels carefully constructed.
"Round two. Let's try not to start another war with this one, hmm?"
Kin lingers for a moment before moving, shirt in hand, he silently vows that he will not let those eyes stay gray for long.
As he steps closer, standing between Sute's knees where he sits at the edge of the bed, Kin watches the slow, absent swing of his legs as though committing the sight to memory. There's something about the way Sute waits—quiet, pliant, trusting—that makes Kin's chest feel full in a way that borders on ache.
"Arms up."
He says gently, and Sute obeys without hesitation.
Kin lifts the fresh shirt and lowers it carefully over Sute's head, guiding the collar down inch by inch so it won't snag this time. The fabric is soft and clean, faintly scented with detergent, and when it settles over Sute's shoulders it drapes there loosely, far too large but somehow fitting all the same. Kin smooths it down over his collarbone, over the narrow slope of his shoulders, his hands steady and deliberate, adjusting the neckline so it doesn't slip too far to one side.
He reaches up and brushes Sute's long black bangs back from his face, tucking them away so he can see his eyes more clearly. Sute's lashes are still damp, clumped faintly from earlier tears, and Kin's thumb rises almost automatically to wipe away the last shining trace at the corner of his eye.
"You don't have to panic over small things anymore…"
Kin says, his voice low and warm, reassuring in a way that feels practiced but sincere.
"It was just water. You're safe here. I'll take care of your problems."
The words sound gentle, and they are gentle, but beneath them there's an unspoken structure being reinforced—mistakes are forgivable, accidents are harmless, fear is unnecessary—so long as Sute remains exactly where he is.
Sute nods faintly, absorbing the comfort like someone starved for it, but when Kin searches his face for that familiar glimmer, he finds instead the dull wash of gray-blue clouding his eyes once more.
The brightness hasn't returned.
Kin's smile falters, just barely, though the shift is there if one knows how to look.
He leans closer, enough that Sute can feel the warmth of his breath against his cheek.
"Look at me."
It isn't sharp. It isn't loud. But it carries weight.
Sute lifts his gaze obediently, and Kin waits, watching with an intensity that borders on hunger. He waits for the gray to thin, for the fog to clear, for the light to catch and fracture into that crystalline icy-blue he prefers. He doesn't speak again. He just waits.
When, at last, the faintest spark of blue returns, Kin exhales as though something vital has been restored.
"That's better."
He murmurs softly.
The relief in his voice is unmistakable.
Slowly, Kin helps Sute up off the bed and guides him towards the door where the cake had dropped. Kin picks it up and with an apologetic smile, says softly.
"Let's have this at the table."
They move back into the kitchen together, Kin carrying the cake box with careful hands as though it contains something fragile beyond frosting and sponge. He sets it down on the counter and opens it, surveying the slight damage from its fall. The icing is smudged along one edge, but he takes a butter knife and smooths it patiently, restoring the surface with meticulous strokes, as if erasing imperfection can also erase what came before it.
Sute stands nearby, hands clasped loosely in front of him.
"I'm sorry…"
He says again, quiet and sincere.
"You went out of your way and I—"
Kin glances at him and lets out a small, easy laugh.
"You didn't ruin anything. I told you, it's fine."
He cuts a slice and sets it carefully on a plate before turning and setting it down on the table. He pulls out one of the chairs, silently telling Sute to sit. Sute nervously places himself down and only when he sees Sute is comfortable does Kin take his seat next to him. Kin then turns and holds it out a fork toward Sute.
"Here, you get the first bite."
Sute hesitates, eyes flicking down to the cake and back up again.
"You should have it first…"
He says automatically.
"You bought it."
Kin tilts his head slightly, his smile soft but insistent.
"I bought it for you."
When Sute still doesn't reach for it, Kin scoops up a neat piece, and raises it gently.
"Open."
There's no force in it, only expectation wrapped in kindness.
Sute parts his lips, and Kin feeds him carefully, almost reverently, withdrawing the fork with measured patience. His gaze never leaves Sute's face. He watches for every subtle change—the way his shoulders loosen, the way his lashes flutter, the way sweetness settles across his features.
He isn't watching his own hand as it pauses over the cake.
He's watching for proof.
For pleasure. Relief. Happiness. That bright blue spark.
And then he sees it.
As the sugar melts on Sute's tongue, the gray recedes and those eyes brighten again, luminous and vivid, icy-blue catching the kitchen light like fractured glass. They gleam, alive and unguarded.
Kin feels something inside him finally unclench.
"That's good, isn't it?"
He asks softly.
Sute nods, cheeks faintly flushed.
"It's really good."
For a moment, everything feels balanced.
But the balance doesn't hold.
As Sute takes another bite, something shifts behind his expression. The sweetness becomes heavy in his mouth, tangled with old memories—sharp voices in dim kitchens, hands smashing plates and throwing food onto the floor, accusations of greed and selfishness, days when food was withheld because he "didn't deserve it." The past creeps in quietly, staining the present.
His movements slow and his lashes lowers.
The light in his eyes dims once more, fading back into that muted gray-blue.
Kin notices immediately.
He sets the fork down with deliberate care and crouches so they're level again, studying Sute's face as though trying to read something written in disappearing ink.
"Were you thinking about outside?"
He asks, his tone soft but intent.
Sute freezes, caught between honesty and fear of misunderstanding. Yes, he was thinking about before—but not about escape, not about freedom. He was thinking about hunger and shame and the way survival had once been conditional.
Still, the hesitation stretches too long.
And for Kin, that pause is everything.
He doesn't shout. He doesn't accuse. He doesn't even frown.
Instead, he becomes very calm.
Too calm.
"Maybe I could move the TV into the bedroom…"
He suggests after a moment, voice measured, almost thoughtful.
"You don't need to be out here. It might be more comfortable."
His eyes flick briefly toward the screen.
"Maybe some channels aren't necessary either…"
He adds lightly.
"You don't need reminders of things that only hurt you."
He brushes a crumb from the corner of Sute's mouth, thumb lingering briefly against his skin.
"The outside world wasn't kind to you…"
He continues gently.
"You don't have to think about it anymore."
It sounds protective.
And it is.
But it's also narrowing the world down, piece by piece.
Sute notices the subtle changes—the slight twitch near Kin's eye, the sheen of sweat forming at his temple, the tension beneath the calm. He's always been good at reading people. Survival required it.
'Kin-san is panicking?'
Sute swallows and says, with quiet certainty.
"I wouldn't leave."
'He means it.'
Kin goes still.
"You wouldn't?"
He asks, almost disbelieving.
Sute shakes his head.
"No. I wouldn't."
And something shifts again, deeper this time.
Kin's expression softens, but beneath that softness something roots itself firmly and dangerously. The attachment sharpens. The protectiveness thickens. The need becomes something heavier.
Because this isn't just dependence anymore.
It's choice.
Sute isn't simply someone he saved.
He's someone who chooses to stay.
And that makes the outside world not just cruel—
But competition.
Kin pulls Sute into a careful embrace, holding him close, breathing in the faint scent of sugar and soap and something uniquely his.
"That's good…"
He murmurs into Sute's hair.
"That's really good."
In the warm, quiet kitchen, beneath steady lights and the lingering sweetness of cake, their devotion tightens around them both—soft as comfort, strong as confinement.