Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“Okay, so you might have a little trouble when you open the door, but it has a trick, see?” the landlord explained cheerfully as he demonstrated. “You have to stick the key in, pull the door toward you, turn it, and then push.”

“And voilà! It opens.”

“I see. I’ll keep that in mind,” Yoshiki replied shortly, but politely.

“Welcome home, young man. All yours for nine months,” he said as he handed Yoshiki the keys. “You’ve seen the place already, so I’ll leave you to it. Oh! Another good thing is that you’ll only have one neighbor—he’s another young man, just like you. So you won’t have to worry about noisy neighbors.”

“Thank you,” Yoshiki said, bowing.

The landlord nodded and left.

Yoshiki sighed as he looked around. The old apartment smelled of stale air and humidity, and it had a distinct ’90s vibe to it. Still, this was what he could afford with his first income.

After graduating with outstanding grades from Tokyo University, Yoshiki had landed a job at a decent company. However, like everyone else, he had to work his way up before earning a high salary. For now, this was the apartment he could afford.

It was inside a very old building, but it was close to his office, so he couldn’t complain.

The exterior of the building was depressing, and the interior was even worse. Even so, the place was fully occupied—every apartment except for the last two forgotten ones on the top floor.

He set down his cardboard box and went to retrieve the most important furniture he needed: a mattress and a refrigerator.

He had cleaned the apartment the day before, so all he had to do was wait for the department store workers to bring them up. Fortunately, despite the building’s age, it had a surprisingly spacious elevator.

The employees placed the furniture inside the apartment, and after Yoshiki signed a few forms, they left.

It was only after wiping the sweat from his forehead that Yoshiki noticed someone peeking around his door.

“Oh—sorry! Hello!” the white-haired man greeted. “I’m Indou Hikaru, your neighbor.” He pointed to the door next to Yoshiki’s apartment. “I heard someone moving in and wanted to say hi.”

Yoshiki stepped closer and politely—if a little weakly—shook his hand. “I’m sorry about the noise, Indou-san. It will only be today. I’m Tsujinaka Yoshiki. It’s nice to meet you.”

Yoshiki was wearing a jacket; it was cold outside and freezing inside the apartment. Hikaru, however, seemed completely unfazed by the temperature. He wore one of those flimsy sports T-shirts with the sides cut open, along with shorts and flip-flops.

Hikaru was shorter than him but looked sturdier, like someone who worked out regularly. He had white, fluffy hair, a slight snaggletooth, kind gray eyes, and a smile that never seemed to disappear.

Yoshiki had to admit that he was… cute.

“Don’t worry about it.” Hikaru tilted his head. “I didn’t know someone was moving in. That’s great—it gets kinda lonely up here, heh.”

Lonely.

The word settled uncomfortably in Yoshiki’s chest. He forced a polite smile, even as a faint, irrational tension crept up his spine. He hadn’t thought about loneliness when he’d signed the contract—only the rent, the distance to his office, the fact that the place was temporary.

“Yeah, I imagine,” he said evenly.

“If you don’t mind me asking, how old are you?”

Yoshiki blinked at the straightforward question. It wasn’t rude but it was sudden, like Hikaru had stepped closer without actually moving.

“I’m twenty-three,” he answered.

“I’m twenty-two!” Hikaru beamed. “That’s great.”

Yoshiki chuckled, a short, reflexive sound. “Yeah.”

“If you need anything, feel free to knock, alright?” Hikaru offered.

“Thank you. I appreciate that a lot,” Yoshiki said, nodding. He meant it, but part of him wondered how often that door might actually be knocked on.

“Well, I’ll let you be. You’re probably busy.” Hikaru took a few steps backward, his easy smile never fading.

“Yeah, a little,” Yoshiki replied.

“Oh—and don’t let the people downstairs scare you, alright?” Hikaru added offhandedly, as if commenting on the weather.

Yoshiki frowned. “I’m sorry?”

“They’re just really weird,” Hikaru said, already turning away. “But you’ll get used to it.”

The hallway felt quieter once he left, eerily quiet. Yoshiki stood there for a moment longer than necessary, listening to the distant hum of the building, the old pipes groaning somewhere deep within the walls.

“…Weird,” Yoshiki murmured to himself.

He slowly closed the door.

That night, the apartment refused to settle.

The air felt heavier once the sun went down, thick with the scent of old dust and something faintly metallic beneath it. Yoshiki opened the window, but the hallway outside seemed to breathe in response, exhaling a stale draft that carried the echo of footsteps. They were slow, uneven, and not quite close enough to place.

He told himself it was just the building.

The pipes groaned long after he’d turned off the sink, the sound traveling through the walls in a way that made it difficult to tell where it was coming from. Somewhere below, a door slammed. Then another. Then silence, stretched thin and fragile.

The layout of the apartment bothered him more than he wanted to admit. The rooms connected at odd angles, the hallway was slightly too long, the bathroom door positioned in a way that forced him to turn his back to the darkened living space when he washed his hands. He caught his reflection in the mirror and startled—only himself, pale under the flickering light.

Don’t let the people downstairs scare you.

Hikaru’s voice echoed in his mind, casual and smiling, completely at odds with the unease curling in Yoshiki’s stomach.

By the time he lay down on the mattress, the building had grown unnervingly quiet. No traffic. No distant voices. Just the faint hum of electricity and the soft, rhythmic ticking of something inside the walls.

He pulled the blanket tighter around himself and stared at the ceiling, tracing the cracks until his eyes began to blur.

Eventually, exhaustion won.

Sleep came in shallow waves, interrupted by dreams that made no sense—hallways folding in on themselves, doors that led nowhere, footsteps that stopped the moment he turned around.

Morning erased everything.

Sunlight spilled through the window, warm and ordinary, and the apartment looked almost harmless in the daylight. Yoshiki dressed quickly, fueled by the nervous excitement of his first real day at work. Coffee, keys, jacket—everything fell into place with practiced efficiency.

By the time he locked the door behind him, Hikaru’s words had faded into nothing more than a strange comment from a friendly neighbor.

When Yoshiki returned that evening, the building felt different.

Not louder, or darker but it was busier instead.

The elevator took longer than usual to arrive, stopping once between floors even though no one got on. The lights flickered as the doors slid open, and for a brief moment, Yoshiki thought he smelled something unfamiliar—warm, heavy, almost sweet—before the stale air swallowed it whole.

He told himself it was someone’s cooking.

As he stepped out onto his floor, a sound drifted up from below. Voices. Low and indistinct, overlapping in a way that made it impossible to tell how many people there were. Laughter followed—kind of sudden and too sharp—cutting off just as abruptly as it had begun.

Yoshiki paused. The stairwell door at the end of the hall stood slightly ajar. He hadn’t noticed it that morning.

The sounds continued, muffled now, like they were being swallowed by the walls themselves. Words brushed the edge of his hearing, never quite forming anything recognizable. Not Japanese. Not anything he could place.

He unlocked his door quickly and slipped inside, locking it behind him with more force than necessary.

From within his apartment, the noises became distant. Almost unreal but not gone. Something thudded below him, once, twice, as if something heavy had been dragged across a floor. A moment later, water rushed through the pipes, far louder than it should have been.

Yoshiki stood still in the center of the room, listening.

Eventually, the sounds faded. The building settled, or it pretended to.

Yoshiki exhaled slowly and went about unpacking, deliberately keeping his back to the walls. He told himself that old buildings carried noise strangely. That people lived here. That nothing about this was unusual.

Still, when he went to bed that night, he avoided the edge of the mattress closest to the floor below. Just in case.

Yoshiki ran into Hikaru on his way out one morning.

Hikaru was crouched by the stairwell, tying his shoelace, dressed the same way as always—too lightly for the chill that clung to the building. He looked up and smiled like nothing in the world was out of place.

“Morning,” he said cheerfully.

“Good morning,” Yoshiki replied, hesitating before adding, “Um… can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

Yoshiki glanced toward the stairwell. The door was closed now, but he could still feel it—like a pressure behind his ears. “Last night, I heard a lot of noise from downstairs. Laughing. Dragging sounds. It went on for a while.”

Hikaru’s smile didn’t falter. “Oh, yeah. That happens.”

“…It does?”

“Mm-hm.” Hikaru stood, brushing his hands against his shorts. “They’re mostly active at night.”

Yoshiki frowned. “Active how?”

Hikaru tilted his head, considering. “Hard to say. They rearrange things a lot. Sometimes they sing. Sometimes they argue.” He shrugged. “Sometimes it sounds like someone’s running, but there’s never any footsteps going up, so I guess it’s fine.”

Yoshiki stared at him. “You guess?”

Hikaru laughed softly, like Yoshiki had said something funny. “You get used to telling which sounds mean something and which ones don’t.”

“And which ones… don’t?” Yoshiki asked carefully.

“Well,” Hikaru said lightly, “if you hear crying, that usually stops on its own. If it doesn’t, then yeah, maybe close your window. And if you smell something weird, just light a candle. The pipes pull it upward.”

The words landed one by one, slow and heavy.

“…Crying,” Yoshiki repeated.

“Yeah.” Hikaru smiled again. “But it’s not every night.”

Silence stretched between them. The building creaked softly, as if punctuating the conversation.

“Anyway,” Hikaru added, slipping past him toward the stairs, “don’t worry too much, okay? They’ve been here longer than both of us.”

Yoshiki turned to watch him descend.

“You mean… the neighbors?” he asked.

Hikaru paused on the first step and glanced back, still smiling.

“Yeah,” he said easily. “I think so.”

Then he continued downstairs, his footsteps swallowed almost immediately by the stairwell. Yoshiki stood frozen for several seconds. When he finally moved, he chose the elevator.

-.--.-.-.-.-.

It happened by accident.

Yoshiki came home later than usual that night. The hallway lights were dimmer than normal, one of them flickering faintly as he walked past. The building was quiet and for a brief moment, relief loosened the knot in his chest.

He unlocked his door. The sound of the lock clicking open echoed louder than it should have.

From below came a sudden thud. Yoshiki froze, keys still in his hand.

The noise hadn’t been there before. He was sure of it. He stood still, listening, heart beating a little too fast. The silence stretched—then something scraped slowly across the floor beneath him, deliberate and heavy.

“…It’s just coincidence,” he murmured.

He stepped fully into the apartment and shut the door behind him. Another sound followed immediately. Closer this time and very clear. As if whatever was down there had shifted its attention.

Yoshiki’s breath caught.

He moved toward the kitchen, shoes still on. The scraping stopped. He waited. Counted the seconds in his head. Nothing.

Carefully, he took another step.

A low knock echoed from below.

Yoshiki flinched.

That hadn’t happened before. The noises had always been constant—background chaos, meaningless and random. This was different. This was an answer. He backed away slowly, the soles of his shoes whispering against the floor.

The sound stopped. Silence pressed in around him, thick and listening.

His chest felt tight as he tested it again—one careful step forward. A thump followed immediately, heavier than before. Yoshiki staggered back, pulse roaring in his ears. The building groaned softly, as if settling around the exchange.

They’re just really weird.

Hikaru’s words surfaced again, casual and dismissive. Yoshiki wondered, suddenly, how long Hikaru had known this part.

He stood perfectly still for a long time, afraid to breathe too loudly. When he finally moved again, it was slow and controlled, every motion measured. The sounds didn’t follow this time.  As if whatever was listening had already learned enough.

That night, Yoshiki didn’t turn off the lights right away. He sat on the edge of his mattress, fully dressed, staring at the floor beneath him. He had the unsettling certainty that if he knocked—if he acknowledged them in any way—they would respond. He wasn’t ready to find out how.

For the sake of his sanity, Yoshiki decided to ignore everything. He had already paid the deposit, and he still had a nine-month contract to complete before he could move out of this bizarre place.

It wasn’t as if Yoshiki had never seen anyone. On the first floor, there was a single mother living with her two children, and an old lady named Matsura who always seemed to be coming or going with a small shopping bag in hand.

On the second floor lived a middle-aged man and another guy with a strange sense of fashion.

On the third floor, there was a newly married couple with their dogs, along with two men who seemed to be roommates. Yoshiki knew there were more people in the building, but those were the ones he had seen so far.

By then, his apartment was almost fully furnished. He kept things minimalist, but it no longer felt empty—his clothes folded neatly in the closet, a few books stacked beside the mattress, a mug drying on the counter. Temporary, yes, but livable.

One Saturday afternoon, he paused his Smash Bros game when he heard a few knocks at the door.

He checked through the peephole and smiled faintly when he saw Hikaru rocking on his heels, hands tucked into the pockets of his shorts like he didn’t quite know what to do with them.

“Indou-san,” Yoshiki greeted as he opened the door.

“Maaaaan,” Hikaru said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just call me Hikaru.”

Yoshiki nodded. “In that case, just call me Yoshiki.”

“Yo-shi-ki,” Hikaru repeated slowly, testing the name like it mattered. Then his eyes drifted past Yoshiki’s shoulder. “Am I imagining things, or do I hear the Smash Bros theme?”

“Oh—sorry,” Yoshiki said quickly. “I’ll keep the noise down.”

“No, no, no,” Hikaru waved him off. “I mean… how about a match?” His eyes squinted with a playful glint, and Yoshiki was suddenly reminded of a snow fox—bright-eyed and a little mischievous.

Yoshiki hesitated only a second before stepping aside. “Um… sure.”

Hikaru slipped inside easily, kicking off his flip-flops by the door without being asked. He glanced around with open curiosity, taking in the small space, the scattered game cases, the half-unpacked boxes.

“It’s cozy,” he said simply.

Yoshiki felt something loosen in his chest at that.

They sat on the floor, controllers in hand, the hum of the console filling the room. The sounds of the building faded into the background, replaced by familiar music and occasional laughter—Hikaru’s easy and bright, Yoshiki’s quieter but real.

For a while, the apartment felt warm. Lived-in. That was how their friendship started.

After that day, Hikaru kept coming by.

Sometimes he knocked. Sometimes he just called Yoshiki’s name from the hallway, like he already belonged there. He left his jacket draped over the back of a chair, his flip-flops permanently by the door, his presence settling into the apartment like a familiar scent.

They read together, ate simple meals on the floor, and argued over game strategies late into the night. Hikaru folded laundry without being asked. He wiped down the counter after using it. Once, Yoshiki found his plants watered and couldn’t remember doing it himself.

And somewhere along the way, the building changed.

The noises dulled. The floor below stayed quiet when Hikaru was around. The pressure in Yoshiki’s chest eased, the constant sense of being listened to fading into the background. When Hikaru laughed, the pipes stayed silent. When he slept over on the couch, the walls didn’t whisper.

Yoshiki noticed it one evening, lying in bed while Hikaru brushed his teeth in the bathroom.

The unease was gone. Not gone entirely but it was softened, like a sharp edge wrapped in cloth. For the first time since moving in, Yoshiki realized he wasn’t listening anymore. He was accompanied. And the building, for whatever reason, seemed to accept that.

.-.-.-.-.-

The first night Hikaru didn’t come over, Yoshiki noticed immediately. Not because of the silence. Because of how loud the apartment felt without him.

Hikaru had texted earlier—Sorry, can’t make it tonight. Early morning tomorrow. Perfectly normal. Reasonable. Yoshiki had replied that it was fine and meant it.

Still, when evening settled in and the light outside faded, something in the air shifted.

Yoshiki ate alone, sitting on the floor out of habit, then realized halfway through that there was no one across from him. No idle commentary. No reaching over to steal food from his plate. The room felt larger without Hikaru’s voice filling it.

He cleaned up, turned on the TV, kept the volume just a little higher than usual.

The building listened. It started subtly. A low groan in the pipes, long and drawn-out. The floor beneath him creaked—not in response to movement, but like something stretching after a long rest.

Yoshiki froze.

It’s fine, he told himself. Hikaru’s just not here.

As if the building had been waiting for that realization, a sound echoed from below. A slow drag. Then another.

Yoshiki’s throat tightened. He sat perfectly still, remote clenched in his hand. The noises grew clearer by the second, no longer swallowed by Hikaru’s presence. Whatever restraint had been there was gone.

A knock came from beneath him. Once, and Yoshiki’s breath hitched.

“No,” he whispered, barely louder than a thought.

Another knock followed, heavier than the first. Not impatient. The floor felt thin and expectant.

Yoshiki stood, heart racing, and the response was immediate. A scraping rush, like something shifting closer, eager. He backed toward the bed, every step mirrored from below, perfectly timed.

Yoshiki realized the building already knew. He grabbed his phone with shaking hands. He had no messages. Hikaru was offline.

“Please,” Yoshiki said softly, not sure who he was speaking to.

The knock stopped. For a moment, hope flared. Then the sound changed.

Not a knock this time—something brushing along the underside of the floor, slow and deliberate, like fingers tracing a familiar path. The sensation crawled up Yoshiki’s spine, intimate in a way that made his skin prickle.

It wasn’t angry. It was curious. It had waited.

Yoshiki sat down hard on the mattress, pulling his knees up, breath shallow. The lights flickered once, twice—then steadied, like a decision being made. Hours passed like that. Yoshiki didn’t sleep. He didn’t move. He existed in the narrow space Hikaru usually occupied, clinging to the absence like it might protect him.

Sometime before dawn, the sounds finally faded. The building settled, disappointed. Morning light crept in, pale and ordinary, and Yoshiki felt hollowed out by relief.

His phone buzzed.

You okay? Hikaru’s message read. You didn’t sleep, did you?

Yoshiki stared at the screen. After a long moment, he typed back:

When can you come over again?

The reply came almost instantly.

Tonight, Hikaru said. I won’t be late.

Yoshiki set the phone down and pressed his forehead into his hands. He understood now. Hikaru wasn’t just company. He was protection. And whatever lived below knew exactly when he was gone.

-.-.-.-.-.

Hikaru came over that night like he’d promised.

He knocked twice—soft, familiar—and when Yoshiki opened the door, the apartment seemed to breathe out in relief. The pressure lifted immediately, like a headache easing. Hikaru stepped inside, kicking off his flip-flops and setting his bag down with practiced ease.

“You look exhausted,” he said gently.

“I didn’t sleep,” Yoshiki admitted.

Hikaru hummed, already washing his hands. “Yeah. I figured.”

That made Yoshiki pause. “You… figured?”

Hikaru glanced back at him, eyebrows lifting. “I mean—old building. Bad night.” He smiled and reached for a towel. “It happens.”

They ate together, quietly this time. Hikaru filled the space without effort—commenting on the food, stealing bites, complaining about his coworkers. The normalcy was almost painful. The building stayed obediently still.

Later, as they sat on the floor with a game paused between rounds, Yoshiki finally spoke.

“You don’t miss nights here very often,” he said.

Hikaru blinked. “Hm?”

“At my place,” Yoshiki clarified. “You’re… almost always here.”

Hikaru shrugged, eyes still on the screen. “Guess I like the company.”

“That wasn’t the case last night.”

The controller stilled in Hikaru’s hands.

Yoshiki swallowed. “Last night was bad.”

Silence stretched, filled with meaning.

Hikaru set the controller down carefully. “Yeah,” he said. “I thought it might be.”

Yoshiki’s heart began to race. “You thought?”

Hikaru leaned back on his hands, gaze drifting toward the floor. “I had to stay away.”

“…Why?”

Hikaru didn’t answer right away. The pipes murmured faintly, then went quiet again.

“Some nights,” he said finally, voice soft, “it’s better if I’m not here.”

Yoshiki stared at him. “Better for who?”

Hikaru smiled, small and apologetic. “That depends.”

A chill crept up Yoshiki’s spine. “You said you wouldn’t be late.”

“I wasn’t,” Hikaru replied easily. “I just… waited until it was safe.”

“Safe,” Yoshiki repeated.

“For you,” Hikaru said. Then, after a pause, “And for me.”

Yoshiki’s throat felt tight. “So you knew.”

Hikaru met his eyes then, expression warm but serious in a way Yoshiki hadn’t seen before. “I never miss nights without a reason.”

The words settled heavily between them.

“And last night?” Yoshiki asked.

Hikaru looked away. “Last night, they needed to be reminded of something.”

A soft sound came from below, not a knock, not a scrape. Something closer to acknowledgment.

Hikaru tilted his head, listening, then relaxed. “See?” he said lightly. “All quiet now.”

Yoshiki hugged his knees to his chest. He didn’t ask what had needed reminding. And Hikaru didn’t offer to explain.

-.-.-.-.-.-..-

One day, Hikaru accompanied him to the pharmacy, trailing a step behind as usual. When they entered the building on their way back, the old lady Matsura, who was sweeping the floor near the stairs, turned toward them.

She did a double take. Her gaze fixed on something just past Yoshiki’s shoulder. Her eyes widened, and she gasped as the broom slipped from her hands and clattered to the floor.

“It’s Nonuki-sama!! He’s decided to come out!!” she screamed, her wrinkled hands flying up to frame her face. “Don’t come any closer, don’t come any closer!!”

She scrambled backward and slammed her apartment door shut. Yoshiki could still hear her muffled whimpering from inside. They stood there in stunned silence. Yoshiki stared at the door Matsura-san had disappeared behind, eyes wide, his heart pounding.

Beside him, Hikaru let out a low whistle.

“That’s Matsura-san,” he said lightly. “She’s kinda crazy sometimes. You know—she’s senile, so…” He chuckled, a little quickly. “Just ignore her.”

Yoshiki blinked.

Every morning he’d run into Matsura-san, she’d greeted him warmly, asking about the weather, complaining about her knees, offering him candy from her pockets. She’d always seemed perfectly lucid to him.

And she had never once been afraid of him.

-.-.-.-.-.-.--.-.-

Yoshiki didn’t mean to break any rules. If he’d known there were rules, he might have been more careful.

Hikaru had fallen asleep on the couch that night, one arm thrown over his eyes, breathing slow and even. The apartment was warm, quiet and safe. Yoshiki lay awake in bed, listening not for the building, but for the steady proof of Hikaru’s presence.

That was when the sound came. Soft and quiet, barely there at first. A thin, wavering noise from below, like someone struggling to catch their breath through tears.

Yoshiki’s chest tightened. Someone was...crying? Hikaru had said it usually stopped on its own. Usually.

He tried to ignore it, turning onto his side, pulling the blanket tighter. But the sound didn’t fade. Instead, it threaded itself through him, tugging at something deep and uncomfortable, like a hand hooked behind his ribs.

Go on, something seemed to whisper—not in words, but in sensation. Just look.

Yoshiki squeezed his eyes shut. The crying hitched, then broke again, clearer now. Closer. The pull strengthened, a slow, insistent pressure behind his sternum, urging him upright. He sat up before he fully realized he’d decided to. His feet touched the floor. The crying softened, almost relieved.

Yoshiki swallowed hard. His heart was pounding, but beneath the fear was something worse—curiosity sharpened into need. As if the building had opened a door inside him and was waiting for him to step through. He glanced toward the living room. Hikaru slept on, unaware.

Just a peek, Yoshiki told himself. Just to make sure.

The moment he stood, the floor creaked and the crying stopped but the pull didn’t vanish—it tightened. He took small steps.  Each movement felt guided, encouraged. He wasn’t being chased. He was being led.

“I—” Yoshiki whispered, and the sound of his own voice sent a shiver through him.

He stepped into the hallway and the building responded instantly. The air thickened, pressing against his ears like deep water. The lights dimmed and lowered, as if to make room. From below came a sudden rush of movement, coordinated and eager, like a room full of people standing at once. The pull sharpened, focused toward the stairwell.

“Hello?” Yoshiki called softly, the word dragged from him before he could stop it.

It echoed downward—and was answered immediately.

A knock from below.Yoshiki staggered back, the spell breaking just enough for fear to crash in.

“Ó̴̡̝͔̱͚͎̫̙͆͋́̊h̴̠́̄̉̈̈̓͗̕͠,” a voice breathed from the dark beneath the stairs. Not loud. Not far. Close enough to feel. “y̶̛̼̜͛̿̆̉̌̌ò̷̜̲̱̫̽ư̵̞̮̼̺̗̄̒͑̔̂͆͝ ̸̛͙̣̫̾́̏́̚͘͜h̶̠̏̔̒̈́̋͝͠e̶̡̩͓͔͍̜̯͓̤̾͑̈́̊͋ą̴̫̘̯̳͈̞̩͈͗̈̒̃͆͐̚͠r̸̢̤͕̈͑̒͛͘d̵̡̲̪̞́̐̀̽͒͑̈̍͘ͅ ̸̬̟̞̦̆̒̾̽̈́́̔̀ȗ̷̳͔̈̉͑ͅs̶̗̦̞̣̘̳͈̙̿̄̃.”

Footsteps rushed behind him.

“No.” Hikaru’s voice cut through the haze, sharp and urgent.

Hikaru was there, barefoot, eyes wide and furious—not at Yoshiki, but at the hallway itself. He grabbed Yoshiki’s wrist and yanked him back into the apartment, slamming the door shut and locking it with shaking hands. The building groaned. A sound like disappointment rolled through the walls.

Yoshiki’s knees buckled. “I—I don’t know why I went out there,” he gasped. “It felt like—like I had to.”

“I know,” Hikaru said, gripping his shoulders hard. “That’s how they get permission.”

The knocking came again—harder now. Feeling closer, like eyes on them. Hikaru pressed his forehead to Yoshiki’s, voice low and fierce. “You never respond. You never acknowledge them. And you never follow the pull.”

“I didn’t know,” Yoshiki whispered.

“I know,” Hikaru said again, softer now. “That’s the rule you only learn once.”

Hikaru turned toward the door, placing one hand flat against the wood.

“Enough,” he said, not loudly, but with authority. The knocking stopped. The building stilled, sulking.

Hikaru sagged against the door, breathing hard. “They felt you hesitate,” he said quietly. “That means they know you can be called.”

Yoshiki’s stomach dropped. “What does that mean?”

Hikaru looked at him, something old and careful in his eyes.

“It means,” he said gently, “I can’t leave you alone anymore.”

The apartment settled into uneasy silence. Somewhere below, something laughed—soft, patient, and pleased. After that night, Hikaru stopped pretending he had somewhere else to be. He stayed close.

Not dramatically nor with declarations or explanations. He just… remained, keeping close. If Yoshiki came home late, Hikaru was already there, folding laundry on the couch or standing at the stove, poking at something simple and edible. If Yoshiki woke up in the middle of the night, he could hear Hikaru’s steady breathing from the other room, an anchor in the dark.

The building noticed. It quieted itself around them, like an animal lying down once its keeper returned. Hikaru learned Yoshiki’s routines frighteningly fast. He handed him a towel before Yoshiki realized he needed one. He refilled Yoshiki’s glass without asking. He adjusted the heater at night, just enough that Yoshiki wouldn’t wake up cold.

Once, Yoshiki caught him standing very still in the middle of the living room, eyes unfocused, head slightly tilted—listening.

“Hikaru?” Yoshiki asked softly.

Hikaru blinked and smiled, warmth snapping back into place like a mask he was comfortable wearing. “Sorry. Zoned out.”

“…Are you tired?” Yoshiki asked.

Hikaru considered the question longer than necessary. “I don’t think so,” he said, then amended, “But I can sit with you, if you want.”

Yoshiki nodded, heart thudding strangely at the offer.

They sat close on the floor, shoulders brushing. Hikaru leaned back against the couch, easy and unguarded, letting Yoshiki rest against him without comment. The contact was simple but warm. Yoshiki hadn’t realized how tightly he’d been holding himself together until he didn’t have to anymore.

“I’m sorry,” Yoshiki said quietly. “For that night. I shouldn’t have gone out there.”

Hikaru didn’t pull away. “You did exactly what a human would do.”

The word lingered between them.

“A human?” Yoshiki repeated.

Hikaru hummed. “You heard someone cry. You wanted to help. That’s not a mistake...it’s just… dangerous here.”

Yoshiki’s fingers curled into the fabric of Hikaru’s shirt. “You keep saying things like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re not including yourself.”

Hikaru was quiet for a long moment. Yoshiki felt his breathing change.

“I choose to live like this,” Hikaru said finally. “It’s easier for everyone if I do.”

“Live like… what?” Yoshiki asked.

Hikaru smiled, gentle and fond, and reached out to brush Yoshiki’s hair back from his eyes. His touch was warm and reassuring.

“Like someone who stays,” he said.

The building creaked softly beneath them in acknowledgment. Yoshiki leaned into Hikaru without thinking and Hikaru, who could have been anywhere—who belonged everywhere—wrapped an arm around him and stayed exactly where he was.

.-.-.-.--.-

For almost two months, nothing happened.

No knocking. No voices. No dragging sounds from below. The building settled into a dull, obedient quiet, like it had learned its place. Hikaru stayed close—sleeping on the couch, lingering late, leaving only when he absolutely had to. And when he was there, the unease dulled to a faint ache Yoshiki could almost forget.

So when Hikaru had to be away for the night, Yoshiki told himself it would be fine. He fell asleep faster than he expected. Morning came slowly. Yoshiki stirred, half-awake, tangled in his sheets. The light filtering through the curtains was soft and gray, the kind that made it hard to tell what time it was. He rubbed at his eyes, blinking blearily as his gaze drifted toward the doorway.

Something stood there. Just the edge of it—peeking around the corner of the wall. Pale, airy and still.

“Hikaru…?” Yoshiki murmured, voice thick with sleep.

The shape didn’t move. Yoshiki frowned and blinked again, forcing his eyes to focus.

It wasn’t Hikaru. The realization landed cold and sharp. Whatever it was had no color he could name—too dim to be shadow, too solid to be light. It withdrew smoothly, rounding the corner of the hallway and disappearing from view.

Yoshiki’s heart slammed into his ribs. Someone’s here. He sat up too fast, dizziness washing over him. His breath came shallow as he reached blindly for the bat he kept beside the bed—something he’d bought weeks ago and hoped he’d never need. His fingers closed around the handle, knuckles whitening.

It’s a person, he told himself. A break-in.

But the building was silent. Yoshiki swung his legs off the bed, the floor cold beneath his feet. Every step toward the door felt deliberate, stretched thin by the pounding of his pulse. He eased the bedroom door open, bat raised, breath held.

The living room was empty. The curtains stirred faintly. The front door was still locked. Then, there was movement. A shadow slipped into the bathroom. Yoshiki’s stomach dropped.

“Hey,” he called, voice shaking despite himself. “I—I called the police.”

The lie hung uselessly in the air. No response. He swallowed hard and forced himself forward, every muscle tight, senses straining. The bathroom light was off. The door stood open just enough to feel like an invitation. Yoshiki flicked on the light and stepped inside.

Nothing.

The shower curtain hung motionless. The mirror reflected only his pale face, eyes wide, breath uneven. No open window. No place someone could hide. No one there. Yoshiki backed out slowly, bat still raised, every instinct screaming. The apartment remained perfectly still.

But the sense of being watched—the pressure he hadn’t felt in weeks—curled back into place, patient and familiar. Whatever had been there hadn’t broken in. It had been waiting. And Hikaru wasn’t here to stop it.

That was it.

Yoshiki didn’t sit down. He didn’t breathe through it or try to rationalize what he’d seen. He moved on instinct alone, hands shaking as he yanked open drawers and cabinets, grabbing only what mattered—his wallet, his passport, his laptop, his phone charger. Clothes followed, stuffed in without folding, without care. The cardboard box on the floor bowed under the weight.

Damn the deposit.
Damn the contract.

Enough was enough.

His chest felt tight as he taped the box shut with clumsy fingers. The apartment watched him in silence, every corner suddenly too aware. He slung his bag over his shoulder and pulled his phone from his pocket, dialing before he could second-guess himself.

Yuuki answered on the third ring.

“Yoshiki?” Her voice sharpened instantly. “What’s wrong?”

“I—hey,” he said, forcing the word out. “Are you home?”

There was a pause. “Yeah. What’s going on?”

“Can I stay with you for a few days?” The question came out rough, frayed at the edges. “Please.”

Another pause—shorter this time. “Of course. Do you want me to come get you?”

“No,” he said quickly. “I’m already leaving.”

“Okay,” Yuuki replied gently. “Come over. I’ll put the kettle on.”

The call ended, and Yoshiki stood there for a second longer, phone pressed to his ear, heart pounding.

I’ll text Hikaru once I’m safe, he thought. Once I’m out.

He lifted the box and stepped into the hallway. The floor creaked beneath his feet.

Not the normal old-building creak—the tired, random kind—but a long, drawn-out groan that seemed to follow him as he walked, boards complaining under each step. The sound echoed too loudly, stretching farther than it should have.

Yoshiki froze. The hallway felt narrower somehow, the air thicker. Another creak answered behind him, slow and sure, as if the building were shifting its weight.

“No,” Yoshiki whispered, and moved faster. The lights flickered once. The floor groaned again, deeper this time, almost… displeased. Like something pulling taut. Yoshiki didn’t look back.

He reached the elevator and jabbed the button harder than necessary. The wait felt endless—every second stretched thin; every sound amplified. When the doors finally slid open, he nearly stumbled inside. As the elevator descended, the building settled into a heavy, sulking quiet. Like it was letting him go. For now.

Hikaru found him that night.

Yuuki’s apartment was warm in a way Yoshiki hadn’t realized he’d been craving—low lights, the smell of tea, the soft hum of the city through the windows. Yoshiki sat on the couch with his phone in both hands, staring at the message he’d typed and erased three times.

A knock sounded at the door. Yoshiki’s stomach dropped.

“I’ll get it,” Yuuki said, already standing.

“No—” Yoshiki started, too late.

The door opened. Hikaru stood in the hallway, hair slightly damp from the cold, jacket thrown on in a hurry. His eyes found Yoshiki instantly, relief flaring—and then something darker, tighter, as if he’d been holding his breath for hours.

Yuuki hesitated, reading the room. “I’ll… give you space,” she said softly, retreating toward the kitchen.

The door closed.Hikaru stepped inside but didn’t come any closer.

“I told you not to leave without me,” he said quietly. There was no anger in his voice but there was guilt.

Yoshiki swallowed. “You weren’t there.”

Hikaru flinched.

“I know.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “I shouldn’t have been gone that long.”

“That thing was in my apartment,” Yoshiki said, the words spilling out now that the dam had cracked. “I thought it was you.”

Hikaru’s shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry.” The apology landed wrong.

Yuuki returned then, setting two cups of tea on the table. “You said someone was in your place?” she asked gently.

Yoshiki nodded. “I don’t know how to explain it. I thought someone broke in, but there was nowhere they could’ve gone. And ever since I moved into that building… things just feel off.”

Yuuki frowned. “Then why go back?” The question hung there. Yoshiki opened his mouth—then closed it.

Because all his things were still there. Because his life, his routines, his job clothes, his documents were boxed up inside an apartment that didn’t want him gone. Because running hadn’t fixed anything—it had just delayed it.

“I can’t leave everything,” he said finally. “I need to get my stuff.”

Hikaru looked at him sharply. “I’ll go with you.”

“No,” Yoshiki said, then hesitated. “…I mean. I don’t want to live there anymore.”

“You don’t have to,” Hikaru replied immediately. “Just—listen to me, okay?”

He stepped closer now, voice low.

“You only have two months left,” Hikaru said. “That’s it. After that, you can leave clean. No breaking the contract. No… consequences.”

Yoshiki frowned. “Consequences?”

Hikaru exhaled slowly, like he was choosing every word with care. “The building doesn’t like sudden changes. People disappearing.”

“That’s not normal,” Yoshiki said flatly.

“I know,” Hikaru murmured. “But it’s manageable. With me there.” The implication settled heavy between them.

“You stayed every night,” Yoshiki realized. “You never missed one unless you told me ahead of time.”

Hikaru didn’t deny it.

“I kept things quiet,” he said. “I made sure you were… covered.”

Yoshiki’s chest tightened. “And when I left?”

Hikaru’s eyes dropped. “That’s when it noticed.”

Silence stretched.

Yuuki cleared her throat. “If you’re going back,” she said, careful, “you shouldn’t go alone.”

Yoshiki looked at Hikaru.

“You’re asking me to come back,” Yoshiki said, slowly, “and trust that whatever’s wrong with that place won’t hurt me—as long as I stay near you.”

Hikaru met his gaze, something earnest and almost frightened there. “I’m asking you to let me keep you safe for two more months.”

Two months. Yoshiki exhaled, rubbing his face. He hated that the fear eased just a little when Hikaru was close. Hated that his presence made the idea feel… possible.

“Fine,” he said quietly. “But you’re telling me everything this time.”

Hikaru nodded. “I will.” He hesitated, then added softly, “I promise.”

They returned past dusk. Hikaru insisted on walking beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed whenever the sidewalk narrowed. Yoshiki noticed how naturally Hikaru matched his pace, how he kept himself half a step behind—subtle, protective, like he was positioning himself between Yoshiki and something only he could see.

The building loomed ahead of them, its facade dull and gray in the fading light. Yoshiki slowed despite himself. The moment they crossed the threshold, the air changed. It pressed in—not heavy exactly, but aware.

Yoshiki’s grip tightened on the strap of his bag. His skin prickled, the old unease crawling back up his spine. Hikaru exhaled softly. The lights in the lobby flickered once, then they steadied.

The floor beneath them creaked, a low sound that made Yoshiki flinch—but Hikaru didn’t. He kept walking, hand lifting just slightly, palm turned down, like he was calming a restless animal.

“It’s fine,” Hikaru murmured, glancing at Yoshiki. “See?”

The pressure eased. Not gone but dulled, subdued.

Yoshiki swallowed. “It didn’t feel like this when I left.”

“I know,” Hikaru said quietly.

They moved toward the elevator. The doors slid open immediately, without the usual delay. Yoshiki stepped inside hesitantly. Hikaru followed, unbothered. As the elevator ascended, the cables hummed too loudly, vibrating through the walls. Yoshiki felt it in his bones—something tracking their movement, floor by floor. On the second floor, the elevator jolted. Yoshiki’s heart jumped.

Hikaru clicked his tongue softly. “Behave.” The elevator resumed its smooth ascent.

Yoshiki stared at him. “Did you—”

“No,” Hikaru said, cutting him off gently. “I just reminded it who’s here.”

The doors opened on their floor. The hallway was dimmer than Yoshiki remembered. The lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch toward them. Yoshiki hesitated. Hikaru stepped out first. The floorboards creaked beneath Hikaru’s feet.

Then there was nothing but silence.  No answering groan. No echo. No follow-up sound. When Yoshiki stepped out after him, the boards protested immediately, a sharp, complaining creak that crawled up his legs. Hikaru stopped. He turned back and extended his hand.

“Stay close,” he said.

Yoshiki took it.The moment their fingers interlaced; the hallway quieted. The creaking faded into a low, reluctant murmur, like a breath being let out.

Yoshiki’s throat tightened. “It knows the difference.”

“Yes,” Hikaru said simply.

They reached Yoshiki’s apartment door. Yoshiki unlocked it with shaking hands. As the door opened, a stale, familiar smell washed over him—old air, dust, something faintly metallic. The apartment felt alert. Yoshiki stepped inside, heart racing. But nothing moved. No shadows slipped away. No presence lingered just out of sight.

Behind him, Hikaru crossed the threshold. The air shifted instantly. Warmth bloomed—not literal heat, but a sense of rightness, like tension unwinding. The walls creaked softly, not in complaint, but in acknowledgment. The sound rolled through the apartment and settled, satisfied.

Hikaru squeezed Yoshiki’s hand once before letting go.

“I told you,” he said quietly. “It’s calmer when I’m here.”

Yoshiki turned to him slowly. “It’s not just calmer.”

Hikaru met his gaze, expression unreadable.

“It’s… polite,” Yoshiki finished.

A corner of Hikaru’s mouth twitched. “Yeah.”

Silence stretched between them. Yoshiki looked around his apartment—his half-packed life, the mattress on the floor, the box he’d abandoned in a rush to escape. It felt different now. Still wrong. Still watching.

“You’re not just tolerated here,” Yoshiki said.

Hikaru didn’t argue. Instead, he said softly, “I told you I’d keep you safe.”

And for the first time since moving in, Yoshiki believed him. Even as a deeper, colder thought settled in his chest. The building wasn’t protecting him. It was obeying Hikaru.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

At first, they didn't talk about it. Hikaru busied himself checking the apartment—windows, corners, the bathroom Yoshiki still avoided looking at too closely. Yoshiki sat on the edge of the mattress, hands clasped, watching the way Hikaru moved through the space like it belonged to him in a way it never had to Yoshiki.

Night crept in quietly. The lights didn’t flicker. The walls didn’t creak. But the air grew dense, pressing closer as the hours passed, like the building was leaning in to listen.

Yoshiki became aware of it the way one becomes aware of a headache—slow, inevitable.

“Hikaru,” he said softly.

Hikaru looked over immediately. “Yeah.”

“It’s… getting worse again,” Yoshiki admitted.

Hikaru’s expression tightened. “Yeah. It does that at night.”

Yoshiki swallowed. “What do we do?”

Hikaru hesitated. Then he sighed and gestured toward the bed. “We share it.”

Yoshiki blinked. “What?”

“Just sleep,” Hikaru clarified quickly. “Nothing else. But it needs us in the same place.”

“Why?”

Hikaru’s gaze flicked to the walls, the ceiling, the floor—everywhere but Yoshiki. “Because it tracks you when you’re alone.”

Yoshiki’s stomach dropped. “And when I’m not?”

“It can’t tell where you end and I begin,” Hikaru said quietly.

The words sent a chill through him. They lay down fully clothed, side by side, a careful distance between them. Yoshiki stared up at the ceiling, hyperaware of every inch of space—of Hikaru’s warmth, his steady breathing, the faint rustle of fabric when he shifted.

The apartment creaked once and Yoshiki tensed.

Hikaru rolled onto his side, back to Yoshiki. “Closer,” he murmured.

Yoshiki hesitated. “Hikaru—”

“It’s okay,” Hikaru said, voice low and sure. “I won’t let it do anything.”

Yoshiki edged closer until their backs brushed. The reaction was immediate. The pressure in the room eased, like a held breath finally released. The walls settled with a soft, almost content sound. Somewhere deep in the building, something stopped moving.

Yoshiki exhaled shakily. “It stopped.”

“Yeah,” Hikaru said. “That’s the point.”

Some minutes passed. 

Yoshiki became aware of something else, the attention. Not focused on him alone anymore. Something was confused. Like the building was counting wrong.

“You’re not just protecting me,” Yoshiki said softly. “You’re hiding me.”

Hikaru’s shoulders rose and fell with a slow breath. “For now.”

Yoshiki shifted unconsciously, his hand brushing Hikaru’s sleeve. Hikaru froze. Then, carefully, he reached back—not quite touching, just enough that their fingers hovered a breath apart.

“Don’t move,” Hikaru whispered.

Yoshiki didn’t. Outside the bedroom, the apartment remained silent and obedient. Yoshiki stared into the dark, heart pounding, the realization settling deep and irreversible:

This wasn’t comfort. It felt more like containment and Hikaru was the only thing standing between him and whatever waited just beyond the walls.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

For a month, the building behaved.

No shadows slipped through corners. No footsteps echoed where they shouldn’t. The walls creaked only when they settled with the cold, and the air stayed quiet through the night. It was almost easy to pretend that everything was normal again.

Almost.

They kept sharing the bed. It stopped being a conversation after the first few nights. Hikaru would kick his shoes off, flop down with the same careless ease he always had, and pat the mattress like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Yoshiki would lie beside him, stiff at first, then slowly ease into the familiar shape of Hikaru’s presence—his warmth, the way he sprawled without shame, one arm flung above his head, hair a pale mess against the pillow.

Hikaru went back to being himself.

Laughing too loud during movies. Singing badly while brushing his teeth. Stealing Yoshiki’s food without asking and acting offended when called out on it. He complained about work, about the elevator, about how cold the apartment always felt—like any other twenty-two-year-old man.

And the building let him. Yoshiki noticed it in small things. How the floor never creaked under Hikaru’s steps, but always answered Yoshiki’s. How the lights buzzed when Yoshiki entered a room alone, then steadied the second Hikaru followed. How the air felt thinner when Hikaru was gone for more than a few hours—and relaxed the moment he came back.

It was always watching.

Yoshiki learned to live with that awareness the way one lives with a chronic ache. He stopped jumping at sounds. Stopped checking corners. Instead, he watched Hikaru.

Medium, he thought sometimes. Or something like it.

Hikaru never asked why Yoshiki studied him so closely. He just leaned into it—tilting his head, smiling knowingly.

“What?” he’d ask, eyes bright. “Do I have something on my face?”

Yoshiki would look away, heat creeping up his neck. “No. Just thinking.”

At night, the tension grew heavier. They slept inches apart, sometimes closer without realizing it. Yoshiki would wake to find Hikaru turned toward him, breath warm against his collarbone, a knee pressed lightly against his thigh. Too close to be accidental and too careful to be a mistake.

Once, half-asleep, Hikaru reached out and caught the sleeve of Yoshiki’s pajama, fingers curling like he was anchoring himself. He didn’t let go.Yoshiki lay awake for hours, heart pounding, painfully aware of the way Hikaru’s grip tightened whenever the building creaked—subtle, unconscious. Mostly protective.

During the day, it was worse.

Shared meals. Shared space. Shared silences that stretched and hummed with things neither of them said. Yoshiki caught himself memorizing Hikaru’s habits—the way he hummed when he was content, the way his smile softened when he looked at Yoshiki instead of the world.

This wasn’t just convenience and Hikaru knew it.

Sometimes Yoshiki caught him watching from the corner of his eye, expression unreadable, something older than his cheerful demeanor flickering through.

“You’re safe,” Hikaru would say casually, like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t a promise weighted with meaning.

Yoshiki wanted to believe him. But every night, as he lay beside Hikaru in the dark, aware of the walls listening and the floor waiting, one thought refused to leave him: Whatever Hikaru was, the building knew it. And it knew Yoshiki was his.

Yoshiki asked on an ordinary night. That was what made it worse. They were washing dishes together, shoulders bumping as they moved around the narrow kitchen. The window was cracked open just enough to let the city noise in—distant traffic, a dog barking somewhere far below. Normal sounds and safe sounds.

Hikaru hummed to himself as he dried a plate.

“You ever gonna tell me,” Yoshiki said, carefully, “what you actually do?”

Hikaru paused. Just for a fraction of a second.

“What do you mean?” Hikaru asked lightly, still not looking at him.

“You know what I mean.” Yoshiki set a cup down harder than necessary. “The building. The way things stop when you’re here. The way they don’t react to you at all.”

Hikaru turned then, leaning back against the counter. His smile was still there—but softer.

“You think I’m a medium,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

Yoshiki’s throat tightened. “Am I wrong?”

The apartment creaked faintly at the silence. Hikaru sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face, suddenly looking his age—or younger.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “You’re right.”

Relief hit Yoshiki.

“So you can see them,” Yoshiki said. “The things here.”

“Some of them,” Hikaru replied. “Enough to know when to keep them calm.”

“And that’s why they listen to you.”

Hikaru nodded. “I grew up around places like this. Old buildings. Thin places.” He shrugged. “You learn the rules.”

The lie slid into place smoothly.

Yoshiki leaned back against the sink, exhaling slowly. “You should’ve told me.”

“I didn’t want to scare you,” Hikaru said immediately. “You were already on edge when you moved in. If I’d dumped all of that on you at once, you would’ve run.”

Yoshiki thought of the night he had run. Of the panic. Of the way everything had followed.

“…Maybe,” he admitted.

Hikaru stepped closer, enough that Yoshiki could feel the warmth of him.

“I’m not dangerous,” Hikaru said softly. “I just know how to keep things from getting worse.”

Yoshiki searched his face, looking for cracks. For something inhuman. He found none. Only concern. Only that familiar, lopsided smile.

“Is that why we have to sleep together?” Yoshiki asked.

Hikaru’s ears flushed pink. “That—uh. Yeah. Proximity helps.”

It was a half-truth. Yoshiki looked away, embarrassed heat crawling up his neck. “I thought so.”

Silence settled between them—not uncomfortable, but heavy with things unsaid.

“Thank you,” Yoshiki said finally. “For staying. For… not letting whatever this is get to me.”

Hikaru’s chest tightened. “You don’t have to thank me,” he said. “I want to be here.”

That part was true.

Later, in bed, Yoshiki lay facing him, the room dark and quiet. Hikaru’s breathing was steady, human in its rhythm.Yoshiki relaxed for the first time in days.

He’s just a medium, Yoshiki told himself. Someone caught in the middle.

Hikaru stared at the ceiling long after Yoshiki fell asleep. The building shifted, settling around them. It knew the lie. But it accepted it, for now. Because Yoshiki hadn’t asked the right question and Hikaru hadn’t dared to answer it.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Trust changed things in small, dangerous ways. Yoshiki stopped flinching when Hikaru moved suddenly. He stopped pulling away when their hands brushed. He stopped pretending he didn’t notice the warmth of Hikaru beside him at night, the quiet certainty of his presence anchoring the room.

It was easier to breathe now.

One evening, they sat on the floor with their backs against the bed, sharing takeout straight from the containers. Hikaru was rambling about something inconsequential—an argument he’d had at work, a customer who’d mistaken him for someone else—hands moving animatedly as he talked.

Yoshiki watched him instead of listening. The way his mouth curved when he smiled. The way his voice softened without him noticing whenever he said Yoshiki’s name.

Safe, Yoshiki thought. Not because the building was quiet—but because Hikaru was here. Without quite deciding to, Yoshiki leaned closer. His shoulder pressed against Hikaru’s arm. Hikaru faltered mid-sentence.

“…You okay?” he asked, glancing over.

“Yeah,” Yoshiki said. “Just tired.”

It was a lie. Or maybe not. Hikaru smiled and kept talking, but his posture shifted—relaxing, accommodating Yoshiki’s weight like it was expected. Like it was allowed.

That night, Yoshiki was the one who closed the distance.

They lay facing opposite directions as usual, backs barely touching. The room was still, the building subdued and listening from afar. Yoshiki stared into the dark, heart pounding—not with fear, but with resolve.

“Hikaru,” he said softly.

“Mm?”

Yoshiki hesitated, then rolled onto his side.

“Can I…?” He didn’t finish the question. He didn’t have to.

Hikaru turned too, eyes wide in the low light. For a moment, he looked unsure in a way Yoshiki hadn’t seen before.

Then he nodded. “Yeah.”

Yoshiki moved closer, slow and deliberate, until their chests brushed. He lifted a hand and rested it lightly against Hikaru’s shirt, fingers curling into the fabric, just lightly holding. Hikaru inhaled sharply.

“You don’t have to,” he murmured.

“I know,” Yoshiki said. “I want to.”

The words settled between them, heavy and sincere. Hikaru’s hand hovered near Yoshiki’s waist, uncertain. When Yoshiki didn’t pull away, Hikaru let his fingers rest there—warm, steady and tingling.

The building creaked once.

Yoshiki pressed his forehead lightly against Hikaru’s shoulder, eyes closing. “It’s not watching as closely,” he whispered.

Hikaru’s arm tightened around him. “Because you’re not alone.”

Yoshiki felt it then—how completely he trusted this man. This medium, he reminded himself. Someone human enough to worry, to hesitate, to hold him like he mattered.  He fit closer, their legs tangling naturally, his breath syncing with Hikaru’s.

Hikaru swallowed. “Yoshiki… if this is too much—”

“It’s not,” Yoshiki said immediately. “I feel… safe.”

Hikaru’s grip faltered for just a heartbeat. Then he pulled Yoshiki in fully, chest to chest, like he was afraid of letting go. The building settled around them, subdued and silent. And for the first time, Yoshiki didn’t feel like he was being watched.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Hikaru mentioned it casually one night, like it was an afterthought.

“You know,” he said, leaning back on his elbows on the bed, eyes on the ceiling, “it’s not normal for things to misbehave this much around someone new.”

Yoshiki turned toward him. “Then why do they?”

Hikaru hesitated.

“You’re… kind,” he said instead. “More than most people.”

Yoshiki frowned. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“It does to them,” Hikaru replied softly. “Whatever lives here—they’re lonely. They’ve been lonely for a long time.” He glanced at Yoshiki, something earnest flickering behind his usual easy smile. “You notice people. You listen and you care.”

Yoshiki’s chest tightened. He completely disagreed.

“When they look at you,” Hikaru continued, lowering his voice, “they don’t see a body first. They see something warm. Like a light.” He lifted a hand and hovered it over Yoshiki’s chest without touching. “Right here.”

Yoshiki swallowed. “A… light?”

“Yeah. Strong. Pretty.” Hikaru smiled faintly. “They’re curious. They want to be close to it. They want to feel less alone.”

“That’s why they follow me,” Yoshiki murmured.

“That’s why they notice you,” Hikaru corrected gently. “You’re not doing anything wrong.”

Yoshiki exhaled, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. “So I’m not… in danger?”

Hikaru’s smile widened just a fraction. “Not while I’m here.”

He let his hand drop back to the mattress, gaze turning away. He didn’t say that he saw that light more clearly than any of them. Didn’t say that it pulled at him the same way it did the others—only sharper, deeper, impossible to ignore.

And unlike the rest of the building… He didn’t want to consume it. Well…not entirely… He wanted to keep it. Forever.

-.-.-.-.-.-

It started with small mistakes. Hikaru still laughed easily, still sprawled on the bed like he owned the place, still treated the building like an old nuisance he knew how to handle. But Yoshiki began to notice the pauses—those moments where Hikaru seemed distracted, eyes lingering too long, attention pulled inward.

One night, Yoshiki woke to the sound of the floor creaking curiously. He sat up slowly, heart already racing. The air felt thicker than it had in weeks, a faint pressure blooming behind his ribs.

“Hikaru,” he whispered.

Hikaru stirred beside him. “Mm?”

“The building,” Yoshiki said. “It’s—”

“I know,” Hikaru said, sitting up. He pressed his palm to the mattress, fingers splayed, expression tightening. “Hey. Enough.”

The creaking stopped. But not immediately. A second late.Yoshiki noticed the way Hikaru’s jaw clenched, the shallow breath he took afterward.

“You hesitated,” Yoshiki said softly.

Hikaru looked at him. For a moment, his usual cheer didn’t come back. Something sharper, older, slipped through.

“…Yeah,” he admitted.

The pressure lingered in the room, uncertain now, like it didn’t quite know what to do. Hikaru shifted closer without thinking, his knee brushing Yoshiki’s thigh. His hand came up—hovering, then settling over Yoshiki’s chest, right where he’d described the light before.

The reaction was immediate.The walls creaked in interest. The air stirred, warm and attentive, like something leaning in too close.

Hikaru sucked in a breath. “Damn it.”

“What?” Yoshiki asked, pulse jumping beneath Hikaru’s palm.

“I shouldn’t—” Hikaru cut himself off and pulled his hand back abruptly. “Sorry.”

The room slowly settled, but not completely. Yoshiki could still feel it—eyes where there shouldn’t be eyes, attention pooling around him like water.

“That never happened before,” Yoshiki said.

Hikaru stared at his own hand like it had betrayed him. “It’s because I’m not focusing.”

“On the building?”

Hikaru laughed weakly. “On not you.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them and the silence dropped heavy between them.

Yoshiki’s heart hammered, but not with fear. “You said they’re drawn to my light.”

“They are,” Hikaru said quietly.

“And you?”

Hikaru didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was low, stripped of its usual playfulness.

“I’m supposed to keep distance,” he said. “That’s how you stay in control.”

“And you’re not?”

Hikaru met his gaze, eyes dark and honest.

“No.”

The building creaked again—closer this time. But somehow it sounded wrong. Hikaru moved instantly, pulling Yoshiki into him, arm firm around his shoulders. “Don’t react,” he murmured. “Stay with me.”

Yoshiki did.The creaking faded, confused, pushed back into place—but Yoshiki felt it then, clear as truth settling in his bones: Hikaru’s attraction wasn’t harmless. It wasn’t just emotional. It was weakening the boundary. And the building knew it. Hikaru rested his forehead against Yoshiki’s temple, breathing slow, controlled.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I won’t let it hurt you.”

Yoshiki closed his eyes, leaning into him.

“I trust you,” he said.

The words made Hikaru go very still. And somewhere deep in the building, something shifted—alert, patient, aware that the balance had changed.Yoshiki didn’t pull away. That was the first mistake.

Hikaru’s arm was still around him, firm and protective, his breath warm against Yoshiki’s hair. The room had gone quiet again, the building subdued. But it was still waiting and listening.

“You don’t have to hold back,” Yoshiki said softly.

Hikaru stiffened. “Yoshiki—”

“You said you were distracted,” Yoshiki continued, lifting his head just enough to look at him. “That it’s because of me.”

Hikaru’s mouth opened, then closed. His eyes searched Yoshiki’s face, alarm flickering there now. “That’s not something you should encourage.”

“But I trust you,” Yoshiki said. The words came easily, warmly. “You’ve kept me safe this whole time.”

Hikaru swallowed. “That’s exactly why—”

Yoshiki reached out. He didn’t grab nor pull. He simply rested his hand over Hikaru’s chest, mirroring the place Hikaru had touched before.

The air shifted. The walls were curious as they creaked, a ripple of sound passing through the apartment like a breath drawn too deep. The light overhead flickered once, then steadied, brighter than before.

Hikaru sucked in a sharp breath. “Yoshiki, stop—”

“Is this wrong?” Yoshiki asked quietly. “Being close?”

Hikaru’s hands came up automatically, gripping Yoshiki’s wrists urgently.

“It’s not wrong,” he said, voice strained. “It’s just… not safe.”

The building creaked again, this time hungrier.  Yoshiki felt it then—a pressure blooming in his chest, warmth spreading outward like a pulse.

Hikaru’s eyes went to his chest and his jaw clenched. “You’re shining.”

“I thought you said that was a good thing.”

“For them,” Hikaru said. “Not when you aim it at me.”

Yoshiki hesitated, then leaned in anyway—forehead brushing Hikaru’s shoulder, fingers tightening slightly in his shirt.

“I don’t know how to turn it off,” Yoshiki whispered.

The floor groaned. Not in protest but in recognition.

“That’s the problem,” Hikaru said lowly. “Neither do I.”

The building settled into a tense, expectant quiet. Not calm—contained. Like something crouched just beyond a threshold, watching the two of them as a single point of light.

Yoshiki’s heart pounded. “I don’t mean to make things more difficult.”

“I know,” Hikaru murmured, resting his forehead against Yoshiki’s. His voice softened, guilty and earnest. “You’re just… existing.”

The word lingered between them. Responding to him. Hikaru closed his eyes for a brief second—long enough for Yoshiki to feel the strain in his hold.

“Please,” Hikaru whispered. “If you’re going to trust me like that… you have to listen when I say stop.”

Yoshiki nodded slowly, fingers loosening. The pressure in the room eased—reluctantly. Hikaru didn’t let go right away and neither did Yoshiki. And as the building settled back into uneasy silence, one truth remained, heavy and undeniable:

Yoshiki wasn’t just protected by Hikaru anymore.

He was entangled.

-.-.-.-.-

Two months passed.

At first, the silence felt wrong. Hikaru watched the walls closely. Yoshiki listened for sounds that never came. Every creak of the floor, every flicker of light made them both freeze, waiting for something to test the boundary again.

But nothing did.

The building stayed quiet—obedient in a way that felt almost deliberate. No pressure in Yoshiki’s chest. No curious attention. Nights passed without incident, and mornings came gently, sunlight spilling through the curtains like it always should have.

Slowly, they stopped bracing.

Routine crept back in, soft and persistent. Yoshiki started focusing on work again, staying late at the office without that constant knot of dread in his stomach. He found himself checking the clock in the afternoons—not because he was afraid to be alone, but because he wanted to go home.

To Hikaru.

Hikaru relaxed, too. The sharp vigilance faded from him, replaced by his usual brightness. He laughed more. Teased Yoshiki relentlessly. Stopped hovering, stopped listening for things Yoshiki couldn’t hear. They filled the apartment with noise on purpose.

Movies played late into the night, Hikaru talking through half of them, only to get invested at the worst possible moment. Smash Bros tournaments became a weekly ritual—Hikaru gloating loudly when he won, Yoshiki insisting on rematches he almost never won. They went out more: cheap movie theaters, crowded festivals, wandering streets strung with lanterns and music.

Happy, ordinary days stacked up.

The apartment felt warmer when they returned, like it had learned their rhythms. Or maybe Yoshiki just stopped noticing the way it watched.

They grew closer in the quiet spaces. Sharing food without asking. Falling asleep on opposite ends of the couch, limbs tangled without comment. Standing too close in the kitchen, hips brushing, hands lingering when they passed things to each other.

The tension between them didn’t fade with the fear, it just deepened.

There were moments—small, electric ones—when Yoshiki caught Hikaru watching him with something unreadable in his expression. Or when Hikaru’s touch lingered a second too long on Yoshiki’s wrist, his shoulder, the small of his back in crowded places.

Yoshiki didn’t pull away. He started looking forward to the sound of Hikaru’s key in the door. To the easy smile, the casual affection, the way Hikaru said his name like it belonged to him. The building stayed quiet.

So quiet that Yoshiki began to believe—really believe—that maybe they’d passed whatever test it had been putting him through. That maybe the remaining months of his nine-month contract would slip by peacefully.

That maybe this—this warmth, this closeness—was something he was allowed to keep. Neither of them noticed when the silence stopped feeling passive and began to feel patient.

-.-.-.--..-.-

Hikaru could be a little shit when he wanted to be. He had started nudging the inside of Yoshiki’s knee whenever he noticed him resting his weight on just one leg, making Yoshiki lose his balance before he could quickly recover. Yoshiki would curse at him, and Hikaru would only giggle, tugging at Yoshiki’s cheek and raising his hands to shield himself when Yoshiki threatened him with a kitchen spatula.

Hikaru poked at Yoshiki’s ribs and pinched his thighs while Yoshiki stood on a small ladder, changing the apartment’s light bulbs. Yoshiki would kick at him in retaliation. Yoshiki would also roughly ruffle Hikaru’s hair whenever he got the chance—especially when Hikaru was being particularly misbehaved.

One day, they took their joking too far, and suddenly Hikaru had Yoshiki trapped in a headlock. Yoshiki struggled, trying to drag Hikaru down with him. They roughhoused on the living room carpet for a few minutes, until—as usual—Yoshiki gave in. He stopped struggling. It wasn’t a conscious decision—his body simply went still beneath Hikaru’s weight, breath coming a little faster, chest rising against Hikaru’s arm where it was hooked loosely around his neck.

“Hey,” Hikaru said, amused, breath warm against Yoshiki’s ear. “Giving up already?”

Yoshiki scoffed, but it came out weaker than he meant it to. “You’re heavier than you look.”

“Wow. Rude.”

Hikaru adjusted his grip, more reflex than intent, shifting his weight so they wouldn’t roll off the carpet. The movement pressed him closer—thigh against Yoshiki’s hip, chest against his back.

They both froze. It was sudden, the awareness. The heat. The way Hikaru’s breath stuttered just slightly before he laughed it off.

“…You okay?” Hikaru asked, quieter now.

Yoshiki swallowed. He could feel Hikaru’s heartbeat against his spine—fast, steady, there. His own pulse thudded uncomfortably low in his body.

“Yeah,” he said. “You can… let go.”

Hikaru didn’t, not immediately. His arm loosened, but his hand stayed braced against Yoshiki’s shoulder, fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt. Close enough that Yoshiki could feel the faint tremor in them.Hikaru looked, enraptured, at Yoshiki’s nape, flushed pink just like his cheeks from the exertion.

That hesitation was all Yoshiki needed. As best he could, he twisted around beneath Hikaru, still pinned by his weight. His bangs fell into his eyes, obscuring most of his vision, but he could see Hikaru’s strong thighs tangled with his own.

His gaze drifted upward—to Hikaru’s green T-shirt, its sides cut open, offering brief glimpses of warm skin.Finally, his eyes found Hikaru’s face. Hikaru was staring back at him. Again, Yoshiki felt that pull—but this time, it had nothing to do with the building, or the things that watched. Hikaru leaned closer, and Yoshiki had never felt so utterly hypnotized.

Their lips met halfway. For a breath, they stayed like that—lips barely touching, as if both of them were waiting for permission the other hadn’t given. Yoshiki was the one who moved first. He lifted a hand, hesitating only a moment before resting it against Hikaru’s side, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt where the cut exposed warm skin. Hikaru inhaled sharply.

Yoshiki tilted his head and closed the distance, pressing their mouths together again—this time with intent. Not hurried at all. His lips moved softly, testing, trusting. Hikaru made a small, startled sound against his mouth, hands hovering uselessly for a second before one of them came up to brace against the floor beside Yoshiki’s shoulder. He didn’t deepen the kiss. Didn’t take control. He let Yoshiki lead.

Yoshiki felt it—the restraint, the way Hikaru was holding himself back—and something in his chest loosened. He kissed him again, a little firmer this time, a silent reassurance: I trust you. I’m here.

Hikaru’s forehead dropped against his when they finally parted, breath uneven.

“…Yoshiki,” he murmured, voice rougher than Yoshiki had ever heard it.

Yoshiki didn’t pull away. His hand stayed where it was, thumb brushing lightly over Hikaru’s skin.

“It’s okay,” he said softly. And he meant it—for the building, for the rules, for whatever Hikaru was afraid of becoming.

Something inside Hikaru broke. His restraint snapped. He grabbed Yoshiki’s face and kissed him deeply. His hands trembled, and he groaned loudly as he plunged his tongue into Yoshiki’s mouth, finally tasting that light that had been taunting him for months.

Just a small taste.

Yoshiki kissed him back as Hikaru lowered them both to the floor and pinned his wrists above his head. Yoshiki shuddered as Hikaru let his full weight press against him. He spread his legs, and his hardness brushed against Hikaru’s through the thin fabric of their shorts. They both moaned.

The kiss grew more heated as Hikaru ground against him. His mouth traveled to Yoshiki’s neck, where two moles marked the skin.

Hikaru's lips lingered on each mole, licking and teasing. Yoshiki's breath hitched as a hand trailed down his chest to rest on his hip. Fingernails dug in, sharp and insistent. A low groan escaped Yoshiki's throat as Hikaru's thigh pressed between his legs, providing much-needed friction.

Hikaru’s hand caressed Yoshiki’s torso beneath his shirt, sliding up and down. Yoshiki struggled weakly to free himself from Hikaru’s grip and pulled his shirt off; Hikaru followed suit. There was urgency in their movements—weeks, months of tension finally breaking free. Their shorts went down, discarded heedlessly. 

Yoshiki raised an eyebrow when he saw Hikaru bury his hand between the sofa cushions and pull out a bottle of lube. He stared at it. Then at Hikaru. Then back at the bottle.

“Why,” Yoshiki said slowly, each word weighed down with dread, “do you have lube hidden in the couch?”

Just how many other things had Hikaru stashed around the apartment? And did he even want to know at this point? Hikaru smiled sheepishly and, without a shred of shame, squeezed a generous amount of lube onto their lengths. Yoshiki watched for a second longer, then sighed.

Well. They were already this far in. For his own sanity, he chose to ignore it. Just like everything that was going on in his life.

They panted when their lengths slid wetly against each other. They rutted together with increasing urgency, hip against hip, cock against cock. Fingers dug into flesh, nails raking down backs as pent-up desire boiled over, reduced to inequality and a need for release.

Yoshiki gasped when Hikaru pushed his knees up his shoulders. His fingers went past Yoshiki's length and caressed his tight entrance. Hikaru's touch ignited a fire within Yoshiki. He arched his back, silently begging for more. Hikaru obliged, slowly teasing Yoshiki's entrance with his fingers, circling and probing until finally, one digit slipped inside, stoking the flames of Yoshiki's need.

Hikaru scissored Yoshiki patiently as he squirmed every time Hikaru prodded that spot that sent fireworks up Yoshiki’s spine.Slick sweat glimmered on Yoshiki's trembling thighs as Hikaru's deft fingers danced along his quivering innermost walls. Yoshiki's breaths turned ragged, desperate moans spilling free with each slow drag of skin on skin.

Yoshiki moaned at the third finger inside him, Hikaru distracting him with bites and nibbles along his neck and shoulders.

Soon enough, Yoshiki was ready to take him. He threw his head back at the sensation of being slowly filled. Hikaru’s legs trembled with the effort of holding back, resisting the urge to snap his hips forward. He waited patiently until Yoshiki adjusted, then continued until he bottomed out.

Yoshiki panted beneath him, and Hikaru appreciated the view. Yoshiki was tugging at the carpet, his chest rising and falling, his skin flushed red. His nipples had hardened, making Hikaru’s mouth water. His face was crimson, and his usually tidy hair was a complete mess. Hikaru shivered as he thrust into him. Again, and again. Loud moans tore from their throats. The sensations were overwhelming, and Hikaru’s heart thudded loudly in his chest.

Yoshiki, on the other hand, was just about to come when he felt it. A small splat against his abdomen. He didn’t think much of it at first, assuming it was just Hikaru’s sweat—until it moved. Through the haze, he looked down at the distracting, wet sensation.

There was… something… wriggling against him.

It was black, streaked with rainbow-iridescent marks. Yoshiki frowned at the squirming thing on his skin. It looked like a worm—or some kind of viscous goop. He glanced up at the ceiling, searching for a leak, but found none. His heart stuttered when he looked at Hikaru.

Hikaru was still distracted, still thrusting into him, but—

His face. His eye.

His left pupil looked as though it were melting down his cheek.

Yoshiki blinked, his mind struggling to process what he was seeing. Did Hikaru have some kind of condition? What was happening? His thoughts scrambled, desperately trying to make sense of it.

Cold crept into his arms, his body going limp as the entire left side of Hikaru’s face began to dissolve into black sludge. Some of it dripped down, splattering onto Yoshiki’s legs. Faced with the bizarre sight, Yoshiki went soft, shuddering for an entirely different reason.

Only then did Hikaru notice Yoshiki’s sudden change.

“Yoshiki?” he asked, puzzled. “What’s w̷͖̼̲̬̿̿͐́̉̃r̶̤̘͈̾̐̈̓̌̓͊̕̚ơ̵̞̞̘̬̞̻̌̆̃̄̋̔̓̕n̶̹̿̅g̴̲̗̖͓͇̩̀̐͂̈?̸̢̡̢̡̣̭̪̣͠ͅ?”

Yoshiki lay frozen beneath him, eyes wide, unable to move.

Hikaru’s remaining eye widened when he realized what was happening. His hand flew to the side of his face that was melting.

“Shit!” he gasped.

In less than a second, Hikaru snapped back into his usual shape.

The room felt still—like even the walls were holding their breath.

Yoshiki didn’t move. He didn’t scramble away, didn’t shout, didn’t even try to wipe the cooling smear from his skin. He just lay there, eyes fixed on Hikaru’s face, breathing shallow but steady.

“…What are you?” he asked.

His voice didn’t shake. That was the worst part.

Hikaru opened his mouth, then closed it again. Whatever answer came to him first clearly wasn’t safe enough to say. His hands hovered uselessly at his sides, fingers twitching like they wanted to reach out and didn’t dare.

“Yoshiki, I—” He swallowed hard. “It’s not— I didn’t mean for you to see that.”

Yoshiki finally blinked. He wordlessly slipped on his shorts and stood up.

“Yoshiki?” Hikaru asked, hopeful.

But Yoshiki didn’t answer. He simply headed for his room.

“Yoshiki!” Hikaru called out, his voice breaking.

The dark-haired man closed the door behind him in silence and locked it. He slid down against the door, finally allowing his body to tremble. He buried his face in his hands.

All this time… Hikaru hadn’t been a medium after all. He hadn’t even been human. He had lied—but why? Yoshiki couldn’t understand it. The trust he had placed in him shattered, and nausea rolled through his stomach. He had been living—no, sharing his life—with… that thing.

Now that he thought about it, Yoshiki had never been inside Hikaru’s apartment. How could he have let him into his life so easily? What was he? Was that why he could control the things in the building? What did any of it mean now?

He needed to get out. Damn everything. He didn’t feel safe anymore. But he couldn’t drag Yuuki into this. Not now—not when Hikaru knew where she lived.

Suddenly, the random noises, shifts, knocks, and shadows were the least of his worries. His mind was fixed on the solid presence still in his living room. He just needed to make it to morning.

He didn’t sleep. He spent the entire night wiping at his skin, scratching as if he could scrub the memory away. When morning came, he cautiously peeked outside his bedroom. Hikaru was nowhere to be found.

Yoshiki let out a breath of relief. He called in sick to work and spent the entire day out in the city. He couldn’t bring himself to spend another moment in the building. That night, he stayed at a hotel. He left the lights and the TV on, and despite the silence—despite knowing he was nowhere near the building—he didn’t feel safe at all.

The next morning, he went to work just to reclaim some sense of normality. By the end of his shift, he had gathered enough courage to return and retrieve more clothes. He couldn’t keep showing up to work looking like a madman.

It felt surreal that, despite having just firsthand confirmed the existence of paranormal beings, his job was still a solid priority.

He sighed as he stepped into the elevator. Soon enough, he reached his floor. For once, there were no sounds trailing his footsteps. Inside his apartment, he packed as much as he could into a bag. The air felt suffocating, like a timer was ticking above his head and he needed to leave before it ran out.

For some reason, his gut told him not to take the elevator. He took the stairs instead. He hurried, trying to keep his footsteps light. His breathing grew ragged—not just from the exertion, but from the adrenaline pounding in his ears. When he finally reached the ground floor, the building’s main entrance came into view, and he nearly ran for it.

Yoshiki was halfway across the lobby when he heard it.

“Yoshikiii…”

He froze. That was Hikaru. Yoshiki gulped, breathing in short, shallow gasps through his mouth as he turned around, eyes wide.

Hikaru was half-hidden behind a hallway pillar. There was a red gleam in his eyes. Had that always been there? He wore a deeply worried expression, like a child who knew they’d done something wrong and didn’t know how to fix it.

“…Where are you going?” he asked timidly.

Yoshiki stared at him for a moment before remembering he needed to answer. He swallowed the knot in his throat and forced the words out.

“I—I was just… going to the drug store. My stomach is hurting again,” he lied.

Hikaru blinked slowly. His expression didn’t change—but Yoshiki knew he didn’t believe it. Hikaru’s gaze flicked to Yoshiki’s overly full bag, then back to his face.

“…Can I come with you?” he asked quietly.

With no real choice, Yoshiki muttered, “Okay.”

Hikaru fell into step beside him immediately. Their shoulders brushed within the first few steps, and Hikaru didn’t move away. If anything, he drifted closer, his arm nearly pressed to Yoshiki’s, their strides syncing without Yoshiki meaning them to.

Yoshiki told himself it was just the narrow hallway. The building always felt tighter near the exit. Still, Hikaru stayed close.

“So,” Hikaru said softly, glancing up at him. “Your stomach, huh?”

Yoshiki hummed noncommittally.

Hikaru nodded as if that settled everything. “Yeah. That happens. Stress does that.” He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “You’ve been really stressed.”

Their elbows bumped again. Hikaru didn’t apologize. Instead, he adjusted—his sleeve brushing Yoshiki’s wrist, fingers grazing his knuckles for half a second longer than necessary. Yoshiki’s grip tightened on the bag.

“You don’t have to walk me,” he said, trying to sound casual.

“I know,” Hikaru replied brightly. “I want to.”

They stepped outside. The air felt thinner and sharper. Hikaru inhaled deeply, then let out a small sigh, like he’d been holding his breath the entire time. As they walked, Hikaru began to fidget—hands in his sleeves, then out again. Once, he caught the strap of Yoshiki’s bag, tugging it absentmindedly before realizing what he was doing.

“Sorry,” he said quickly. Then, just as quickly, he stepped closer again.

Yoshiki could feel his warmth now, constant at his side. Feel the way Hikaru kept glancing at him, not to his face, but to his chest—as if checking that something was still there.

“You know,” Hikaru said, almost whining, “you always walk really fast when you’re nervous.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“Mmm. You are.”

Hikaru bumped his shoulder lightly, affectionate, familiar. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

That made Yoshiki falter. Just for a step. Hikaru noticed instantly. His hand hovered near Yoshiki’s sleeve—not quite touching this time, but close enough that Yoshiki felt the absence like pressure. The street ahead was bright znd normal. People passed them, unaware.

Behind them, the building loomed—silent. Hikaru leaned in again, voice barely above a whisper.

“You won’t leave without me again,” he said, smiling softly.

It didn’t sound like a threat. It sounded like a promise.

“it gets kinda lonely up here, heh.” Yoshiki remembered Hikaru saying.

Yoshiki swallowed nervously, a witty retort poised right at the tip of his tongue. But he didn’t push it. They might be out in the open, surrounded by people, but he was painfully aware of most of Hikaru’s abilities. He didn’t want to find out just how far those powers went.

He went through the whole performance of buying stomach medicine, nodding at the cashier, fumbling with his wallet. All the while, his thoughts raced, rehearsing what he was going to say—what he could say without making things worse.

When they stepped back out of the drugstore, Yoshiki hesitated. There was no way he was going back to the building now. Not with Hikaru right beside him.

“Hikaru,” he called, forcing his voice to stay even.

Hikaru turned to him.

“Go back to the building,” Yoshiki said. “I’ll catch up with you later.” He lifted the high collar of his jacket, half-hiding his face as if from the cold—but really he was hiding from Hikaru’s eyes.

Hikaru didn’t move. For a second, Yoshiki thought he hadn’t heard him at all. Then Hikaru stepped closer instead—just one small step.

“…Why?” Hikaru asked.

The word came out thin, almost childlike. He reached out, fingers hovering near Yoshiki’s sleeve.

“You said your stomach hurt,” Hikaru continued, voice low and uncertain. “I can walk you home. Or—” His mouth twisted, brows knitting together. “I can wait. I don’t mind waiting.”

Yoshiki’s chest tightened. “I said I’d catch up later,” he repeated, more firmly this time.

Hikaru nodded. Once and then twice. But he still didn’t step back.

“I just—” he swallowed. His eyes flicked down, then back up, glassy and bright in a way that made Yoshiki’s skin prickle. “I really don’t like it when you leave without me.”

There it was. Some kind of vulnerable confession. 

“I won’t do anything,” Hikaru added quickly. “I promise. I’ll just… stay close. You’re safer that way.”

Safer? Yoshiki felt the word settle wrong in his stomach, heavier than any lie he’d told that day. Hikaru finally touched him then—two fingers curling into the fabric of Yoshiki’s jacket, light as if asking permission. As if Yoshiki could say no and have it mean something.

“Please,” Hikaru whispered. “Don’t make me go back alone.”

“they’re lonely. They’ve been lonely for a long time.” He had said before.

Yoshiki hesitated, long enough for the silence to stretch thin.

“…Fine,” he said at last.

Relief flooded Hikaru’s face so fast it was almost frightening. His shoulders sagged, a shaky smile breaking through as if Yoshiki had just granted him something enormous.

“Okay,” Hikaru said softly. “Okay. Thank you.”

The regret hit Yoshiki immediately. Hikaru stepped in close again, closer than before, falling into pace at his side as they started walking. A brush of knuckles. Their sleeves whispering together. Hikaru leaned just a little, like he needed Yoshiki to keep him upright.

Yoshiki told himself it was nothing. Told himself they were in public. Told himself he was being paranoid. But the street felt wrong. Too attentive. The sounds of traffic dulled, as if muffled, and Yoshiki became acutely aware of Hikaru’s breathing beside him—slow, uneven, almost relieved.

“You always walk like this,” Hikaru murmured.

Yoshiki stiffened. “Like what?”

“So tense,” Hikaru said, fondly. “Like you’re afraid I’ll disappear if you don’t keep moving.”

Yoshiki stopped short. Hikaru stopped with him, swaying slightly before steadying himself—by grabbing Yoshiki’s wrist.

The contact burned.

“Don’t,” Yoshiki said, sharper than he meant to.

Hikaru’s fingers loosened immediately. “Sorry. I forgot.” He smiled again, small and apologetic. “I forget things when I’m nervous.”

“You’re nervous?” Yoshiki asked.

Hikaru looked at him then—really looked at him—and for a split second, something dark flickered behind his eyes. Possessive and hungry. But it was gone as soon as it appeared.

“I’m always nervous when you pull away,” he said.

Yoshiki’s gut twisted. They started walking again, but this time Hikaru didn’t give him space. His shoulder pressed into Yoshiki’s arm, constant and grounding and impossible to ignore. Yoshiki realized, with a sinking certainty, that agreeing hadn’t made things easier. It had only taught Hikaru that asking—softly enough—worked.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Hikaru walked half a step behind Yoshiki and forced himself to stay there.

It took effort. Real, grinding effort. Every instinct screamed to close the distance, to tuck himself into Yoshiki’s side the way he used to, the way he should be allowed to. The space between them felt wrong, like a missing limb.

He counted his steps to keep himself anchored. One. Two. Three.

Breathe.

The reminder came late—his chest had gone still again. He pulled air in deliberately, felt it expand his lungs, then let it out just as carefully. Too fast and it would sound wrong. Too slow and he might forget altogether.

Don’t reach. Don’t lean. Don’t look too long.

Yoshiki’s presence burned. Not painfully—never painfully—but bright and steady, a warm pressure beneath Hikaru’s ribs that made everything else feel thin and distant. The building had always noticed it. The things inside it had noticed it.

So had he.

Hikaru realized he hadn’t blinked in a while. His eyes stung faintly. He forced a slow, normal blink. Then another, just to be safe. He fixed his gaze on Yoshiki’s chest instead of his neck, where the light felt strongest, where it pulsed like something alive.

His fingers curled into the fabric of his sleeves until the seams bit into his skin. The pressure helped. It gave him edges. It reminded him where he was supposed to end.

Be good, he told himself. This is being good.

Yoshiki hadn’t told him to leave. Hadn’t told him to stop. That fragile allowance wrapped tight around Hikaru’s chest, warmer than fear, sharper than hunger. He clung to it desperately.

If he slipped—if he forgot himself even for a moment—the world would tilt. The air would thicken. His shape would soften.

Yoshiki would look at him like that again.

So Hikaru stayed half a step behind, breathing when he remembered to, blinking when his eyes burned—holding himself together by sheer will alone. He kept praying Yoshiki wouldn’t turn around and see just how hard he was shaking.

-.-.-.-.-.-

They arrived at the top floor. Yoshiki’s bag weighed heavily against his side.

“Hikaru,” Yoshiki called without looking back. “Go back to your apartment.”

“Okay,” Hikaru agreed easily, his voice deflated to a mutter. Even he could tell he shouldn’t push it—that Yoshiki needed space.

Yoshiki didn’t say anything else. He simply waited until he stopped hearing footsteps behind him, then went into his apartment, letting out a shaky sigh as the door closed.

What should he do? Should he escape at night?

He leaned his back against the door. The apartment felt warm and cozy. Yoshiki felt the same way he had when he first arrived—no pressure in the air, no tense atmosphere. Just a normal apartment. He took a quick shower. The water was lukewarm, just how he liked it. He had always struggled to get the temperature right, but this time the shower cooperated perfectly.

He grew suspicious when he didn’t hear any sounds. There were no footsteps behind him or suspicious knocks, just the normal background noise of the street. He ate some leftovers the microwave warmed perfectly, somehow making the curry taste better than it had the first time. As he washed the dishes—again with lukewarm water—he noticed his hands were shaking. When had the last time been that he’d had a proper rest?

Before he knew it, his feet carried him to his bedroom, where his mattress welcomed him with clean, fluffy sheets.

He didn’t remember changing those…

He decided to ignore it and lie down for a while. The while turned into the whole night. Yoshiki fell asleep under the careful stillness of a place that did not want to frighten him. He jolted awake, thinking he was late for work, only to realize he’d woken up just as his alarm was about to go off. With no time to spare, he hurried to get ready for work.

Friday night arrived quickly. Yoshiki pushed his apartment door open, balancing the 7-Eleven bags in his arms. He put the snacks and food away in the fridge before pulling out a spicy salmon onigiri and plopping down on the couch. He was just stripping the onigiri out of its wrapper when two weak knocks sounded at his door.

“Yoshikiiii…” Hikaru whined from the other side, like a kicked dog.

Yoshiki sighed, exasperated.

“Can I come in?” Soft knock. Soft knock.

Without any other option, Yoshiki let him in—again. Hikaru looked around the apartment, but this time his usual shamelessness was missing.

“Cozy…” he said, for the second time.

Yoshiki didn’t respond and went back to sitting on the couch.

“Yoshiki,” Hikaru began, “your contract is almost over.”

Thank God, Yoshiki thought.

Hikaru tilted his head. “The landlord should be back any day now. How long are you going to renovate it next? Indefinitely?”

Yoshiki frowned, his eyebrow twitching. “I’m not going to renew the contract, Hikaru,” he said immediately.

“Why not?” Hikaru asked, distressed.

“Why not?!” Yoshiki repeated incredulously. “Because I don’t want to be here! I hate it here!”

Yoshiki sat cross-legged on the couch, his face resting in his palm as his other arm wrapped around himself defensively. His bangs fell forward, hiding his eyes.

“Come on now,” Hikaru chuckled, like Yoshiki had just told a very bad joke. “It’s not so bad.”

Yoshiki glared harder at the corner of the room. “Not so bad? What are you talking about?” His voice shook. “There are things watching me sleep. Things calling out to me. Things listening to everything I do—and things that want whatever stupid light is inside of me.”

Yoshiki tightened his hands into fists.

“I can’t sleep. I can’t be without you. I can’t even have one weekend without something weird happening.” His eyes narrowed further. “I have no peace in this place.”

“But I’m going to keep you safe. I told you that!” Hikaru shot back, passion bleeding into his voice.

“You?!” Yoshiki hissed. He was worked up now—his anger and frustration swelling, overtaking his fear.

“What makes you think I want you around?” Yoshiki said sharply. Cruelly. “I don’t even know what you are… other than a liar.”

The word liar hit him. Hikaru didn’t just flinch—he glitched. His shoulders jerked up too sharply, like strings pulled too hard. The air around him stuttered.

He forgot to blink. Long enough that Yoshiki noticed. Long enough that the red gleam in his eyes sharpened instead of fading. Hikaru’s chest didn’t rise, didn’t fall—until he seemed to remember himself and dragged in a breath that sounded practiced.

Yoshiki didn’t know how it happened, but suddenly Hikaru was right next to him, trapping his forearm in a vice-like grip. He jolted in surprise.

“A liar?” Hikaru muttered lowly. “Maybe I am. I won’t deny it.” His grip tightened. “But you know, Yoshiki… I can’t be without you either.”

Yoshiki pulled at his arm, trying to break free. His anger fizzled out, terror rushing in to take its place.

“I just don’t know!” Hikaru said, voice cracking. “I don’t know what to do with these human feelings.” With his free hand, he covered half of his face, which was starting to melt again.

“And I can’t stop being in love with you anymore!”

Yoshiki’s eyes widened, his irises trembling. He felt like the air had been punched out of his lungs.

“H-Hikaru!” he stuttered.

That seemed to snap Hikaru out of his trance. He gasped, releasing Yoshiki as his face smoothed back into its usual shape.

Hikaru dropped to his knees and threw himself against Yoshiki, burying his face in his clothed stomach.

“I’m sorry!” Hikaru sobbed. “I’m so embarrassed you had to see me like that the other day.” His voice broke. “It won’t happen again! Please—don’t hate me…. Don’t be afraid of me…”

His tears soaked into Yoshiki’s shirt as Hikaru hiccupped. Yoshiki sat frozen in shock. He had never seen Hikaru cry like this. Something deep and sharp twisted in his chest as he looked down at the creature clinging to him like a child. Slowly, Yoshiki rested a hand on Hikaru’s head, fingers threading through that familiar, impossibly white, fluffy hair.

“I don’t know what I am,” Hikaru said quietly. “That’s why I couldn’t tell you. What I do know is that I’m bound to this building. I can’t leave for long—if I do, everything here will fall apart.”

Yoshiki didn’t want to ask what fall apart meant.

“So that’s why you need to stay…

Please…

…I don’t want to…”

His arms tightened around Yoshiki’s waist—too tight. Ominously so.

“…make you stay…”

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

“Okay, everything looks to be in order,” the landlord said as he organized some papers on the desk. “Just sign here and your contract will be renewed indefinitely. You’re a good tenant, Tsujinaka-kun. I didn’t receive a single complaint about you.”

“…Thank you.”

“And although your new apartment is a little more expensive, you and Indou-kun will notice the difference right away. It’s more spacious, and it doesn’t give any problems at all,” the landlord added cheerfully, his eyes crinkling as he smiled.

“It’s a good thing you boys decided to be roommates. I knew you’d become good friends in no time,” he continued. “You’ll keep each other company now.”

“…Yeah.”

Yoshiki read the last paragraphs of the contract, only half paying attention.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said after a moment. “Just to confirm—just in case—since this is an indefinite contract, I can terminate it whenever I want, correct?”

“That is correct, young man. This contract is not the same as the last one. As long as you give us one month’s notice, you can leave whenever you want.”

Yoshiki nodded in understanding. He stared down at the seemingly inoffensive piece of paper in front of him. He breathed in slowly, then out, before signing above the line with no date printed beneath it.

Tsujinaka Yoshiki.