Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The world was dead.

Gone were the symphonies of laughter, the drone of traffic, the chaotic joy of living things interacting, bickering, breathing, being. Now, the only sounds that filled the ruins of Tokyo were the howling wind through steel bones and the soft, mechanical whirs of synthetic life trying desperately to imitate the real thing.

Rui Kamishiro sat alone in what used to be a train station. Moss curled over shattered ticket booths, vines cracked through the ceiling. Neon signs flickered dimly with dying batteries, speaking in forgotten kanji to a crowd that no longer existed.

He sipped from a tin cup. Bitter water, filtered through an outdated purification system. The liquid burned his throat with minerals and chemicals the Earth now coughed up like blood. He didn’t wince. It was the most he’d felt in weeks.

“I’ve brewed you some mint,” said a voice behind him. “Your vitals indicate you haven’t tasted simulated flavor in three days.”

Rui turned. A tall humanoid stood there, half-rusted and beautiful in its symmetry. Lyr-7, one of his oldest robotic companions. Designed with semi-organic facial patterns to make it more palatable to interact with, its face almost registered as kind. Almost.

“There’s no mint left in the world,” Rui said, voice low and cracked with disuse. “Just data pretending to be leaves.”

Lyr-7 tilted its head. “If it feels like mint, tastes like mint—”

“—it’s still not mint.” Rui stood up abruptly, brushing dust off his lab coat. Once pristine white, now a dull beige, ragged at the hems. “Enough. Let’s go back.”

Lyr-7 didn't move. “Back to where, Rui?”

He paused at the stairs leading out of the metro, where sunlight filtered through the shattered world like a reluctant god. “Back to the lab. I’m finished waiting.”

His lab was a testament to obsession.

Perched on the upper floors of a collapsed skyscraper, the lab had been reinforced with alloy and solar shielding. Shelves stacked high with circuit boards, ancient books, glass cylinders of murky chemicals, and one enormous prototype under a tarp in the center of the room.

He pulled it back.

A time machine. Or something like one. A sphere of concentric rings, all of them etched with arcane science—part quantum mechanics, part theoretical dimensional overlap. Rui had built it alone, over fifteen years. Piecing together scraps from the old world, pushing past the edge of sanity.

Not to save the world. Not to change fate.

But just to feel again.

“I don’t want to die here,” he whispered. “Not like this. Not in silence.”

“You wish to alter the timeline?” Lyr-7 asked. “Perhaps warn humanity?”

“No,” Rui said. “I don’t care about humanity. I just… I want to remember what it felt like. Being near them. Laughing. Feeling awkward in crowds. Even loneliness meant something back then. Now it’s just background radiation.”

He stepped into the sphere.

Lyr-7 moved forward. “You haven’t tested—”

“I don’t care.”

He pressed the switch.

The lab folded around him. Light became sound, gravity wept like a symphony, and Rui was crushed and stretched in a moment that defied all language.

And then, nothing.

He woke to rain. Cold, drenching, beautiful rain.

Rui gasped, lying on his back in mud—actual, wet, filthy earth. Not scorched concrete or dust-covered metal. Trees surrounded him. Carriages rattled by on cobblestone nearby. People. People. Their voices clashed in conversation and laughter.

For a second, he thought he was hallucinating.

Then he looked down.

His boots were caked in filth. His coat torn open from the blast. The time machine—its handheld version—lay a few feet away, steaming.

He crawled to it. Sparks sputtered. Fried.

“Not the 2000s,” he murmured. “Not even close…”

He rose unsteadily, heart thundering.

And then he heard it.

Music.

A piano, played with trembling grace, drifting from a nearby building—a pub, lit with lanterns, soft voices trickling out.

Rui, still dazed and drenched, stumbled toward it, pulled like a ghost toward warmth.

Inside, it was dim and smoky. Locals clustered around wooden tables, ale in hand, voices low. And at the far end, hunched behind the pub’s old piano, was a young man with soft golden hair and a look of terror in his eyes.

His hands trembled over the keys, yet he played on—note after note, delicate as if afraid the piano might collapse under him.

Rui stood there, soaked and stunned.

The young man looked up for a second, caught Rui’s gaze, and immediately faltered. A sour note struck. The pub jeered half-heartedly.

And Rui knew, with the clarity of lightning—this was him.

Not the future. Not robots. Not sterile simulations.

This boy, with trembling fingers and haunted eyes, was the realest thing he’d encountered in decades.

Chapter Text

Rain streaked the stained glass windows of the pub, casting warped shadows over candlelit faces. Rui stood just inside the threshold, still dripping, a foreign figure in a storm-worn lab coat that clung to his body like a second skin. Nobody knew what to make of him.

Except one person.

The pianist.

Torpe’s fingers trembled above the piano keys, hovering like ghosts. He looked again—briefly—at Rui, and then immediately back at the yellowed ivory before him. Rui saw the color drain from his face, as if the very act of being seen had struck something deep and fragile.

Then came silence.

The pub’s chatter dimmed as the music stopped. Murmured complaints buzzed through the smoke. A man near the bar coughed deliberately. A barkeep wiped a mug and looked expectantly at the pianist, who shrank deeper into himself.

Rui moved.

Not toward the piano—but sideways, slipping between tables with practiced caution. His eyes darted around the room. England, that much was obvious. The heavy dialects, the currency exchanged in thick coins, the way the oil lamps swayed in their iron cradles—it was unmistakable.

Not Tokyo. Not even close.

He found a seat in the corner, near a crackling hearth, and let himself feel. The heat on his palms. The scent of burning oak. The churn of multiple human conversations layered on top of one another. It was disorienting. Euphoric.

Something inside his chest ached.

The pianist’s music resumed—hesitantly. He was attempting a Chopin nocturne, but Rui could tell from the rhythm that he’d slowed it, drawn it out to avoid errors. Not a professional. Not trained. Just… trying. And he did wonderful.

God, he’s just like me.

After two songs and a half-empty room, Torpe slipped off the piano stool like a guilty shadow and headed to the back corridor. Rui stood and followed without thinking.

“Excuse me,” Rui said softly.

Torpe flinched.

Up close, Rui saw that he was young—maybe twenty, at most. Blond hair curled messily near his temples, clinging to his skin in the humidity. His pale eyes were wide behind delicate lashes, and there was a faint tremor in his jaw. Not fear of Rui, exactly, but of being perceived at all.

“I’m not with the pub,” Rui added. “I just… liked your playing.”

Torpe blinked. “You… you did?”

“Very much,” Rui said. “You played it like someone who's afraid of being heard, but still wants to be listened to.”

The pianist looked stunned by the words. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, like an argument trying to surface.

“I made a mistake,” he mumbled. “I always do. I shouldn’t even be out here. I told them I couldn’t play in front of people, I told them—”

“It wasn’t perfect,” Rui said, cutting gently through the spiral. “But it was honest.”

Torpe’s head jerked up at that.

And Rui, startled by his own sincerity, took a step back. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“No, it’s just…” Torpe fumbled with his sleeve. “No one says things like that. They just tell me to toughen up, or say I’ll never amount to anything if I can’t even perform properly.”

He gave a tiny, embarrassed laugh. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

Rui smiled for the first time in years. It felt foreign, like dust being shaken off unused muscles.

“No,” he said. “Far from it.”

They sat near the kitchen door, out of sight from the crowd, nursing mugs of something that resembled tea.

“I’ve never heard of your accent before,” Torpe said after a long pause. “Where are you from?”

How do you explain a world that no longer exists? Rui stared into his cup.

“I’m from… a city that’s gone now. Buried under time. Maybe that’s a strange thing to say.”

Torpe looked puzzled, but not judgmental. “No stranger than anything else lately. The world’s felt off to me since I was a boy.”

Rui nodded slowly. “Maybe that’s just part of being alive.”

That made Torpe chuckle. It was a small, broken sound—but real.

“You sound like you’ve seen too much,” he said.

I’ve seen the end of everything, Rui thought.

Instead, he said, “You could say that.”

Torpe leaned back against the wooden wall, face turning thoughtful. “You said you liked the way I played… Do you play?”

“I used to,” Rui replied, surprised by his own answer. “When I was young. Before I got too busy with… science.”

“Science?”

“I built things. Machines. Tried to solve problems. Time… was one of them.”

Torpe tilted his head. “You’re a watchmaker?”

Rui laughed, a quiet, sharp sound that startled them both. “In a way. I made something that broke a lot more than it fixed.”

He looked down at the time device clipped to his waist—fried, dead. A fossil of the future.

Torpe followed his gaze.

“What is that?”

Rui hesitated.

“A mistake.”

Later that night, Torpe offered Rui a place to stay.

“I have a room above a print shop,” he said, cheeks pink. “It’s not fancy, and the landlord is nosy, but there’s a couch. Better than freezing in the rain.”

Rui wanted to decline. He was still adjusting to being around people again—to being seen, spoken to, cared about. But something about Torpe’s eyes made it impossible to refuse.

The apartment was small, wooden, cluttered with sheet music and books. A cracked mirror hung above the fireplace, and a pile of sweaters lay in the corner, knit unevenly by some unseen hand.

“I sleep upstairs,” Torpe said quickly. “You can take the couch. Or, well, what’s left of it.”

Rui sat down. The cushions wheezed.

“This is more than enough,” he said. “Thank you.”

Torpe hesitated at the stairs. “You’re really not from here, are you?”

“No.”

“I knew it,” Torpe murmured, then smiled—timid, tired, but genuine. “You’ve got the look of someone from the stars.”

If only you knew.

That night, long after Torpe had gone to bed, Rui sat awake beside a single flickering candle. He turned the time device over in his hands, poking at circuits that sparked in protest. Broken. It would take months, maybe years, to rebuild from scratch—especially with 19th-century tools.

You're stuck here, Kamishiro.

But for the first time, that thought didn’t feel like a sentence.

It felt like a possibility.

He looked upstairs, where faint creaks echoed through the floorboards. A pianist with stage fright. A broken man from the future. Sharing warmth in a time neither of them fully belonged to.

The silence wasn’t so empty tonight.

Chapter Text

The morning light spilled unevenly through the dusty windowpanes, casting long shadows across the cluttered room. The faint scent of coal smoke mixed with old paper and wood polish, a comforting perfume that felt a world away from the sterile air of Rui’s ruined Tokyo lab.

Rui was already awake, watching Torpe as he sat at the small wooden table near the window, hunched over a steaming mug of weak tea. The boy’s delicate hands wrapped tightly around the cup, as if afraid it might vanish if not held carefully.

Torpe’s sunset orange eyes flicked up briefly at Rui’s gaze, bright and alive despite the timid posture. They were almost too vivid for someone so quiet, like flames struggling to burn behind a glass shield.

Immediately, Torpe’s cheeks colored a soft shade of pink. Without a word, he lowered his face and tugged his newsboy cap down further, hiding behind the worn fabric as if it were a shield from the world.

Rui smiled to himself, the gesture gentle and unguarded. That’s Torpe, he thought — shy, soft-spoken, and quicker to retreat than to confront. Yet somehow, those bright eyes held a spark that refused to be completely dimmed.

Breakfast was a simple affair — bread and cheese bought from the market downstairs — but conversation was sparse.

Torpe spoke little, his voice soft and hesitant when he did, often trailing off before completing his thoughts. Rui listened, patient, sensing that words weighed heavy on the boy’s tongue.

“So…” Rui finally said, breaking the silence with a small question, “what brought you to playing piano? Was it your family?”

Torpe’s fingers twitched nervously against the wood of the table. He glanced up briefly, then down again. “My mother… she loved music. She played sometimes. It was… a way to feel less alone.”

His voice was barely above a whisper, fragile as a cracked porcelain doll.

Rui nodded slowly. “Music carries memory,” he said. “Sometimes it’s all we have left.”

Torpe’s lips pressed together. A faint smile flickered for a heartbeat before he pulled the cap even lower.

They spent the day wandering through the narrow, fogged streets of the town. Rui observed everything with a scientist’s eye but a man starved for connection — the way the merchants shouted their wares, the cobblers hammering leather on worn anvils, children chasing each other with reckless laughter.

Torpe trailed beside him quietly, often trailing his fingers along the rough walls or tucking a stray lock of hair behind his ear, always with a shy glance toward Rui before retreating into himself again.

When a group of local boys shouted something rude at Torpe, his face flushed violently. He yanked his cap down to shield the sudden embarrassment and quickened his pace, trying not to cry.

Rui stepped forward, voice low and steady. “Ignore them. They don’t see what you carry inside.”

Torpe’s eyes darted at him — hesitant, uncertain — before flickering with something like trust.

That evening, back at the pub, the piano awaited.

Torpe’s fingers trembled over the keys, and Rui saw the boy’s struggle not just with music but with something far heavier — the invisible chains of fear and doubt.

“Do you want me to listen?” Rui asked softly.

Torpe’s reply was almost inaudible. “If you want.”

The music began again — a hesitant, trembling melody that slowly gathered strength. Rui heard not just the notes but the heart behind them. The fierce, quiet hope of a boy who wanted to be seen but was terrified to be noticed.

When the last note faded, the pub’s murmur returned, but Rui saw something different in Torpe’s eyes — a flicker of pride, a hint of courage.

Afterward, Torpe tucked his face behind his newsboy cap once more and mumbled, “Thank you.”

Rui smiled back, feeling the fragile thread of friendship beginning to weave between them.

Later that night, Rui worked on his broken time device by candlelight. Outside, the wind whispered through the alleyways, and somewhere a church bell tolled the hour.

Torpe’s footsteps crept softly up the stairs. The boy hesitated at the doorway, silhouetted by moonlight, newsboy cap in hand, eyes glowing like distant embers.

“I… I thought you might want some company,” Torpe said, voice small.

Rui’s heart warmed.

“Stay as long as you like.”

And for once, the silence between two lonely souls was not empty.

Chapter Text

The morning sun filtered softly through the grimy window of the little apartment above the print shop. Rui awoke to the gentle rhythm of Torpe humming a lullaby in the kitchen downstairs. His voice was so low that Rui could barely make out the words, but the melody carried warmth—something he hadn’t felt in years.

Torpe’s sunset orange eyes danced into Rui’s thoughts before he even opened his own. He blinked awake, heart fluttering. Why do those eyes hit me so hard? he wondered, though he already knew the answer: Torpe’s eyes were bright flames calling out to him, fragile and honest. Rui often found himself staring, then blushing behind his own eyelids.

He swung his legs over the side of the couch, rubbing the sleep from his neck. Get a grip, he chided himself, but when he descended the stairs, the sight of Torpe’s slender form by the stove stole his composure all over again.

Torpe caught him at the bottom step, cheeks flushed as he caught sight of Rui. He ducked his head, adjusting his newsboy cap. “Good morning,” he whispered, voice barely loud enough to carry. His hair curled around the edges of the cap, and those eyes—glowing like embers—peeked out for an instant before the brim slid down to cover them. Rui’s heart stuttered.

“Morning,” Rui said, clearing his throat. He approached the small table where Torpe had laid simple fare—bread soaked in broth, fresh from the market, and a pot of strong tea. “Thank you,” he added, offering a small smile.

Torpe managed a nod, then looked up, meeting Rui’s gaze for a fleeting moment before looking away. Rui’s cheeks warmed. Why does a glance from him feel like sunrise?

They ate in companionable silence, the kettle’s gentle whistle punctuating their slow chewing. Rui watched Torpe’s fingers wrap around the bread, careful not to crumple it, and he thought, This boy handles everything—music, my clumsy company—with such care.

Once breakfast was done, Torpe fetched his satchel. “I’ll walk with you to the market,” he offered shyly. “I need to pick up ink and paper.”

“Of course,” Rui replied, brushing lint off his coat. As they stepped into the fog-laced street, Torpe’s hand lingered briefly against Rui’s sleeve—almost a touch, then quickly withdrawn. Rui’s pulse thundered.

Their path led past the same pub where Torpe played. Today, the sign swung silently, and a few early-bird patrons sipped their ale by the hearth. But Rui’s mind was elsewhere: he couldn’t stop thinking about last night, about the way Torpe had hesitated at his workbench and asked softly, “May I watch you fix it?”

He’d nodded then, almost too eager. And Torpe had perched on the edge of the couch, eyes bright as he studied Rui’s careful soldering of a tiny coil. Rui remembered how his hands had trembled as he explained each step, how his voice had wavered when Torpe smiled and asked gentle questions. I’m a fool, Rui thought, but couldn’t stop smiling.

At the market, Torpe guided Rui through stalls of leather, metal parts, inkpots, and fine cloth. He pointed out a particularly sturdy spool of copper wire for Rui’s tinkering, and Rui caught him watching the way he examined it, brow furrowed in concentration. Rui’s throat went dry. “It’s perfect,” he murmured, and Torpe looked up, cheeks pink, eyes shining. That glance, like the sun dipping behind a cloud, made Rui’s own heart sear.

They bartered for goods, Torpe speaking only when Rui prompted him. But Rui didn’t mind; he found pleasure in every soft word, every careful step Torpe took to make sure Rui got exactly what he needed. And in each moment, those sunset orange eyes flicked up at him: brief, intense, and electric.

Back at the print shop apartment, Rui spread his parts across the table while Torpe opened the windows to let in fresh air. The boy stretched, then paused, breathing deeply as if savoring something new. Rui watched him, enthralled. How can someone so shy exude such light? he wondered, his cheeks warming again.

Torpe cleared his throat and picked up a coil from Rui’s collection. “What does this do?” he asked, voice timid.

Rui knelt beside him, heart pounding as he guided Torpe’s hand to the tiny spring. “This stores electromagnetic energy. It’ll give a burst of power to the time device’s core.” His explanation came out softly, and Torpe leaned in, eyes widening just enough to let the light in. Rui felt his breath catch. “Would you… like to try winding it?” he offered.

Torpe nodded, lifting his cap to brush a strand of hair away. His eyes gleamed in the lamplight. Rui swallowed hard, both eager and awkward. “Gently,” he coached, guiding Torpe’s fingers. They were warm, and the closeness made Rui’s heart hammer in his chest. When Torpe met his eyes in silent thanks, Rui’s own gaze faltered.

He cleared his throat. “You don’t know how important this is to me,” he blurted, then immediately cringed. Don’t scare him off. Torpe blinked, uncertain, then quietly said, “I want to help.”

Rui’s chest tightened. That’s all I need.

Night fell, and with it came the soft patter of rain as it had the first night Rui arrived. They worked side by side, the device slowly coming back to life under the flicker of candlelight. Every so often, Rui caught Torpe peeking—those eyes glowing—and found himself unable to look away.

When the last circuit clicked into place, Rui leaned back, exhausted and exhilarated. “I think… I think it’s fixed,” he whispered, voice hoarse.

Torpe’s breath caught. He set down his tools and dared a genuine smile. Rui’s heart soared. But as he watched, Torpe glanced away, hiding his face behind the cap. Rui realized with a pang that the boy believed Rui a simple traveler, not a time traveler. He would never know the truth.

Rui nodded and packed away the tools. “Tomorrow, I’ll test it,” he said softly.

Torpe’s eyes, so bright they seemed lit from within, met Rui’s for a moment. Then he tucked his cap down and mumbled, “I should go.”

Rui wanted to call him back, to tell him everything—but fear held his tongue. Instead, he smiled gently and said, “Thank you, Torpe. For everything.”

Torpe’s shoulders lifted in a small shrug, cap still hiding his face. “Good night, Rui.”

As the door closed behind him, Rui sank into the chair, heart pounding with both hope and longing. He lifted a hand to his own eyes, remembering that first glimpse of sunset fire—and realizing he was utterly captivated, utterly helpless in the warmth of those shy, bright orbs.

Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow, I see you again.

And for the first time since the apocalypse in his original timeline, Rui slept with a smile.

Chapter Text

The rain whispered on the windows like a lullaby from another time, the soft patter wrapping the room in a delicate cocoon of sound. Torpe stood by the window, one hand holding his cap against his chest, the other brushing condensation off the glass as he stared down at the sleepy street below.

Behind him, Rui crouched over the table, inspecting the coil mechanism for the fifth time that morning. The spark module was giving off weak pulses—barely enough to trip a matchstick, let alone power a jump through time.

Torpe turned at the sound of a sharp crackle—static hissing faintly through a thin copper wire Rui held with tweezers. He blinked. “That wasn’t… from the kettle, was it?” he asked.

Rui looked up, startled. “What? No—oh. No, it’s part of the device.”

Torpe stepped closer, careful, cautious, and curious. “Is it… broken?”

Rui hesitated. Half-truths only, he reminded himself. “Kind of. It’s just… a special sort of machine. It needs electricity to work.”

Torpe leaned in, frowning slightly. “I’ve only ever seen the electric lamps they tested on Fleet Street. But this isn’t like that. Your wires look like—like they’re breathing.”

Rui’s brow lifted. “Breathing?”

The boy tilted his head, his eyes bright despite his awkward posture. “The little lights—they flash like a pulse.”

Rui glanced down at the wire. “That’s the current firing through the copper filament. You’re not wrong, though. A current is kind of like a heartbeat.”

Torpe smiled faintly. Then, seeming to catch himself, he yanked his cap over his face, blushing. “Sorry. That was silly.”

Rui shook his head. “No, not at all. That was… a beautiful observation.” He paused, then added, “You can sit, if you want. I don’t mind showing you.”

Torpe hesitated. “Are you sure?”

“I mean… I am staying under your roof, eating your food, and borrowing your room,” Rui replied, chuckling nervously. “The least I can do is let you into my little world of chaos.”

A soft laugh escaped Torpe’s lips. “Then… I’ll try not to break anything.”

He sat beside Rui, their knees nearly touching. Rui showed him the core of the device—its shell, made of smooth metal, curved like a sea-snatched stone, and pulsing faintly with trapped energy. It looked like nothing from the 1800s. It wasn’t from the 1800s.

“What is it supposed to do?” Torpe asked, genuine wonder flickering in his voice now.

Rui hesitated. Say it without saying it. “It’s… a way to travel,” he said. “Over great distances. But… not in the way you’re thinking.”

Torpe studied the strange object in silence. “Is it… for ships?”

Rui smiled, despite himself. “Sort of.”

There was a long pause, broken only by the fizz of a wire discharging gently in the corner.

Then Torpe said, “You’re not like the others here.”

Rui stiffened. “No. I suppose I’m not.”

“You talk differently. Not just your words… but how you see things. Like the world is… already gone. And you’re just remembering it.”

Rui looked down at the device, heart aching. “That’s… an apt way of putting it.”

Another silence. Then Torpe gently reached out and traced the curve of the machine’s outer shell with his finger. “Do you want to leave?” he asked softly.

Rui’s heart slammed against his ribs. He looked up sharply. “Why would you—?”

Torpe shrugged, looking down. “You work so hard on it. You look at it the way I look at the keys on the piano—when I can’t bear to play.”

Rui couldn’t speak. His throat tightened.

“I don’t know where you’re from,” Torpe continued, his voice quieter than candle smoke. “And I don’t think I could guess. But… sometimes I think you’re lonelier than me.”

That struck something deep in Rui—something raw. He turned away, pretending to adjust a tool. “I guess… we both have ghosts.”

Torpe didn’t press the matter. He simply sat there, cap in his lap, hands folded. For a while, they worked together in silence—Torpe handing him pieces as asked, listening to Rui’s explanations like they were poetry.

When the sun began to set, its dying light slipping across the room, Rui realized he’d spent the entire day at peace. Not because he’d made progress on the device—he hadn’t. But because Torpe was there, with him.

That night, Torpe surprised him.

They sat on the floor by the fireplace, a blanket draped over their shoulders as the wind howled outside. Torpe had prepared tea, and Rui had fixed the loose hinge on the cupboard door as thanks.

“I’ve been thinking,” Torpe said softly.

“About?”

“If you ever… go wherever you’re going…” His eyes flicked toward Rui, but didn’t quite meet his. “Could I go with you?”

Rui’s chest tightened. “Torpe…”

“I know I wouldn’t understand it. I can’t even play a full piece in front of strangers. But I—I think I’d rather go somewhere strange with you than stay here and always wonder.”

Rui looked at him then. Torpe’s sunset orange eyes burned like a candle trapped in glass, hopeful and scared and glowing all at once.

“I’m not promising anything,” Rui said gently. “But… I’d be honored to have you with me.”

Torpe looked away quickly, cheeks flushed. He fumbled to pull his cap over his face.

“…You’re kind,” he mumbled. “Even when you don’t need to be.”

“I’m not kind,” Rui replied quietly. “I’m just tired of being alone.”

They sat there, the fire crackling beside them, and for a long time, neither said anything else.

But Rui’s gaze kept drifting to Torpe’s hidden face, wondering what it would look like if—no, when—he finally smiled without hiding.

And in the dim room, with the past behind them and the unknown ahead, a different kind of warmth settled between them—slow, quiet, and real.

Chapter Text

The wind howled through the alleyways that night, scraping frost across the windows of the small flat like invisible fingernails. The fire had gone out. A chill settled into the wood and stone, into the bones.

Torpe lay awake on the couch, long after Rui had dozed off at the table beside his tools. The candle’s flame had guttered low, casting their shadows on the wall—two shapes sharing space but never quite touching.

Torpe stared up at the ceiling, breath shallow.

Rui had spoken again of leaving.

He didn’t mean to—not cruelly, and not as a threat—but it hung in the air like winter mist, freezing everything it touched. Someday, Rui had said. Someday, I’ll finish it. And I’ll finally go.

Torpe clutched his newsboy cap to his chest.

And suddenly, he was no longer in the warm room with Rui, but—

—in a field of tall wheat, gold under the summer sun.

The sky was too big. The world was too loud.

And Saki was laughing, small hands full of wildflowers.

“Torpe, hurry! I found the blue ones!”

He was barely ten. She was younger still. Her eyes were the same warm orange as his, but brighter. Braver. She’d always run ahead of him.

Even now, she was chasing butterflies barefoot, her pale legs muddy and scratched, her tiny laugh like a chime in the wind.

He remembered calling out to her. “Don’t go too far!”

But she didn’t listen.

She never did.

Then—

A scream.

Sharp. Cut short.

Torpe’s blood turned to ice.

He ran. He ran so fast he couldn’t breathe, the wheat clawing at his arms, dust kicking into his lungs. But she was gone.

There was only silence.

They searched for days. Men from town. Dogs. No trace. No trail.

Just her little ribbon, snagged on a barbed fence, fluttering like a dying flame.

He woke that night with dried tears crusting his lashes.

The couch creaked softly as he sat upright, clutching his knees to his chest.

He hadn’t spoken her name in years.

Not since his mother stopped setting her place at the table. Not since the stares in town shifted from pity to blame. Not since his father’s voice went quiet, hollowed out by grief.

You should’ve been watching her.

That was the last thing he ever said to Torpe before he left, never to return.

After that, Torpe learned to live small.

Quiet. Out of the way. Don’t speak unless spoken to. Don’t get close. Don’t lose anyone again.

But then Rui came.

With his strange machines, and strange words, and those eyes so full of something broken and beautiful. A man so deeply scarred by loneliness that it radiated from him like heat—and yet, somehow, he smiled when Torpe brought tea. He asked him questions. He listened.

And Torpe started to forget the rules he’d made.

Started to hope.

But now, Rui was going to leave.

Just like everyone else.

Torpe stood, legs shaky, and crossed the floor to where Rui lay slumped over the table, head resting on a book. A tangle of wires glowed dully nearby. His lashes fluttered as he dreamed, breath soft against the wooden surface.

Torpe reached out a hand, trembling.

He almost touched him.

But his fingers hovered in the air.

A whisper. “Don’t leave.”

The words didn’t wake Rui.

But they shattered something inside Torpe.

The next morning, the world was quiet.

Rui woke slowly, stretching with a groan and rubbing his neck. “Torpe?” he called sleepily.

No answer.

He looked around. The flat was still. The fire unlit.

“…Torpe?”

Then he saw it—the worn newsboy cap, left carefully on the windowsill.

And his heart stilled.

Torpe stood outside in the narrow alley, arms wrapped tightly around himself. The wind tugged at his coat. He didn’t know how long he’d been standing there.

He didn’t hear Rui approach from behind.

“Hey,” Rui said gently. “You left your cap.”

Torpe turned, startled, his eyes wide and red-rimmed. “Oh,” he said quickly, trying to take it—but Rui didn’t hand it over. He held it close, then stepped closer, hesitant.

“Are you okay?” Rui asked.

Torpe’s gaze dropped. “I was just… thinking.”

Rui didn’t say anything. Just stood there beside him, quiet.

Finally, Torpe whispered, “My sister’s name was Saki.”

The name hung in the air between them.

Rui blinked. “You’ve never… told me about her.”

Torpe nodded. “I don’t tell anyone.”

He looked up, eyes glassy and distant. “She was little. She liked flowers. We were playing in a field near the edge of town. I looked away for a minute and… and she was gone.”

The words trembled out of him like a confession.

“I waited. For years. I thought she’d come back. But no one ever saw her again.”

His hands clenched.

“I thought—if I never let anyone get close again, it wouldn’t hurt like that. But…”

He looked at Rui now, really looked at him.

“…But then you showed up.”

Rui didn’t speak. His throat ached with the weight of it all.

Torpe swallowed hard. “And now I keep thinking… you’ll go too. And I’ll be left wondering again.”

Rui’s heart broke a little at that.

He stepped forward and gently placed the cap back in Torpe’s hands. “I don’t want to hurt you, Torpe,” he said softly. “I can’t promise I won’t have to leave. But I can promise I won’t disappear without telling you.”

Torpe nodded, gripping the cap.

There was silence.

Then—a smile. Fragile. Flickering. But real.

Torpe wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his coat. “You say strange things, Rui.”

“I am a strange man,” Rui replied.

Torpe laughed quietly. “But… I like it.”

Rui smiled back.

And in that moment, two people broken by loss stood under a silver morning sky, neither healed, but no longer entirely alone.

Chapter Text

Morning light seeped through the cracks in the boarded-up window, painting golden stripes across the creaking floorboards. In the small kitchen, Torpe stood at the hearth with his newsboy cap set aside, apron tied clumsily around his waist. He stirred a modest pot of porridge, the warm oats bubbling softly.

Rui emerged from the adjoining room in a loose shirt that hung off one shoulder, hair mussed from sleep. He paused in the doorway, watching Torpe’s careful movements. He’s so focused, Rui thought, heart warming at the sight of the timid pianist taking on the simple task of breakfast.

“Good morning,” Torpe said, without turning. His voice was low but carried genuine warmth. He ladled porridge into two bowls.

Rui strolled over and peered into the pot. “I can’t believe you remember how I liked it—thin, with a pinch of salt.”

Torpe offered a shy smile before meeting Rui’s eyes, those sunset orange orbs gleaming with pride. He handed Rui a bowl. “You said once that all food tastes better if someone else cooks it.”

Rui accepted the bowl, running his spoon over the surface. “I did, didn’t I? It’s true.” He carried his porridge to the small wooden table at the center of the room. Torpe joined him, still wearing his cap pushed back enough to reveal his gentle eyes.

They ate side by side, the only sounds the soft scrape of spoon against bowl and the crackle of embers in the fireplace. In this quiet routine, neither felt the need for words—all the conversation was in the shared glance, the comforting presence.

After breakfast, they tidied the apartment together. Torpe swept the hearth, brushing stray ashes into a small pan while Rui wiped down the table and chairs. Each domestic chore carried a tender closeness: fleeting brushes of hands, mutual offers to help, silent smiles.

When the apartment shone like the small sanctuary it was, Torpe fetched sheet music from a stack by the piano. “Care to try something new today?” he asked, voice hopeful.

Rui’s eyes lit up. “Only if you’ll play with me.”

Torpe’s cheeks colored. “Me? Play with you?”

Rui stretched out a hand. “Come on. You need an audience—one who isn’t going to judge.”

Torpe hesitated, then placed the music stand in front of the piano. He slid onto the stool, brushing dust from the keys, and set a simple duet score before them. Rui sat at the other piano bench, awkward but eager.

Their duet began haltingly—Torpe’s timid phrasing balanced by Rui’s cautious rhythms. At first, the notes stumbled over one another, but as they found each other’s timing, the melody smoothed into something warm and resonant.

When they paused at the end of the first movement, Torpe glanced at Rui, eyes bright. “That wasn’t so bad.”

Rui grinned, heart swelling. “Not bad at all.”

As they continued through the piece, the room seemed to fill with new light—a harmony born from two souls learning to trust.

In the afternoon, they ventured out together. Ruthless London traffic gave way to quieter lanes as they walked toward the market. Torpe carried the basket; Rui carried a satchel of small tools.

“When we fix the device, I’ll make us a proper celebration,” Rui promised, his tone light but sincere. “Maybe I’ll conjure music from thin air.”

Torpe looked up at him, uncertain. “Music from… thin air?”

Rui chuckled. “Figuratively speaking. I’d love to build something that lights up this whole room—like a chandelier powered by sunshine.”

Torpe’s eyes widened. “That would be wonderful.”

They spent the afternoon purchasing fresh bread, a hunk of cheese, and wildflowers Torpe insisted on tucking into a jar by the window. On the way home, they collected a small jar of honey from a street vendor whose bees thrived on rooftop clover.

Back in their warm apartment, dusk fell and lanterns were lit. Torpe arranged the wildflowers, their delicate petals dancing in the glow. Rui set out bread and cheese on a wooden board, pouring a shared mug of weak ale.

They sipped in companionable silence, the room alive with the comfort of home. Then Torpe cleared his throat and, with surprising boldness, reached across the table to adjust Rui’s scarf. “You’ve been working too much,” he said softly.

Rui met his gaze, surprised by the tender concern. “I know,” he admitted. “But having you here… makes it easier.”

They smiled at each other, the distance between them closing.

As night deepened, Torpe produced a worn cushion. “I think this belongs beside the piano,” he declared, placing it carefully under the bench.

Rui raised an eyebrow. “For me?”

Torpe blushed. “For both of us.”

They sat together at the piano, Torpe’s cap resting on the edge of the bench. Torpe’s slender fingers found the keys first, playing a simple waltz tune. Rui joined in with gentle chords, their hands brushing as they found the rhythm.

Midway through the piece, Torpe faltered—his nerves always close to the surface—but Rui gave him a reassuring glance, thumb brushing Torpe’s hand. That small touch steadied him, and the melody soared.

When they finished, the final chord lingered in the air like a promise. Torpe lowered his hands, eyes bright and vulnerable. “Thank you,” he whispered.

Rui reached for his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Thank you, Torpe—for everything.”

They lingered at the piano long after the music stopped, two hearts beating side by side in the quiet domestic glow.

That night, Rui slipped into bed and found Torpe already there, curled under the blankets. He hesitated at the door, then tucked himself in beside the boy.

Torpe shuffled closer, pulling the covers around them both. “Good night, Rui,” he murmured.

“Good night, Torpe,” Rui replied, his voice soft.

In the hush of home, neither needed grand gestures or proclamations. Here, in the steady warmth of routine—shared meals, quiet music, gentle touches—they discovered something precious: the simple truth that, together, they were no longer fragments of broken time, but a single, beating whole.

Chapter Text

The town smelled of spice and smoke.

It was the Festival of Lanterns—an old local tradition that turned the normally gray, soot-dusted streets of this English town into a lively river of color. Paper lanterns hung from doorframes and stretched across rooftops like strings of stars brought to earth. Candied almonds, roasted chestnuts, and fragrant sausages perfumed the cobblestones, mixing with laughter and fiddle music that spilled from every pub and square.

Torpe fidgeted with his sleeves as they walked toward the square, his cap pulled low as always. “We don’t have to stay long,” he mumbled, looking at the crowd of people dancing near the firelit green. “It’s probably loud. And full of—of people.”

“You did say it only happens once a year,” Rui said with a gentle smile. “We can leave whenever you want. But…” He glanced up at the lanterns overhead. “It’s beautiful. You shouldn’t miss it.”

Torpe's gaze lingered on a string of floating candles shaped like birds. His lips parted, but he said nothing.

They drifted through the crowd together, bumping shoulders with farmers in their finest coats and women in laced gowns with windblown cheeks. Children dashed past with ribbons in their hair, shrieking with joy.

A bearded man pressed a mug of dark beer into Torpe’s hand as he passed. “First one’s free, lad! Don’t say no to old John!” he barked, then shoved another drink into Rui’s hand before waddling off.

“I—wait, I don’t drink—!” Torpe called after him, but the man was gone.

Rui chuckled. “He seemed... determined.”

Torpe eyed the beer like it was a bomb. “It smells bitter.”

Rui took a sip of his and winced. “Tastes it, too.”

Torpe hesitated. Then, in a moment of stubborn curiosity, he took a small sip.

And instantly grimaced.

Rui laughed. “There it is.”

But Torpe didn’t spit it out. He swallowed and blinked, clearly surprised. “It’s not terrible.”

Rui tilted his head. “You’re not planning to finish it, are you?”

“I—no. I mean, maybe?” Torpe took another tentative sip. “It’s warm. And weirdly fizzy.”

Rui watched him in amusement as they found a bench near a firepit and sat, the music rising in tempo in the background. A quartet of fiddlers spun a quick reel, and people twirled across the green, skirts flaring and boots stomping.

Torpe was quiet for a long time, then blurted suddenly, “That couple’s out of rhythm. Completely.”

Rui blinked. “You can tell?”

“I—I’ve played for dancers before. You’re supposed to step on the third beat, not the second.” Torpe sipped again, his cheeks noticeably pink. “It’s honestly embarrassing.”

“You’re so confident tonight,” Rui teased, gently elbowing him. “Is that the beer talking?”

“I think it is,” Torpe said without thinking—and then froze, eyes wide. “Oh, oh no.”

Rui laughed, nearly choking on his drink.

Torpe slumped, pulling his cap over his face. “You weren’t supposed to laugh.”

“You’re adorable,” Rui said without hesitation—then instantly stiffened. Oh no.

He hadn’t meant to say it. It slipped out like breath.

Torpe slowly lowered his cap, blinking at him. “…What did you say?”

Rui flushed deeply. “I—uh. Nothing. That’s the beer talking.”

“No,” Torpe said, his voice unusually steady. “It wasn’t.”

They looked at each other, lantern light flickering across their faces. Torpe’s cheeks were flushed, his lips parted. His sunset-orange eyes sparkled in the firelight like glowing coals. Rui’s heart kicked up in his chest.

Something had shifted.

A breeze stirred between them.

Torpe leaned forward. “Do you want to dance?”

Rui choked. “Dance?”

Torpe stood abruptly, a little unsteady on his feet but determined. “C-Come on. It’s not hard. You just have to count. One, two, three—” He grabbed Rui’s hand.

Rui let out a stunned laugh as he was pulled to his feet. “Torpe, are you drunk?”

“Only enough to try.”

The square spun around them as the fiddle reeled again, this time faster, louder, joyous. They joined the swirling crowd, their hands laced together. Torpe’s grip was warm and firm despite his trembling fingers.

Rui stumbled at first, unsure of his footing, but Torpe guided him—awkwardly, sweetly. They twirled past laughing strangers, and the world became a blur of orange firelight, lilac lanterns, and music that seemed to lift them off the ground.

Torpe laughed, a breathless, beautiful sound.

Rui stared, momentarily dazed.

“I’ve never heard you laugh like that,” he said, breathless.

“I’ve never had a reason to,” Torpe whispered back. “Not until you.”

Time froze.

The music faded into background noise.

They stood in the middle of the dance square, the crowd moving around them in a kaleidoscope of motion. Rui swallowed, heart pounding. Torpe’s eyes were wide and earnest, cheeks flushed.

“I…” Rui hesitated, voice low. “I don’t want this to end.”

“Then don’t let it,” Torpe whispered. “Not tonight.”

Rui leaned in, slowly. “Are you sure?”

Torpe tilted his head up. “Yes.”

And in that moment, under the lantern-lit sky, surrounded by laughter and music and the soft crackle of festival fires, their lips met.

It was gentle. Shy. Hesitant at first—like testing the edges of something fragile and brand new.

Torpe’s hands trembled against Rui’s chest. Rui’s fingers brushed Torpe’s jaw, the tips memorizing every curve.

When they finally pulled apart, they were both breathless.

Torpe blinked. “Is it still the beer talking?”

Rui laughed, forehead resting against his. “If it is, I don’t ever want to be sober again.”

Later, they walked home arm in arm. The streets were quieter now, the lanterns swaying in the midnight breeze.

Neither said much.

But in the silence, Rui stole glances at Torpe—who was humming a melody under his breath, hat tilted back, a soft glow in his eyes.

He’d never seen him like this. So free.

And Rui—who once thought nothing could touch the hollow ache of his apocalyptic future—now felt the echo of something dangerously close to joy.

Chapter Text

Sunlight spilled in through the curtains with no regard for the fragile state of one flustered pianist.

Torpe shot up in bed, breath caught in his throat and his cap missing. For a moment, the previous night was a blur — laughter, music, dancing, warmth pressed close to his side — but then it all came rushing back in technicolor.

The beer.
The dancing.
The kiss.

Torpe slapped both hands over his face with a strangled groan. “I kissed him,” he whispered to no one, muffled by his palms. “I kissed Rui Kamishiro.”

He flopped back into bed with a defeated sigh, arms sprawled wide like a man recently deceased. His cheeks burned hot against the cool sheets. “No, no, no, no…”

In the next room, the scent of boiling tea and warm bread drifted through the flat.

Torpe peeked from beneath the blanket, watching a shadow move behind the curtain.

He’s awake. He’s in the kitchen. He remembers.

He pulled the blanket over his head. I have to leave. I have to disappear. I have to fake my own death. Can you fake your own death in 1800s England?

Before he could plan his dramatic escape, the door creaked open gently.

“Torpe?” Rui’s voice, careful and warm. “I made breakfast.”

Torpe didn’t answer.

Rui paused. “…You’re not hiding under the blanket, are you?”

“...No,” Torpe said, unconvincingly.

Rui chuckled, stepping closer. “There’s jam. And tea. And… we probably need to talk.”

Torpe made a noise of anguish and slowly peeked out. Rui stood beside the bed, hair tousled from sleep, sleeves rolled back, and an apron faintly dusted with flour. His expression was gentle — no teasing in his eyes, only softness.

“I—I think I drank too much,” Torpe said quickly, sitting up. “I—I didn’t mean to be so—um—affectionate. That was the beer. Not me. Well, it was me, but not—like—me me—I mean—”

Rui sat beside him on the edge of the bed, cutting through the anxious ramble with a quiet, “Hey. It’s okay.”

Torpe stopped mid-sputter, eyes wide.

“You don’t have to explain it all,” Rui said softly. “It happened. I was there too.”

“…You’re not mad?” Torpe asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Rui tilted his head. “Why would I be mad that someone I care about kissed me?”

Torpe’s face went from pink to scarlet in a blink. “You—you care—?”

Rui looked down, hands clasped loosely in his lap. “I do. I think… I’ve been trying not to feel it too loudly, because I didn’t want to scare you. But I care. A lot.”

The silence that followed was heavy and warm and terrifying.

Torpe’s throat tightened. “I—don’t know what to do with that.”

“That’s alright,” Rui said. “You don’t have to know. Not yet.”

But the town did know.

And it turned out that no one at the festival had missed the two of them dancing hand in hand under the lanterns.

By midday, whispers floated through the streets like dandelion seeds. The grocer gave Rui a curious glance when he asked for eggs. A girl at the bakery covered her mouth and giggled when Torpe walked by.

Even the local blacksmith, a usually stoic man with hands like anvils, gave Torpe a suspicious smirk and said, “Didn’t think you had it in you, Tenma.”

Torpe nearly dropped his bag of scones.

Back at the flat, he paced in tiny frantic circles, waving his arms. “Rui, this is a disaster! I can’t go outside anymore! They’re talking!”

Rui leaned back in his chair, trying very hard not to laugh. “They’re talking because we danced in front of the entire town. They probably think we’re courting now.”

“Courting?!” Torpe squeaked, stumbling against the piano bench. “I’m going to explode.”

Rui stood slowly, stepping close, voice calm. “Let me ask you something, Torpe.”

“…W-What?”

“If they are saying that… would it be so bad if it were true?”

Torpe looked up, startled.

His voice dropped. “I—I don’t know. Maybe? I mean… I’ve never—no one’s ever… and I’ve never wanted someone to—” He stopped himself, heart racing.

Rui’s gaze was steady. “You don’t have to say anything.”

Torpe looked away, eyes glassy with confusion. “It’s not you I’m scared of. It’s… it’s me.”

Rui’s expression softened. He touched Torpe’s shoulder gently. “Then let’s figure it out together. No rush. No pressure.”

Torpe’s cap slipped low over his eyes again. “…Why are you so nice to me?”

“Because I see you,” Rui whispered. “Not just the quiet or the nerves or the way you hide under that cap. I see you. And I want to know more.”

That night, the rumors were still fresh in the air, but their home remained their own little world.

Torpe sat by the window, watching the last festival lanterns drift in the breeze outside. Rui knelt beside him, fiddling with a device made of brass and copper coils.

“What are you making?” Torpe asked.

“Something I shouldn’t,” Rui said with a wry smile. “I’ve been testing a resonance pulse. Low frequency, just enough to trace magnetic fields.”

Torpe blinked. “That means… absolutely nothing to me.”

Rui chuckled. “I know. But you asked.”

Torpe turned to look at him fully. “I don’t mind not understanding. I just like… seeing you talk about it.”

Rui’s hands stilled.

“I’ve never had anyone to share it with,” Rui admitted quietly.

“Now you do,” Torpe said. He reached out and lightly touched Rui’s wrist. “Even if I blush every five minutes and panic in front of bakers.”

Rui laughed, the sound quiet and genuine. “You’re doing better than I ever could in a world I don’t belong to.”

Torpe met his eyes. There was still uncertainty, still hesitation in the way his fingers trembled slightly. But there was something else now, too. Willingness. A small, fragile courage.

“You don’t have to go back,” he whispered. “Not yet.”

Rui looked at him, startled. “Torpe…”

“I’m not ready to say goodbye,” Torpe added, voice shaky but real. “Even if this is all temporary… stay a little longer.”

Rui reached up, brushing the brim of the cap back to reveal those bright, sunset-orange eyes. He smiled.

“I wasn’t planning on leaving. Not yet.”

And for now, that was more than enough.

Chapter Text

Morning broke pale and hesitant, as though the sun itself felt the tension in the air. Rui awoke to an empty pillow beside him and a dull ache in his chest. He sat up, heart fluttering. Where is Torpe?

He found the flat largely dark. The remnants of last night’s lanterns lay abandoned on the windowsill, their once-bright paper cracked and dim. Cups sat half-empty on the table, and the half-finished device Rui had been testing glowed softly with dormant coils.

Torpe wasn’t in the kitchen. He wasn’t by the piano.

Rui’s footsteps echoed as he hurried through the apartment. On the small balcony, Torpe crouched by the railing, hands gripping the cold iron bars. His newsboy cap was still pulled low, hiding his face. The dawn breeze tugged at his coat, but Torpe didn’t move.

“Torpe?” Rui called gently.

Torpe didn’t answer. He stared down at the street below, eyes unfocused.

Rui stepped up beside him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Hey.”

Torpe flinched, shoulders tensing. His voice came out small and strained: “I—I’m sorry. I can’t... I can’t do this.”

Rui’s heart tightened. “Do what?”

Torpe’s fingers trembled on the railing. “Stay. Here. With you. I’m… I’m scared. You said you wouldn’t leave without telling me—but what if you have to? What if you finish that machine and go back to… wherever you belong?”

Rui swallowed hard. “Torpe, I—”

Torpe turned, finally revealing those bright orange eyes, haunted and red-rimmed. “I know I’m crazy. But I can’t help it.”

Rui crouched down to meet his eyes. “Tell me what’s happening.”

Torpe’s gaze dropped. The words came out in rushed fragments. “It’s like… every time I open up, every time I feel like maybe I’m allowed something good… it gets ripped away.” He shook his head, voice cracking. “I know you didn’t plan to leave. But when you said you would… it was like the world tipped. Just like when Saki—”

His voice broke. He covered his face with shaking hands.

Rui’s chest ached. He gently lowered Torpe’s hands. “Shh… it’s alright.”

Torpe’s posture collapsed. “I was so small. Seven years old.” He took a shaky breath. “She ran into the wheat fields. I followed, but… I lost her. I heard her laugh, and then it was gone. My father said I was too young to understand. My mother—” He closed his eyes against tears. “She never spoke again.”

Rui wrapped his arms around Torpe, drawing him close. The boy’s body shook against him. “I’m so sorry,” Rui whispered into his hair.

Torpe clung to him, as though Rui were the only anchor left in the storm. “I don’t want to lose you,” he sobbed. “I can’t lose you.”

Rui held him tighter. “You won’t. I promise.”

But Torpe’s breathing came in sharp bursts. “I don’t believe that. I never have. What if you have to? What if… what if something pulls you away? Or you decide you’ve had enough of this strange little place… of me?”

Rui gently pulled back to look at him. “I don’t care where I end up, or what happens around us. If I have a choice—and I do—I choose to stay.”

Torpe’s lip trembled. “People always say that. But things always change. People leave.”

Rui cupped his cheek, wiping away a tear with his thumb. “Then let me show you, day by day, that I won’t. I may not have all the answers, but I know how I feel. And I’m not walking away.”

Torpe blinked, his bright sunset eyes locked onto Rui’s. “You mean that?”

“I do,” Rui said, voice quiet and certain. “You matter too much to me. I’m here. And I want to stay—with you.”

For a long moment, neither of them said anything. The silence stretched, filled with the weight of trust slowly being built, brick by trembling brick.

Torpe reached up and touched Rui’s hand where it held his cheek. “Then… I’ll try. To believe you. To believe this is real.”

“It is,” Rui said. “As real as you. As those eyes that make my knees weak.”

Torpe immediately yanked his cap down over his face. “D-Don’t say things like that…”

Rui only smiled and pulled him close again.

Later that day, Torpe retreated to the piano, scarlet still lingering in his cheeks but resolve in his posture. Rui watched as the boy laid out sheet music and lifted the lid of the piano, fingers hovering above the keys.

Torpe cleared his throat, voice quiet. “This is… for you.”

He began to play a simple melody—one he’d composed in the quiet hours after his breakdown. The tune carried the ache of his loss and the fragile hope of new beginnings.

Rui closed his eyes, letting the music wash over him, feeling every note as though it were woven from Torpe’s own heart. When the last chord faded, Torpe’s hands lingered on the keys.

Rui stood and crossed the room, gathering Torpe in his arms again. “Thank you,” he whispered.

Torpe buried his face in Rui’s chest. “Thank you for not giving up on me.”

And in that soft embrace, two souls—tethered by broken pasts and shared longing—found a moment of peace.

For now, the shadows had been chased away by their promise: to return, to rebuild, and to stay, no matter the time.

Chapter Text

Rain tapped lightly at the windows, soft and rhythmic, like fingers drumming on forgotten glass. The kind of rain that lulled some to sleep — but for Rui Kamishiro, it brought a strange, hollow ache that refused to settle.

He sat by the window, one knee drawn up, a cup of tea cooling in his hands. His eyes weren’t on the rain.

They were on the ghosts.

Torpe had fallen asleep on the sofa nearby, curled beneath a woolen blanket, mouth parted slightly, cap resting on his chest. His gentle breathing was the only sound in the apartment besides the rain.

Rui should have been calm. Should have felt peace.

But instead, the weight pressed down on his shoulders, so familiar it had become part of his posture. His hand curled tighter around the mug.

So quiet.

Far too quiet.

It had started with silence, back then.

A world Rui remembered only in scattered fragments. The steady hum of machines. The crackle of distant static. The echo of footsteps in halls that had once held laughter.

He’d been in the lab when it happened — his own lab. The lights flickered once. Then twice. Then didn’t come back on at all.

Rui stood alone, staring up at the dead screens. The emergency lights blinked red, bathing the walls in a low pulse like a dying heartbeat. He tried the comm systems.

Nothing.

He tried the external feeds.

Static.

He tried his colleagues.

Gone.

At first, he thought it was a power failure. A glitch. He was always the optimist, the one who said, "It’s fine. We’ll fix it."

But the world didn’t want to be fixed.

He stepped out of the bunker two days later and found it silent.

No birds. No engines. No sky traffic overhead.

The city had fallen to stillness — vines growing through metal, rust bleeding down steel. Skyscrapers stood like tombstones in a world without names.

The broadcasts never came back. The sky was always gray.

And Rui Kamishiro became the last human being on Earth.

He had no idea how or when. It just happened, just like that.

He had built robots — dozens of them — trying to fight off the madness. Some spoke, some cleaned, some even played music. They kept him company, in their own mechanical way. But no matter how clever their programming, they weren’t people.

They didn’t look at him with warm, frightened, human eyes.
They didn’t hold his hand back when he reached out in desperation.
They didn’t miss him when he fell asleep curled into himself.

Loneliness became his air.

There were days when he screamed into the void, begged the robots to pretend harder, just for a moment. To say they loved him. To lie to him.
And on worse days, he just lay on the floor, breathing in the dust, unable to even pretend anymore.

His hands, the same ones that now gently made tea or tuned wires in Torpe’s workshop, had once clawed at concrete in grief. His eyes, the ones that crinkled when Torpe got flustered, had wept for a world that turned its back on him.

Rui Kamishiro had been alone for years.

And when he finally built the machine, he wasn’t even trying to go anywhere specific. He just wanted to escape the silence.
Anywhere — anywhen — had to be better than being surrounded by dust and ghosts.

Back in the present, the tea in Rui’s hands had long gone cold.

Torpe shifted in his sleep. A quiet murmur. A furrowed brow. Then his breathing evened out again.

Rui exhaled, slowly.

He watched him for a long while, one hand brushing lightly over his own chest, just above his heart. The ache had changed shape since he arrived. It was still there… but now, there was something fragile growing beside it. Something warm.

But that warmth was also terrifying. Because Rui knew what it was to have everything — everyone — disappear.

He closed his eyes.

Don’t get used to this, the voice in his head whispered.
Don’t let your heart be tricked again.
You’ll only lose it.

But then Torpe shifted again, curling slightly toward where Rui sat, as if even in sleep, his body reached for him.

Rui opened his eyes.

And for the first time in weeks, maybe months, he let himself cry.

Silent tears fell down his cheeks. Not from fear. Not from grief. But from the overwhelming pressure of hope. A hope he had buried deep beneath steel and silence.

When morning came, Torpe stirred, blinking sleepily beneath the cap that had fallen sideways across his face. His gaze found Rui still sitting by the window, tearstains faintly visible under his tired eyes.

Torpe sat up slowly, his voice rough from sleep. “Rui…?”

Rui didn’t answer right away. Then, in a small, raw voice, he whispered, “...Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Torpe stood, crossed the room, and knelt beside him. “You didn’t.”

His hands hesitated. Then gently, he placed one over Rui’s.

Rui looked down at the touch, and for a long moment, he didn’t move.

Then he turned his hand palm-up and wove his fingers between Torpe’s.

They didn’t speak.

They didn’t need to.

One had watched the world disappear around him. The other had lived in fear of being abandoned. And yet, here they were — holding onto each other, trembling, but together.

And for now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

The sewing needle pricked Torpe’s finger for the third time, and this time, he didn’t even flinch.

He was too focused.

The little surprise he’d been working on lay half-finished on the table — a vest, deep plum in color, trimmed in faint gold thread. The fabric was fine but not flashy, and the stitching wasn’t perfect, but it was honest. Just like him.

Rui’s old clothes didn’t quite blend in with the rest of the town. They were subtle enough to pass for odd tailoring, but something about the texture, the weight, even the seams… it was different. Too different.

So Torpe, despite trembling hands and a throat that still clenched around the idea of doing something so forward, had decided to make him something new. Something warm. Something from him.

He didn’t want Rui to know just yet. Rui had already done so much — too much. His generosity came so freely it left Torpe overwhelmed. It was Torpe’s turn, even if his stitches were crooked and his heart fluttered like mad each time he imagined Rui wearing it.

Just a little longer, he thought, biting his lip and threading another line through.

That evening, Rui returned from the market early, soaked from a sudden rainstorm, his coat clinging to him, hair dripping into his eyes.

“Why didn’t you take the umbrella?” Torpe chided as he rushed forward with a towel.

“I didn’t think I’d need it.” Rui laughed, utterly unbothered by his state. “I forgot weather out here isn’t neatly scheduled.”

Torpe paused, mid-pat with the towel. “Scheduled?”

Rui froze.

A heartbeat passed between them, just a little too long.

“Oh—um, I meant… the clouds looked scheduled. In rows. That’s how they looked. Like they were marching in.”

Torpe blinked, clearly unconvinced but unsure what to say. “That’s… not usually how people describe rain.”

Rui gave him a sheepish grin and tried to move past it. “Maybe I was just in a poetic mood.”

But Torpe didn’t smile back. He only watched Rui a moment longer before turning to hang the damp coat by the fireplace.

They made dinner quietly, side by side. Rui chopped vegetables while Torpe stirred the stew, their shoulders brushing from time to time. Despite the silence, it felt… cozy. Comfortable.

Until Rui muttered without thinking: “I missed this kind of food. It’s been so long.”

Torpe blinked. “But you’ve been here, haven’t you? You’ve always lived in the city, right?”

Rui stopped mid-slice. Just for a second.

Then he resumed cutting. “Of course. I mean, not this part of the city. Just… different places. Different rhythms. You know.”

But Torpe didn’t know.

And something about the distance in Rui’s voice made his chest tighten.

Later, while Rui tinkered with something in the study — one of his strange contraptions, with glass tubes and glowing rings — Torpe slipped back to the sewing table and continued the vest in silence.

He was almost done when Rui walked in behind him, quiet as a shadow.

Torpe startled, pulling the fabric to his chest like it was something scandalous.

Rui blinked. “Were you… sewing?”

“I-I—” Torpe flushed scarlet. “I was going to give it to you! I just… I didn’t want you to see it until it was—until—!” He shoved the vest behind his back and covered his face with his cap. “Forget it…”

Rui stepped closer, his voice low with surprise. “You… made that? For me?”

Torpe gave a tiny nod from beneath the cap.

Rui’s heart swelled. He knelt beside him, gently tugging the hat up until Torpe’s orange eyes peeked out.

“You don’t have to hide things like that. It’s beautiful,” he said, and meant every word. “No one’s ever made something for me before.”

Torpe’s lashes fluttered. “R-Really?”

“I mean it.” Rui’s voice faltered for a moment, soft with sincerity. “I haven’t… I haven’t been cared for like this in a long time.”

The air thickened between them.

And then Rui added, too quietly, too bitterly: “Not since before the world ended.”

Torpe froze.

“What…?”

Rui’s eyes widened slightly. His mouth opened as if to pull the words back, to laugh them off, but it was too late.

“Before the world—?” Torpe repeated, slowly. “What do you mean by that?”

Rui’s throat worked around an answer that wouldn’t come. “Nothing. Just… a figure of speech.”

“No one says that.”

“I do.”

“Rui,” Torpe said softly, his eyes piercing now. “What are you hiding?”

Rui turned away, rising from his crouch. His silhouette seemed heavier somehow. “I can’t tell you. Not yet.”

Torpe stood too. “Why not?”

Rui faced him, shadows behind his eyes. “Because if I did… you might look at me differently.”

Silence. A weight in the room neither of them knew how to lift.

Torpe clenched his fists, the half-finished vest still crumpled in one hand. “You already know what I’m like, don’t you? All my fear. My broken pieces. Why is it fair for you to keep yours locked away?”

Rui looked at him then — really looked. And the longing in his gaze made Torpe’s breath hitch.

“I’m not ready,” Rui said, voice just above a whisper. “Not because I don’t trust you. But because I’m afraid of what will happen if you know.”

Torpe’s expression twisted into something Rui hadn’t seen before — not anger, but pain. Hurt.

He turned and left the room without another word.

That night, Rui stared at the small device on his worktable — the piece he’d almost finished restoring. Its soft blue light flickered like a heartbeat.

He picked it up, considered destroying it.

Then set it back down with trembling hands.

Outside, through the thin wall, he heard the faintest sound.

A piano key.

One note, quiet and uncertain.

Then another.

Then silence.

Chapter Text

Torpe watched him when he thought Rui wasn’t looking.

He wasn’t proud of it. But ever since that night — before the world ended, Rui had said — something inside him had shifted.

He didn’t want to question Rui. He didn’t want to feel like this. Suspicious. Distant. Cold.

But when you spend your whole life afraid of being left behind, every secret feels like a trapdoor.

Torpe sat on the worn edge of the piano bench, fingers ghosting over the keys. He hadn’t played all morning, not even a hum, but Rui hadn’t noticed.

He was in the workshop, tinkering again — with those odd metallic pieces, the blinking lights, those wires that hummed softly and pulsed in colors Torpe had never seen in any 19th-century machine.

Torpe had asked him once, early on, what it was.

“Just a radio,” Rui had said with a smile. “A way to talk to people, if there are any out there.”

But it didn’t look like a radio.

And even back then, Torpe had noticed: Rui didn’t build like any craftsman he knew. His tools weren’t quite right. His screws didn’t match any standard threads. And he always tucked his blueprints away the moment Torpe entered the room.

“Careful,” Rui said that afternoon, setting down a plate beside Torpe as they sat on the apartment floor. “The bread’s still hot.”

Torpe blinked. “You toasted it?”

Rui smiled sheepishly. “Guilty. I, uh… kind of jury-rigged a heating coil.”

Torpe frowned slightly. “A coil? Isn’t that… dangerous?”

Rui waved a hand. “Not the way I built it.”

And there it was again — that quiet confidence, spoken like someone who knew how every wire and pulse should behave. But not like any inventor Torpe had ever met. He used words too casually, concepts too cleanly.

He talks like someone from a place where fire isn’t needed to cook.
Like someone who’s always had light at the press of a button.
Like someone who doesn’t quite belong.

Torpe swallowed, biting the bread in silence. It was good. Too good.

“Where did you learn to build like that?” he asked finally, testing the edge of the question.

Rui didn’t look up. “Lots of reading. Trial and error.”

“Reading what? Most of the books in town don’t even mention electricity.”

“I brought some with me. When I moved here.”

A pause.

Moved from where, Torpe wanted to ask. But his voice wouldn’t work.

Later, while Rui was out fetching more supplies, Torpe sat in the workshop.

He shouldn’t have been there.

He shouldn’t.

But the desk drawer was open just slightly. Not locked. Not even latched.

Torpe’s fingers trembled as he slid it open the rest of the way.

Inside were blueprints — intricate, unfamiliar, but meticulously drawn. The lines were too clean, the materials listed alien. There were notations in symbols he didn’t recognize. Not letters. Not English. Not anything.

He pulled one sheet free, breath catching.

The design looked like a carriage… but without horses. It had no wheels. It floated above a strange ring, lines like magnet pulls, something Torpe couldn’t name. Couldn’t even imagine working.

And tucked behind the pages… a photograph.

But it wasn’t like photographs.

It was clearer than any camera in the town could ever produce. Too sharp. And there was color. Rui stood in the center, younger, smiling, surrounded by what looked like a lab made of smooth white walls and soft glowing lights.

And behind him — glass windows that showed a city unlike anything Torpe had ever dreamed of.

No carriages. No soot. No horses.

Just… towering lights. And flying things.

Torpe’s hands shook.

The door creaked.

Torpe scrambled, nearly dropping the photo as he stuffed it back into the drawer and shoved it shut.

Rui entered, soaked again from the rain, hair plastered to his face. “It’s pouring again,” he laughed. “I think England hates me.”

Torpe didn’t speak.

Rui noticed. His smile faded. “You okay?”

“I…” Torpe looked down at his lap. “I was just thinking.”

Rui walked closer. “About what?”

Torpe’s voice was small. “Do you ever feel like… people aren’t who they say they are?”

Rui stopped. Completely.

“I think,” Rui said slowly, carefully, “that sometimes people have reasons for not saying everything.”

Torpe turned to look at him — really look — and saw something behind those soft eyes. Not malice. Not cruelty.

But fear.

“Are you one of them?” he whispered.

Rui didn’t answer.

Instead, he walked over and gently placed a hand on Torpe’s shoulder. “If I were… would you still want me to stay?”

Torpe’s breath caught.

He didn’t say yes.

He didn’t say no.

But he leaned against Rui’s chest, closed his eyes, and let the silence wrap around them like a question with no answer.

Chapter Text

Rain again.

It always rained when Torpe couldn’t sleep.

He sat by the window, legs curled beneath him, watching droplets crawl down the glass like slow-moving ghosts. The fire crackled weakly in the hearth behind him, casting the shadows of the room long and trembling. It was past midnight, but he didn’t dare go to bed. Not when Rui still hadn’t come home.

He said he was just going out for a walk.

That had been two hours ago.

The seconds stretched too long in Rui’s absence. Every tick of the old clock felt like a shout in Torpe’s chest, rattling against the breath he barely held.

His thoughts raced, twisted — Maybe he found someone else. Maybe he’s leaving. Maybe I pushed too hard. Maybe he knows I looked through the drawer. Maybe—

The door opened with a soft creak.

Torpe flinched.

Rui entered, soaked through, his coat dripping, eyes blank. He looked like he’d been walking in a storm without even realizing it.

“You’re still awake,” he said softly.

Torpe nodded, voice too caught in his throat to answer.

Rui set his things down. His fingers shook. His shoulders, usually so straight, seemed hunched — like something inside him had given way. He didn’t come closer.

Instead, he stood at the hearth and stared at the flames like they might offer him a different truth than the one he was about to speak.

“I didn’t want it to go like this,” he said. His voice wasn’t distant. It was raw. Frightened.

Torpe stood slowly, heart already twisting. “Go like what?”

Rui swallowed. His hands clenched at his sides.

“I’ve lied to you.”

Torpe blinked.

Rui turned toward him fully now, and his expression was the kind of broken Torpe had never seen before. “Not about… who I am. Not in the way that means I don’t care. But… about what I am. Where I come from.”

Torpe’s lips parted, but no sound came out.

“I’m not from around here,” Rui said, and he sounded like he was forcing the words past glass in his throat. “Not from England. Not from this year. Not even this century.”

Torpe took a step back.

Rui’s voice cracked. “I’m from the future, Torpe. The world I come from… it’s gone. I built something to escape. To try to fix it. But I landed here instead. And I never meant to stay. I—”

“You’re… not…” Torpe whispered, eyes wide, mouth trembling. “You’re not from here.”

“No,” Rui said, “I’m not.”

The words dropped into the space between them like a stone into a lake — no ripples at first, only the sudden realization of how deep it was.

Torpe’s breath stuttered. His eyes burned.

“You lied,” he said softly, voice shaking. “You—you let me care about you.”

“I didn’t want to lie, I—”

“But you did!” Torpe snapped. “You knew I’d get attached! You knew, Rui!”

His voice cracked on Rui’s name.

And Rui stepped forward, eyes wide, desperate. “Torpe—”

“Don’t!” Torpe stepped back again, clutching his arms around himself like he could hold his own heart in. “Don’t come closer. You’re just going to leave. Just like everyone else.”

“I’m not—”

“Yes, you are!” His voice rose now, frantic. “You’re not even from here! This isn’t your life, this isn’t your world! You said it yourself — you weren’t meant to stay! I’m just—just a mistake you made on the way to somewhere better!”

“No—no, that’s not true—”

Torpe was breathing hard now, tears running down his face, but he wasn’t sobbing. It was worse than that. It was quiet. Controlled.

Like he’d done this before.

“You should’ve just kept walking that day,” he said. “You should’ve let me stay alone.”

“I couldn’t,” Rui whispered. “You… you’re the only thing that’s felt real since everything else died.”

“That’s not fair,” Torpe whispered. “Don’t say things like that when you’re going to leave.”

“I don’t want to leave.”

“Then why hide it? Why lie to me every day? Why pretend you’re something you’re not?”

“Because I was afraid!” Rui’s voice cracked fully now. “I didn’t want to lose this. I didn’t want you to look at me like I’m something wrong!”

Torpe stared at him.

Eyes full of pain. Confusion. Betrayal.

And something else.

Longing.

Desperation.

He turned away before Rui could see the way his face crumpled.

“I need to be alone,” he said softly.

Rui didn’t move.

“I said—” Torpe’s voice trembled. “Go.”

And Rui did.

The door shut gently behind him.

Torpe stood in the middle of the room for a long time, fists clenched, shoulders shaking.

The fire flickered low.

The photo was still in the drawer.

He opened it, pulled it out again, and stared at Rui’s smiling face.

And for the first time in years…

He hated that he’d let someone matter this much again.

Chapter Text

The door closed behind him with a finality that echoed far louder than it should have.

Rui didn’t run.

He couldn’t.

He just walked — numb, soaked, eyes downcast as the rain painted cold lines across his cheeks. He didn’t know if the wetness on his face was the weather or the tears he hadn’t realized he was still crying.

Torpe’s voice still rang in his ears.
“You let me care about you.”
“You’re going to leave.”
“I’m just a mistake.”

You’re just a mistake.

His heart twisted. No — no, that wasn’t what he wanted. That wasn’t what he meant to become.

But it was what he feared he was.

He didn’t remember how long he walked.

Long enough that the narrow streets turned into fog-laced alleys, and the sounds of the town festival—leftovers from a joy he hadn’t felt—faded behind him.

His boots squelched with every step. He turned corners blindly, passing gas lamps that flickered weakly in the storm. London’s outer districts weren’t kind to strays. He got looks — confused, a little hostile — from those huddled beneath old shop awnings or peering through cracked windows.

He didn’t care.

Eventually, Rui ducked beneath a crumbling stone arch and found a small alley where the overhang of a half-collapsed stable offered meager shelter. It stank of old hay and smoke, but it was dry.

Dry enough.

He sank to the ground, pressing his back to the wall, and curled in on himself.

For the first time in a long time, Rui Kamishiro truly felt like he was back in the end of the world.

He hadn't wanted to tell Torpe.

God, he hadn’t. Not yet. Not when things were still delicate — fragile like those music sheets Torpe always handled with such care. He’d told himself it was to protect Torpe. To make sure he was safe.

But maybe, deep down, he’d just been afraid of being alone again.

Because that was all he’d had — after the Collapse.
The cities falling silent.
The sky turning ash-gray for months.
The plants dying, one by one.
The screaming broadcasts on frequencies that stopped answering.
The silence.
The silence.

He had watched the Earth go cold through the windows of a lab he built too late.

He had seen the last human signal fade from his monitors.

And for two hundred and sixteen days, he hadn’t heard another voice.

Until one day… the machine worked.

And instead of landing in the future — in safety, in hope — he fell backwards. Into a world of horse-drawn carts, steam, and gaslight.

Into Torpe.

He still remembered the first time they’d locked eyes in that smoky pub.

Those sunset-orange eyes. So bright. So wide.

They shouldn’t have looked at him like that.

No one should’ve.

Now, Torpe was alone in that apartment. Probably shaking. Maybe crying. Maybe hating him.

And Rui deserved it.

He hadn’t meant to fall for someone in the past.
He hadn’t meant to start calling this place “home.”
He hadn’t meant to forget what he was supposed to fix.

But Torpe…
Torpe changed everything.

A shiver ran through him. His coat was still soaked. He pulled it tighter, but the cold bit deep, down to his bones.

He’d survived the end of the world. Alone.

But this — this silence, knowing Torpe was still out there and that he’d broken him — this was worse.

The memories wouldn’t stop.

Torpe’s smile in the kitchen while slicing apples for a tart.
The way his eyes softened when he played the piano and thought Rui wasn’t watching.
The little hums. The tilt of his head when he was confused.
The way he looked at Rui like he mattered.

Rui pressed his palms to his eyes and tried not to shake. But he did. His breath hitched. Broke.

He couldn’t go back.

Not yet.

But he didn’t want to leave.

He couldn’t.

A soft sound made him freeze.

Not a voice.

Not footsteps.

Just… something gentle. Like a lull in the rain.

Rui opened his eyes.

Across the alley, a small girl in rags was peeking at him from behind a broken barrel. Maybe six or seven. Her cheeks were smudged with dirt. She held a scrap of cloth in one hand — a blanket, maybe — and stared at him like he was a ghost.

“...Hi,” Rui said, voice hoarse.

She didn’t answer.

But after a second, she crept a little closer.

She held out the cloth.

Rui blinked. “For me?”

She nodded once.

He took it carefully.

It was damp, fraying at the corners, but it was warm. And in the silence, for just a moment, he felt a flicker of something human.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

The girl tilted her head, then turned and disappeared down the alley again, vanishing like mist.

Rui wrapped the cloth around his shoulders.

And for the first time since walking away from Torpe’s door, he allowed himself to hope — just a little — that maybe not all the damage was permanent.

Back at the apartment, Torpe sat by the cold hearth.

He hadn't moved in hours.

His tea had gone untouched.

And every time he closed his eyes, he saw Rui’s face — soaked, wide-eyed, and hurting — as he stepped out the door.

His chest ached.

But even through the pain…

He still wanted him to come back.

Even if he didn’t deserve it.

Chapter Text

The night was colder than Rui expected, the damp air seeping through his threadbare coat like tiny needles. He had wrapped the girl’s cloth tighter around his shoulders, the small kindness like a fragile ember against the chill.

His thoughts spiraled endlessly—Torpe’s words, the look in his eyes, the quiet desperation. He was lost in the fog of his own guilt when the faintest sound made him freeze.

Soft footsteps echoed against the cobblestones, hesitant, almost ghostlike.

At first, Rui thought it was the little girl from before.

But then, two figures emerged from the shadows.

The small girl he recognized immediately—the ragged child from the alley, her dark hair tangled and eyes wide. Beside her was someone else.

A young woman.

Tall, slender, her hair blonde with a faded pink gradient that shimmered softly in the moonlight, and eyes—pink eyes—that reflected something lost and deep.

Rui’s breath caught.

She looks just like Torpe.

The resemblance was impossible to miss—the same delicate jawline, the same slender frame, the same gentle curve of her smile, even if it was clouded by exhaustion and something darker.

Rui stood, cautious.

“Hello,” he said softly, unsure if they would answer.

The little girl stepped forward and smiled shyly, clutching the older woman’s hand.

The woman’s eyes locked onto Rui’s, and for a moment, something fragile flickered there—surprise, confusion.

Rui hesitated, then spoke carefully.

“What’s your name?”

The older woman’s voice was quiet, hesitant. “Saki.”

The name struck him like a thunderclap.

Torpe’s sister.

He swallowed, heart pounding.

“I… I know your brother,” Rui said gently. “Torpe. We live together. He… he cares about you.”

At the mention of the name, Saki’s eyes widened in shock. She stiffened, pulling the little girl closer, her breath hitching. Then, as if something inside her shut down, her gaze dropped, and she said nothing more.

Rui waited, searching for any sign, any words—but the silence stretched, heavy and impenetrable.

“Where did you go? Torpe has been so worried.” Rui asked softly, desperation edging his voice.

Saki shook her head slowly, eyes still averted.

“I—I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I don’t remember.”

The small girl tugged at Saki’s sleeve, and with a sad smile, the older woman looked back at Rui once more.

“I can’t help you,” she said softly, voice fragile as the rain.

And with that, the two disappeared as quietly as they had come, leaving Rui alone under the weeping sky.

Rui sank back against the cold stone wall, heart racing.

The glimpse of Saki—his past—was like a beacon in the dark.

If Torpe’s sister was still out there, even lost and silent, maybe there was hope.

Maybe there was still a way to mend the fractures of the past.

And maybe—just maybe—it was time for him to go back.

To Torpe.

To the fragile life they’d begun to build.

Chapter Text

Back at the apartment, Torpe sat curled in a chair, eyes heavy but unwilling to close.

He didn’t know where Rui was.

He didn’t know if Rui would come back.

But somewhere deep in his chest, a faint pulse of hope flickered.

Torpe hadn’t slept.

The clock in the kitchen ticked too loudly. The room was too quiet. Every shadow stretched long and wrong across the walls, and the storm outside had dulled to a quiet drizzle, as if it were tired too.

But he wasn’t tired.

Just empty.

He sat on the edge of the couch, curled into himself. His newsboy cap rested limp in his lap, crumpled from the way he kept wringing it, twisting it between pale fingers like it might somehow tether him to something real.

He’d said too much.

Too soon.

Too honest.

And Rui had left.

The coat rack still held Rui’s second jacket — the one Torpe had insisted he take when it first got cold. The mug on the table still had the ghost of his fingerprints. And in the corner, the half-built contraption with polished brass tubing and strange glowing coils sat untouched, mid-construction — a puzzle that belonged to Rui, and only Rui.

Torpe had stared at it for hours now.

He didn’t know what it did.

He only knew it made strange noises sometimes. Rui had said it was for something “important.” Something “future-looking.”

Torpe had nodded.

He’d never asked further.
He hadn’t wanted to ask.

Because sometimes he felt, deep down, that if he knew too much — if he asked too many questions — Rui would vanish.

Like everyone else.

He blinked slowly, vision blurring.

His heart ached in a dull, empty rhythm.

Why did I say those things…?

Rui had looked so hurt.

He hadn’t meant to snap. He hadn’t meant to push.

But he was scared.

Terrified, really. Of Rui’s quiet sadness. Of the way he sometimes looked at the stars like he was waiting for them to call him home.

Of the fact that Rui never really talked about where he came from — just vague phrases, vague inventions, vague loneliness.

And Torpe…

Torpe had known that kind of loneliness.

The piano had fallen silent.

He couldn’t touch it. Not tonight. His fingers would shake too much.

Instead, he wandered the apartment in slow circles, like a ghost. He watered the small plant on the windowsill — the one Rui had named Udon for some reason. He folded a dishcloth that was already folded. He stared at the cup Rui had used yesterday and ran his finger around the rim.

Then, with a shaky breath, he sat on the floor by the bed and let himself remember.

Ten years old.

The last time he’d seen Saki.

He’d been holding her hand.

Tightly. Always tightly.

They were supposed to meet their caretaker near the bakery after sunset. Just a short walk, just a busy street, just a little rain.

He’d looked away.

Just for a second.

A shout. A carriage wheel. A flash of pink ribbon in the air.

And she was gone.

Gone into the crowd. Gone into the dark.

No one ever found her again.

And even now, every time Torpe saw a child with pink hair or heard a laugh that sounded close, he had to swallow down the hope.

The hope that never really left.

Just like now, he couldn’t shake the hope that Rui might walk back through the door.

But that hope hurt.

And hope, in Torpe’s world, was dangerous.

It was the beginning of losing.

He curled tighter, drawing his knees up to his chest. His breath hitched.

I shouldn't have told him I care.

Now he’ll never come back.

The next time the wind rattled the shutters, he jumped — heart racing — before realizing it was just the weather.

He stood abruptly and paced to the door. He opened it.

The hallway was empty.

Of course it was.

He closed it again. Slowly.

Then pressed his forehead against it.

“Rui…” he whispered, eyes shut tight. “Please…”

But Rui wasn’t there.

And Torpe didn’t know if he ever would be again.

Chapter Text

The world outside had barely shifted from gray.

A mist had settled in the streets, the kind that dampened sound and pressed tight against the skin, like the city itself had curled in on itself to mourn something unseen.

Torpe hadn't slept. Not really.

The sky had grown lighter, but it wasn’t morning. Not yet.

He sat near the window now, draped in his blanket, knees drawn to his chest. His tea was cold on the table beside him. He hadn’t touched the piano. The apartment was heavy, full of silence. It felt like Rui had never been there at all.

And Torpe… he was beginning to believe it had always been like this.

That’s what I deserve, isn’t it?

He rested his chin on his knees, eyes unfocused.

He hadn’t even cried.

Not yet.

A knock.

Soft.

Once.

Then again — hesitant.

Torpe’s body snapped upright, the blanket falling from his shoulders.

He froze.

Was that—?

He stood up slowly, barefoot, pulse thundering in his ears. The sound came again — barely audible. Not urgent. Not demanding.

Just… there.

He reached the door and hovered, hand shaking over the handle.

Then he opened it.

And the world stopped.

There, in the hallway, stood Rui.

Soaked. Shivering. Hair plastered to his forehead. Clothes damp and stained with street soot. Eyes wide and exhausted — and terrified.

Not of the cold.

But of him.

“Torpe,” Rui breathed.

It wasn’t dramatic. He didn’t fall to his knees. He didn’t rush forward.

He just looked at him, like Torpe was the only steady thing in a world Rui couldn’t understand.

And Torpe —

Torpe stepped back.

He didn’t slam the door.

He just opened it.

Rui entered slowly.

Dripping water onto the wood floor.

He was silent.

Torpe didn’t ask questions.

He moved to the stove instead. Lit it. Quietly made tea. Got a towel. Pressed it into Rui’s hands and stepped back again.

Rui dried off, barely speaking. The towel shook in his fingers.

“I’m sorry,” Rui finally whispered. “I didn’t mean to run.”

Torpe didn’t answer right away. His voice was buried somewhere deep beneath the ice.

“I didn’t mean to push you,” he said quietly, still not looking at him. “But… I can’t pretend I’m not scared.”

“I know,” Rui murmured.

A pause.

Then Torpe asked, without turning, “Where did you go?”

Rui looked down at his hands.

“I was looking for shelter. I didn’t even know where I was going. But someone found me.” He hesitated, breath catching. “A little girl. And… someone else.”

Torpe’s brows furrowed slightly.

“She… she looked like you.”

That made Torpe glance up, eyes narrow.

“Pink-faded hair,” Rui continued, voice rough. “Pink eyes. She said her name was Saki.”

The mug Torpe was holding slipped from his fingers.

It hit the counter and rolled. The sound was dull.

His lips parted.

Rui kept going. Slowly. Gently.

“She didn’t know how you were doing. She… doesn’t remember much. She was scared when I said your name. Shut down.”

“I—” Torpe’s knees wobbled. “That’s… not funny.”

“It’s not a joke.”

“She disappeared nine years ago,” Torpe whispered. “She—she was taken. Or lost. Or worse, and I—I looked, I looked for her for years, Rui, and there wasn’t anything, there were no answers—”

“I know,” Rui said, stepping forward, hand reaching but stopping short. “But I saw her, Torpe. I swear. She’s alive.”

Torpe swayed.

He staggered backward, collapsing into the chair behind him, clutching at his shirt.

His vision blurred.

Nine years.

Nine years of wondering, of guilt, of asking himself what he did wrong. Of feeling like the reason she was gone was him.

And now…

Now Rui stood in front of him, soaked and exhausted, saying the one thing Torpe had never let himself hope.

Saki was alive.

He didn’t speak for a long time.

He just breathed.

Then — finally — he looked up.

“I want to see her.”

Rui’s eyes softened. “I don’t know if she’ll talk to me again. She… she was guarded. But I can try.”

“I want to see her,” Torpe repeated, voice shaking.

And Rui nodded.

The apartment was still quiet.

But it no longer felt like a tomb.

Rui sat near the fire now, changed into dry clothes, blanket draped over his shoulders. Torpe sat on the floor nearby, staring at the flickering flame like it might tell him what to feel.

Neither spoke for a while.

But the distance between them had lessened. Slowly.

Carefully.

Like a bridge being rebuilt.

And eventually, Torpe reached out and tugged Rui’s sleeve, almost childlike.

Rui turned.

“I’m glad you came back,” Torpe whispered, voice so soft it almost didn’t exist.

Rui smiled — just a little.

“I didn’t know how to stay away.”

Chapter Text

The apartment smelled like tea again.

Warm, floral, faintly citrus. Rui wasn’t sure what kind of leaves Torpe used — probably some local blend from the market — but it always made the place feel like home, in a way that Rui had almost forgotten home could feel.

He sat by the small table, watching steam curl from his cup. Across from him, Torpe was busy with something in the kitchen. Something fussy. A soft hum came from his throat, half-conscious, like the melody grounded him.

It was a cloudy morning, the kind Rui used to dread. But today, the gray sky felt quiet instead of sad.

Maybe because I’m not alone.

He turned the cup in his hands.

After the revelation about Saki, after the storm and the fear and the breaking of silence, there was a fragile peace between them now. A space that hadn’t existed before — where they could simply be.

Torpe returned to the table, setting down a small plate.

It was… some sort of bread? Fluffy, golden, slightly uneven. Rui blinked.

“I tried to bake something,” Torpe said, barely above a mumble.

Rui raised a brow. “You bake?”

“I… watched someone do it once.” His cheeks pinked a little. “It might be terrible.”

Rui took a bite.

It was sweet.

A little dense. A little too much nutmeg. But warm.

So warm.

He swallowed, looked up, and smiled. “I like it.”

Torpe ducked his head, visibly flustered, and fiddled with his newsboy cap even though he wasn’t wearing it.

The silence that followed was easy. Companionable.

Comforting.

Later that afternoon, they cleaned together.

It started small — Rui organizing the scattered notes and sketches around his unfinished machine, and Torpe carefully dusting shelves and rearranging books that hadn’t moved in years. At one point, Rui found a smudged drawing tucked into a journal: a pencil sketch of a piano.

Childlike. Lopsided. Sweet.

He turned it around. A name was scrawled in the corner in blocky handwriting: Torpe, age 10.

He didn’t say anything.

Just… smiled.

He slipped it back into the book and placed it on the shelf where it wouldn’t be forgotten.

In the evening, as the lantern light flickered low, they found themselves sitting side by side at the piano.

Torpe hadn’t played in days. His fingers hovered over the keys, unsure.

“You don’t have to,” Rui said gently.

Torpe shook his head. “I want to.”

He started slowly — a soft, trembling note, then another. A lullaby. Old and simple. The kind someone’s mother might hum to them on sleepless nights.

Rui sat still, eyes closed.

The music wrapped around him like a blanket. He didn’t know the tune, but he felt it. In the chest. In the gut. In the space between grief and memory.

And when the piece ended, Rui exhaled.

“You’re incredible,” he murmured.

Torpe flushed crimson, fingers curling into his lap. “I’m… really not.”

“You are,” Rui insisted, softer this time.

They didn’t move.

Not for a while.

Then — without thinking — Rui reached out and gently tugged Torpe’s sleeve.

Their eyes met.

“I’m glad I came back,” Rui said.

Torpe didn’t answer aloud.

He just leaned a little closer.

And let his shoulder rest against Rui’s.

The night came quietly after that.

They washed dishes together — Rui drying, Torpe stacking. They laughed once when the soap made a squeaky poot between their hands. It startled them both, then turned into shy chuckles that faded into fond silence.

By bedtime, something unspoken had settled between them.

Not a declaration.

Not even a confession.

Just a presence.

Steady. Real. Warming the room more than any fireplace could.

That night, in the dark of the bedroom, Rui lay awake.

He stared at the ceiling.

Torpe’s breathing was soft beside him — steady, light, like leaves rustling.

And slowly, as if pulled by gravity, Rui turned to look at him.

The way the moonlight touched Torpe’s face… the softness of it. His lashes. His breath catching on a dream.

He’s beautiful.

Rui’s hand curled against his own chest, holding in something unnamed.

And I’m afraid of what I feel.

But for now, he let it exist — wordless, untouched.

Just like that pale light, falling where the walls had once been.

Chapter Text

The morning light crept slowly through the curtains, casting gentle gold across the room.

Torpe stirred beneath the soft blanket, eyelids fluttering open to the sound of birdsong outside the window. For the first time in a long time, there was no ache pressing down on his chest. Only warmth.

He turned to see Rui lying beside him, peaceful and still, the faintest curve of a smile resting on his lips.

Torpe’s heart fluttered — shy and uncertain, like a delicate bloom pushing through the frost.

Careful not to wake him, Torpe reached out, fingers trembling, and brushed a stray lock of hair from Rui’s forehead.

Rui’s eyes fluttered open, catching Torpe’s gaze.

A small laugh escaped him — soft, breathy, full of disbelief and relief.

“You're so beautiful,” he whispered.

Torpe squeaked, cheeks warming, and then hid his face in the pillow.

Breakfast was slow and shared, every bite tasting better because they ate it together.

Torpe watched Rui’s face light up with every sip of tea, every bite of the fresh bread he’d baked again — this time a little less dense, a little more like hope.

When Rui reached across the table and took Torpe’s hand, their fingers lacing easily, Torpe felt something inside him loosen and stretch.

They didn’t need to say it. They didn’t have to.

The quiet between them was full of promises.

Later, they wandered the small streets of the town, letting the familiar sights soak into their senses.

Torpe, usually shy and reserved, felt bold with Rui by his side.

He laughed when Rui tried to imitate the market vendor’s accent.

Rui smiled whenever Torpe’s eyes brightened at a display of colorful fabrics or fresh fruit.

They stopped by a small flower stall.

Torpe’s fingers brushed softly over a bouquet of lavender and daisies.

Without a word, Rui picked a single bloom — a delicate white flower — and tucked it behind Torpe’s ear.

Torpe blushed fiercely but didn’t pull it away.

As the sun dipped low, casting long shadows, they found themselves sitting on a bench near the river.

Torpe rested his head on Rui’s shoulder.

Rui wrapped an arm around him.

No words were needed.

Just two souls finding their way back to each other — fragile, hopeful, and healing.

That night, wrapped in each other’s arms, they fell asleep with whispered dreams of a future neither dared name aloud yet.

But in that quiet darkness, it didn’t matter.

Because for now, they were home.

Chapter Text

The rain came softly that afternoon, threading silver down the windowpanes.

It made the whole apartment glow — warm, amber, and slow. The kind of day that asked for stillness. That invited the soul to rest.

Rui was stretched out on the couch, hair damp from earlier, sleeves rolled up, his notebook forgotten beside him. Torpe sat nearby, curled in his armchair, half-buried in a soft blanket, reading a well-worn book he barely followed.

The room smelled like chamomile and old wood.

And beneath it all: the steady, quiet pulse between them.

Every time Torpe glanced up, he caught Rui watching him. Not intrusively. Just… looking. Calm. Intent.

It made his chest tight.

And warm.

“Is it a good book?” Rui asked, voice low and playful.

Torpe blinked, caught off guard. “I—uh. I don’t know. I forgot what page I’m on…”

Rui chuckled, soft and knowing. “You’ve been on the same one for ten minutes.”

“I—I haven’t!” Torpe said quickly, pulling his cap down over his eyes.

“You have,” Rui said, standing slowly and stretching, his shirt riding up just slightly at the hem. “You’ve also read the word ‘whisper’ four times.”

“I—I like that word.”

“I like your whisper.”

Torpe nearly choked.

Rui just grinned and walked over, his presence close now — a touch of warmth, all shoulders and quiet confidence. He leaned down, arms resting gently on either side of the armchair, not quite touching.

“You always hide behind that hat when I say things like that,” Rui murmured.

Torpe tugged it down further. “Y-you keep saying things like that!”

“Because they’re true.”

Rui was so close now that Torpe could see the flecks of silver and storm in his eyes. And his smile — it wasn’t teasing. It was soft. Honest.

Torpe’s heart hammered in his ribs.

“You—you’re doing this on purpose…”

“Of course I am,” Rui said, voice gentler now. “I missed you.”

Torpe blinked, eyes wide and fragile.

“I mean it,” Rui continued, quieter. “That night… when we were apart… it was the longest night I’ve lived through in years.”

Torpe slowly lowered his hat, lips parted.

Rui reached up and touched his cheek. Light. Barely a press.

And Torpe leaned into it.

He didn’t even realize it.

Later, curled together on the couch beneath the blanket, Torpe rested with his head on Rui’s chest, ears pink, eyes fluttering open and closed with every heartbeat he felt against him.

“Rui…” he whispered.

“Mhm?”

“D-don’t tease me.”

“I’m not.”

Torpe looked up, cheeks warm.

“You’re really not?” he mumbled, nose brushing against Rui’s jaw.

“I’m really not,” Rui said, threading his fingers gently into Torpe’s hair. “I’ve never been more serious.”

Torpe’s breath caught. “You’re… dangerous when you’re like this…”

Rui chuckled. “Why?”

“Because I’ll stop being scared if you keep holding me like this.”

Rui looked down at him. “Then I’ll never stop.”

They didn’t kiss.

Not yet.

But they almost did — twice.

The second time, it was Torpe who leaned in first… then froze.

And Rui who just smiled, brushing a finger along the edge of his ear before resting their foreheads together.

“I’ll wait,” Rui whispered.

And Torpe, trembling, smiled too.

“Don’t wait too long.”

Chapter Text

It was late.

The rain hadn’t let up, but the storm had dulled to a steady hum, soft and rhythmic against the roof. The apartment was lit by candlelight — gentle, flickering shadows brushing the walls. Warm. Close.

Torpe was sitting on the floor by the low table, cross-legged and wearing Rui’s oversized shirt, sleeves too long, eyes drowsy from the heat and tea and Rui’s nearness. He’d dozed off like that — head tilted, cap askew, mouth just barely open.

Rui sat across from him, elbows on the table, chin resting on his palm.

And he stared.

He couldn’t stop staring.

At the soft curve of Torpe’s cheek.

At the little strand of hair falling over his brow.

At the slow rise and fall of his chest, and the way that shirt slipped just a little off one shoulder.

Rui swallowed.

He hadn’t meant to fall this deep.

But he had.

Every moment spent beside Torpe made the ache worse. Every glance, every nervous smile, every time Torpe blushed and tugged his cap down like it could shield his heart — Rui’s restraint frayed.

And now, in this quiet, golden room, with nothing left between them but unspoken want—

Torpe stirred. His eyes fluttered open, lazy and unfocused.

“…Rui…?” he murmured, voice still thick with sleep.

“Yeah.” Rui’s voice was rougher than usual.

Torpe blinked. “You’re staring…”

“I know.”

A pause.

Torpe sat up a little straighter, rubbing his eyes. The collar of the shirt slipped lower.

Rui’s jaw clenched.

“Is something wrong?” Torpe asked softly.

“No,” Rui said, standing. “No, not wrong. Just…”

He stepped around the table.

Torpe’s breath caught.

Rui knelt before him — slow, deliberate. And his hand reached out, cupped Torpe’s cheek.

“…I can’t keep pretending this doesn’t hurt,” Rui murmured, voice low, tense. “This... space between us. The way you look at me like you want something and then run from it. The way I want to kiss you every second and don’t.”

Torpe’s lips parted. “I—I never said I didn’t want to…”

“You didn’t have to,” Rui said, leaning in.

Their foreheads touched.

“Torpe.”

Torpe’s fingers gripped the hem of Rui’s shirt, trembling. “Y-you’re gonna…”

“I’m done waiting.”

And then Rui kissed him.

Not a brush.

Not a test.

But a kiss.

Hungry. Deep. Full of everything he’d been holding back — the nights alone, the quiet longing, the restrained touches, the aching hope. It was fire and tenderness all at once.

Torpe gasped against his mouth, overwhelmed — his hands scrambling up to Rui’s shoulders like he didn’t know where to put them, like he needed to hold on or fall apart.

Rui’s hand slid into his hair, tilting his head just so.

Torpe made a tiny sound — soft and helpless — and kissed him back.

And kept kissing him back.

They only broke apart when air demanded it.

Torpe’s face was flushed down to his neck, eyes wide and wet, lips red and parted.

“Y-you… you really kissed me,” he whispered.

“I really did.”

“I—Rui, I…”

Rui leaned in again, kissing the corner of his mouth, his cheek, his jaw, just under his ear.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Rui whispered. “Just… don’t run.”

Torpe didn’t.

He reached up, fingers threading through Rui’s hair, face still burning, but eyes steady now.

“I won’t be running,” he murmured. “I promise.”

Chapter Text

Torpe was still breathless, hands pressed against Rui’s chest as if unsure whether to hold him close or push him back — though the way his fingers gripped the fabric said more than his trembling lips could.

He was blushing so hard it looked painful, face flushed down to his collarbones, eyes wide and dazed.

Rui hadn’t moved far, forehead still resting against Torpe’s, lips parted and hungry. His breath was shallow, fingers twitching at Torpe’s jaw.

“I shouldn’t have stopped,” Rui murmured.

Torpe squeaked.

“I—y-you should! You did stop! You should stop!”

“Do you want me to stop then?” Rui asked, voice low, voice knowing.

Torpe bit his bottom lip, glancing away — and Rui could see it. The indecision, the storm behind those sunset orange eyes, flaring like the last light before dusk.

“…Yes!!” Torpe mumbled, barely a whisper. “I-I mean… N-no, not really… No. Don’t.”

That was all Rui needed.

He leaned in again — no hesitation this time — and captured Torpe’s mouth in another kiss.

Deeper.

Slower.

Torpe whimpered softly, melting before he even realized it. His hands fumbled uselessly at Rui’s shoulders, as if trying to keep him at bay, but the way his lips parted, the way he leaned into the touch, betrayed him.

Rui pulled him in by the waist, and Torpe let out a startled sound — half-gasp, half-protest — as he was tugged flush against Rui’s chest.

“You keep doing that,” Torpe breathed, dazed.

“Doing what?” Rui said, lips trailing down the edge of his jaw.

“M-making me forget how to speak…”

“Then don’t speak,” Rui whispered against his neck. “Just feel.”

Torpe’s breath hitched.

“I-I don’t know how to do that either…”

“Yes, you do,” Rui said, kissing just beneath his ear, smiling when Torpe trembled. “You’re already doing it.”

They ended up tangled on the couch, Rui half-lounging with Torpe in his lap — a flustered, stammering mess, face buried in Rui’s chest as if that would somehow protect him from the embarrassment currently consuming his entire being.

“You’re mean,” Torpe mumbled, voice muffled.

“I’m honest,” Rui said, nuzzling into his hair. “You’re just very, very easy to fluster.”

“I am not.”

“You literally just turned the color of a tomato when I kissed your collarbone.”

“Rui!”

“You liked it.”

Torpe whimpered and covered his face with both hands.

“Stop saying stuff like that…”

“Why?” Rui purred.

“Because I’ll melt.”

Rui gently tugged Torpe’s hands away from his face.

“Then melt,” he whispered. “Melt into me. You don’t have to hold yourself together here.”

Torpe blinked up at him, stunned silent.

“…You’re dangerous,” he said again, voice small.

Rui smiled, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. “Only to your defenses.”

Hours passed in pieces — kisses, touches, shared breath. Every time Torpe thought Rui was done, that he’d settled, Rui would murmur something else against his skin — something soft, something devastating — and the heat would return tenfold.

Yet, even with the warmth, the burn, Rui never pushed further than Torpe allowed.

It was a slow undoing. Not of clothes, but of walls.

Of fear.

Of hesitation.

And when the night grew too heavy to hold their voices up any longer, Rui pulled a blanket over them, settled Torpe fully into his arms, and kissed the back of his hand.

“You still okay?” he asked, finally.

Torpe nodded faintly, curling into his chest.

“…I’ve never been more okay,” he whispered.

Chapter Text

Morning passed like honey — slow, golden, and sweet.

Neither of them moved from the couch for hours. Rui had shifted only to pull the blanket higher, wrapping it around Torpe’s shoulders when he shivered, despite the sunlight warming the room.

The air smelled faintly of dried lavender and old parchment. Outside, someone was chopping wood. A dog barked in the distance. All of it felt far away — like it belonged to another world entirely.

Torpe belonged here.

In Rui’s arms.

Still tucked against his chest, legs tangled, his cap long abandoned on the table. His hair was a soft mess, and his face still bore the flush of last night — a red that hadn’t quite faded from his ears no matter how many times he tried to hide.

Rui, smiling faintly, pressed a kiss into his temple.

“You’re quiet this morning,” he murmured.

“I’m always quiet…”

“Mhm. But you’re also fidgety.”

“I’m not—!”

Rui reached for one of Torpe’s hands and gently laced their fingers together.

“You’re shaking,” he whispered. “Are you nervous?”

Torpe looked away. “N-not nervous. Just…”

He paused.

“Thinking.”

“About?”

“…Kissing.”

Rui raised an eyebrow, amused and fond. “Mm?”

Torpe swallowed. “…I want to try.”

That made Rui’s breath catch.

Torpe looked up at him then — all flushed cheeks and sunset-orange eyes full of nervous courage.

“I-I mean… I want to try… starting it.”

Rui tilted his head, his smile shifting into something slower, more dangerous. “Oh?”

Torpe’s ears turned red. “D-don’t look at me like that…”

“Like what?”

“Like y-you’re already planning how to ruin me…”

Rui chuckled, voice velvet. “I’m not. I’m just intrigued.”

He sat up a little, still holding Torpe close but giving him space — barely.

“Go on, then,” he said, voice warm but steady. “Try.”

Torpe bit his lip, hesitated… then leaned in.

And kissed him.

Or — tried to.

It was the most awkward, gentle, stuttering thing Rui had ever experienced. Their noses bumped. Torpe missed his mouth on the first try. His lips trembled so much it was barely a touch.

Then he pulled back, wide-eyed.

“I-I messed it up…”

Rui’s eyes fluttered open.

He stared for half a second.

Then pounced.

Not rough. Not fast. But with intent.

He grabbed the back of Torpe’s neck, leaned in, and kissed him properly — claiming the half-kiss and deepening it with a hum in his throat, until Torpe gasped and practically melted in his arms.

Rui swallowed the sound.

Their mouths moved together — sloppier now, messier, eager. Torpe kept making these tiny little noises, helpless, clinging to Rui’s shirt like he didn’t know what else to do with his hands.

Rui pulled back just far enough to murmur, “Try again.”

Torpe whimpered.

“I-I don’t think I can…”

“You can,” Rui said, licking at the corner of his mouth. “You’re doing better than you think.”

Torpe made a noise somewhere between a protest and a whine, and leaned forward again — nervous and shaky — pressing a kiss to Rui’s lower lip.

It was soft. Hesitant.

But true.

Rui met it. Opened his mouth. Drew him in.

And then it turned needy.

Sloppy.

Hands tugging at fabric.

Breath mixing between them.

Rui murmuring praise between kisses, telling Torpe he was doing so well, that he tasted so good, that he was beautiful when he blushed and pulled away only to kiss again.

Torpe was trembling, face buried in Rui’s shoulder between waves, breath hot and shaky.

“I’m g-going to pass out…”

“You’re fine,” Rui murmured, brushing his lips along Torpe’s ear. “You’re perfect.”

“You’re evil.”

“You like it.”

“Don’t,” Torpe whined, burying his face deeper. “Don’t say things like that…”

But his fingers didn’t let go.

Eventually, they collapsed against each other, worn out from nothing but kissing and laughter and too much heat pressed skin-to-skin. The blanket had half-slid to the floor. Torpe’s shirt had ridden up a little at the side.

Neither of them cared.

“You’ve ruined me,” Torpe mumbled, eyes half-lidded.

“Just catching up,” Rui said with a smug grin.

“You’re never going to let me live this down…”

“Not a chance.”

“…Do it again.”

Rui blinked. “What?”

“Just—shut up and kiss me again before I regret saying that…”

Rui smiled. And kissed him again.

Chapter Text

It started with a kiss.

Well, it always did.

Torpe was pressed against Rui’s chest, wrapped in the blanket like a cocoon, but the moment he tilted his chin up — eyes wide, face flushed, lips trembling like he wanted something but didn’t know how to ask — Rui’s heart broke all over again.

He didn’t wait for permission this time.

He cupped Torpe’s cheek, leaned in, and kissed him softly — slow and deep and full of warmth.

Torpe squealed.

Just a tiny, breathy, helpless noise — “Nnh!!” — muffled into Rui’s lips, as his entire body went stiff with embarrassment.

Rui smiled into the kiss.

“You really do make the cutest sounds,” he whispered.

Torpe covered his face with both hands.

“Rui! Don’t say that! I—I c-can’t help it—!”

“You think I want you to stop?”

“I think you enjoy tormenting me!”

“I do,” Rui agreed. “Very much.”

He leaned forward again, pulled Torpe’s hands away, and kissed him harder.

Torpe whimpered — more open-mouthed this time, less shy. His fingers clenched into Rui’s shirt like he was bracing for impact, and the moment Rui deepened the kiss, coaxing him open with slow, practiced pressure, Torpe melted.

Completely.

They shifted on the couch, the blanket pooling around their legs. Rui moved to straddle slightly, one knee between Torpe’s thighs, his hand sliding behind Torpe’s neck to keep him close.

Their mouths moved together in heated rhythm — sloppy now, wet, needy. Rui’s lips parted wider, tongue flicking gently against Torpe’s lower lip until he gasped, and Rui took that sound — swallowed it whole.

Torpe squeaked again, that high-pitched helpless “mmn!” he always made when he got too flustered — and Rui groaned against his mouth, because God, that sound was going to kill him.

“Don’t hold back,” Rui breathed, trailing kisses along his jaw. “Let me hear you.”

Torpe’s face was scarlet.

“I—I can’t,” he stammered. “I’ll explode…”

“I’ll hold the pieces.”

Rui’s hand slid beneath the back of Torpe’s shirt — just fingertips against bare skin — and Torpe arched into him with a gasp so sweet it nearly undid him.

Their kisses grew sloppier, breathier, more tangled by the second. Torpe tried to match Rui’s pace, but kept getting overwhelmed, breaking off with a soft gasp every few seconds, only for Rui to chase his mouth and kiss him all over again.

It was endless.

And intoxicating.

The kind of kissing that left both of them breathless, dizzy, eyes half-lidded with want.

When they finally broke apart, panting, Rui leaned his forehead against Torpe’s, both of them flushed and trembling.

Torpe was still making those tiny, shy noises — half-squeaks, half-whimpers — unable to look Rui in the eye.

“I—my heart’s going to fall out of my mouth,” he whispered, voice breaking.

“Then I’ll kiss it back in,” Rui murmured, brushing his nose along Torpe’s. “You taste like sunlight.”

Torpe let out the smallest, most pathetic whimper Rui had ever heard.

And Rui kissed him again.

Not deep this time. Just soft. Lingering. Like he wanted to memorize every inch of him by feel.

“…Do you know,” Rui whispered, “that I’ve never wanted anything more than this?”

Torpe blinked, dazed.

“…Me?”

“You.”

Torpe let out a slow breath — shaky, unsure, but soft around the edges.

“…Even though I squeal like a kettle and kiss like a deer trying to do math?”

“You kiss like someone who’s never been kissed properly before,” Rui said, brushing a hand through Torpe’s messy hair. “Which makes it perfect. I want every version of you.”

Torpe curled into him, nose buried against Rui’s collar.

“…You’re really bad for my health,” he mumbled.

“Then I hope you never recover,” Rui murmured.

Chapter Text

Torpe sat at the window.

Sunlight played across the old wooden table beside him, dust dancing in gold. The room smelled of morning bread, faint coffee, and Rui's cologne — a strange, comforting mix that shouldn’t have felt like home, and yet did.

But Torpe’s eyes didn’t see any of it.

They were fixed on the garden, quiet and still.

His hands, which had so easily clung to Rui’s shirt the night before, were now folded in his lap, thumb nervously stroking over the other.

Rui watched him from across the room, still barefoot, still warm from bed, an unreadable look in his eyes.

It had been hours since he said it.

“She’s alive.”

Just those two words. And Torpe had frozen.

Now, he still hadn’t moved.

“Torpe,” Rui said softly.

Torpe turned slowly, eyes wide and hesitant.

His voice came out small. “Where is she?”

Rui came to him, crouching in front of the window seat, resting his hand over Torpe’s.

“She came with the little girl who found me. They were just outside the edge of town.”

Torpe’s breath caught.

“...What did she look like?”

Rui studied him. “She looked like you. Same shape to her eyes, but… pink. Faded pink at the tips of her hair, too. Like she had the sunset in her blood, like you.”

Torpe’s lashes trembled.

“That’s her,” he whispered. “That’s my Saki.”

Rui stayed silent, letting the truth settle.

A decade of silence.

A decade of if onlys.

Torpe’s grip tightened on Rui’s hand.

“Did she say anything about me?” he asked, barely audible.

“She…” Rui hesitated. “When I said your name, she shut down. Wouldn’t talk about it.”

Something broke in Torpe’s face.

He looked down. Shoulders shaking.

“I knew it,” he murmured, voice cracked. “I knew she would forget me. I knew it. I knew I wasn’t—wasn’t good enough to protect her—”

“Stop,” Rui said, more firmly this time, catching his chin and lifting his gaze. “She didn’t forget you.”

“Then why—?”

“She’s scared, Torpe. Just like you were. Whatever happened when you lost her—she’s still carrying it.”

Torpe’s eyes filled, but he blinked rapidly, refusing to let tears fall.

He looked like a boy and a broken violin at once.

“She was nine,” he whispered. “And I was just ten. We were playing in that field. I turned around for one second—and she was gone.”

The words shook as they came, years of silence breaking like glass.

“I screamed for her until my voice gave out. I—I thought maybe she drowned in a nearby river, or someone took her, or—” His voice caught. “I thought she died hating me.”

Rui pulled him forward and wrapped his arms around him, holding him close, letting him shake.

“You never stopped looking,” he murmured.

“I stopped believing,” Torpe said, barely breathing. “Until you.”

That evening, they walked.

Hand in hand.

Torpe’s grip was tighter than usual.

They reached the meadow near the forest’s edge — the place Rui had first met her.

But no sign of the girls.

Only breeze through tall grass, swaying trees, and the chirp of hidden birds.

“She’s not here,” Torpe whispered.

“She’ll come back,” Rui said gently. “She comes and goes with the girl. They gather herbs. We can wait.”

Torpe nodded, though disappointment flickered in his face like a cloud over the moon.

Rui pulled him down into the grass. They sat side by side, Torpe’s hand still clinging.

“If she doesn’t remember me,” Torpe whispered, “you’ll still stay, right?”

Rui looked at him.

“Of course I will.”

Torpe blinked hard. “Even if I—if I get worse again?”

“You don’t have to earn being loved, Torpe.”

The boy flinched.

But he nodded.

The sun dipped lower. The shadows stretched longer.

They waited.

And they’d wait again tomorrow.

Chapter Text

The third day came, and Saki didn’t return to the outskirts of the town, where Rui had seen her.

Nor the fourth.

Torpe paced.

Not aimlessly, not in circles — but in patterns that made Rui’s chest ache to watch. He wasn’t really walking. He was breaking, in measured steps across the worn wooden floors of their shared little home.

“She should’ve come back by now,” Torpe murmured for the seventh time that morning.

Rui looked up from where he sat, hands idle, project untouched. “Maybe she’s just gone farther this time. It doesn’t mean—”

“I know, I know,” Torpe snapped — then instantly flinched. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to yell.”

Rui stood. Walked to him. “You didn’t yell.”

But Torpe’s hands were already fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, a nervous habit that had returned overnight.

“She heard my name,” he said quietly. “She heard my name and she ran.”

“She froze, Torpe. Not ran.”

“She disappeared!”

Rui reached for his hand. Torpe let him take it, but his grip was loose.

“She’s just a girl,” Rui said softly. “Just like you were a boy when she vanished. Maybe she’s scared. Maybe she doesn't know how to come back. Maybe this is hard for her, too.”

Torpe stared down at the floor. His voice came tiny.

“Or maybe she doesn’t want to come back.”

Rui stepped closer.

“That’s not true.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I saw her face.”

Torpe didn’t speak. His throat moved like he wanted to say something, but the words never came.

That night, Torpe didn’t come to bed.

He sat by the hearth, knees drawn up to his chest, staring into the dying fire.

Rui didn’t say anything. He just brought him a blanket. And curled up beside him.

They didn’t touch. But Rui’s presence was enough — steady, quiet, there.

Torpe finally spoke just before the fire burned to embers.

“I dreamed of her every year on her birthday,” he whispered. “I’d sit by the river and imagine her coming back. I used to plan what I’d say. How I’d apologize. How I’d… I don’t know. Fix it.”

Rui’s voice was barely audible. “You were a child.”

“I should’ve held her hand tighter.”

“That’s not how the world works.”

Torpe finally looked at him.

His eyes were hollowed by guilt and hope wrapped into one.

“I want her to remember me.”

“She will.”

“I want her to still be… mine,” he said, and his voice cracked. “My sister. Not just someone who used to be.”

Rui gently leaned his forehead against Torpe’s.

“She never stopped.”

The fifth day came.

The sixth.

No sign.

Torpe stopped eating full meals. He picked at food like it offended him. His nerves stayed tight, taut like piano strings wound too hard.

By the seventh morning, he didn’t speak at all.

Rui found him outside, sitting in the dew-damp grass near the edge of the path. Barefoot. Cap off. Just staring into the trees.

The wind tousled his dark hair, his expression unreadable.

Rui sat beside him, not asking questions.

A long silence passed before Torpe’s voice whispered:

“What if she’s happy without me?”

Rui looked over. “Would that make you love her any less?”

“…No.”

“Then you let her decide when she’s ready.”

Torpe swallowed.

And nodded.

But his fingers trembled as they reached for Rui’s.

Chapter Text

It happened on the ninth day.

Torpe had just told Rui he was done waiting.

“I can’t keep staring at the road,” he whispered, shoulders curled in like folded wings. “It’s hurting more than it helps. I’d rather forget again.”

Rui didn’t argue.

He only offered his coat, and said gently, “Then come walk with me.”

The wind was cool that morning, brushing over the hills like a song unsung. They took the long trail east, past the hollow where Torpe used to pick wildflowers for his sister. Past the creek they once jumped over, hand-in-hand, boots flying. Past the faded tree carved with the letter T — a memory Rui never asked about, but often wondered over.

They came upon the wild grove near the cliff’s edge, where the view of the valley sprawled below in endless waves of green.

Torpe stopped.

Rui nearly bumped into him.

Because she was standing there.

At the tree’s base.

Her.

She had her back turned — kneeling, collecting something small and white from the earth.

Then she turned.

The world froze.

For a second, she looked at Rui.

Then past him.

To the boy standing behind.

And everything in her face broke.

Torpe didn’t breathe.

Her voice — older now, but still small, still unmistakably hers — came out like a breeze trembling through leaves:

“…Torpe?”

His knees buckled.

She dropped the flowers in her hands.

And ran to him.

It wasn’t elegant.

She hit him with a force that nearly toppled them both, arms flung around his neck like she was still that little girl — and maybe, for a moment, she was.

Torpe’s hands trembled as they wrapped around her.

“Saki,” he choked. “Saki—Saki—I thought you were—”

“I looked for you,” she whispered, her own voice thick and broken. “They took me—some people—they said you were dead—”

“I never stopped—” His words collapsed into sobs, forehead pressed to her shoulder. “I thought you hated me—”

“I never—never—”

The sun warmed the clearing, soft and golden.

Rui stepped back.

Let them be two halves finding each other again.

They sat on the grass together later — Saki between them, holding her brother’s hand like if she let go, he’d vanish again.

She told them what happened.

How she had wandered farther from the river that day. How she’d gotten lost. How strangers had found her and taken her in — kind, but distant. A small traveling group of survivors. She’d learned to survive. But not to forget.

“I remembered your birthday every year,” she said softly, picking at the hem of her sleeve. “I used to hum that song you made up. The one about cherry pie and us being tiny stars.”

Torpe sniffed. “You hated that song.”

“I loved that song,” she corrected with a soft laugh. “I just didn’t want you to know.”

Rui smiled quietly from the side, chin resting in his hand.

The ache inside Torpe — the one that had burned for nearly ten years — finally started to ease.

He leaned his head against her shoulder.

She leaned back.

Later, when Saki and the girl she traveled with had gone back toward their camp, promising to return again tomorrow, Torpe and Rui walked home under the weight of something impossibly light.

Rui glanced sideways.

“You alright?”

Torpe didn’t answer.

Not for a long time.

Then:

“…I feel like I can breathe again.”

Rui smiled faintly.

Torpe added, almost shyly:

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For… everything.” He looked down. “If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have ever known she was alive.”

Rui stopped walking.

And Torpe turned just in time to catch the look on his face.

That soft, aching wonder in his eyes.

“I’m glad I came here,” Rui said, voice low.

Torpe flushed pink. “You… came here by accident, though, didn’t you?”

Rui froze for just a second.

“…Yeah,” he said slowly. “An accident.”

But Torpe’s eyes stayed on him a moment longer, suspicious, lips pursed.

Something in him almost asked.

But instead…

He smiled.

Just a little.

And reached for Rui’s hand again.

Chapter Text

Torpe had not stopped smiling since Saki’s return.

It wasn’t the full-beam smile Rui had seen glimpses of — the rare, heart-pounding thing that stole his breath. This was quieter. Softer. As if the tension that had pulled at Torpe’s edges for nearly a decade had finally released, letting him rest in his own skin again.

Saki visited every day now, often dragging Torpe out of the house for long walks and aimless conversations. She laughed louder than he did, and teased him easily, even as she occasionally glanced at Rui with something more curious behind her eyes.

And on the sixth morning of her return, as Torpe fumbled with pouring tea at the kitchen table, she finally asked.

“So…” she said, stretching the word with a mischievous smirk.

Torpe glanced up. “So… what?”

She didn’t answer right away.

She simply leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingers interlaced under her chin.

“I’ve been wondering something.”

Rui, seated on the windowsill nearby and tinkering with what looked like the disassembled remains of an old metal compass, tilted his head, half-listening.

Torpe poured milk into Saki’s cup, distracted. “What?”

She didn’t blink. “Are you and Rui together?”

Torpe’s hand jerked.

The spoon clattered to the floor.

Saki grinned.

Torpe made a high-pitched squeaking noise and immediately ducked to the floor, frantically retrieving the spoon and hiding behind the table like it could save him.

Rui blinked.

“…Pardon?”

Saki’s smirk only widened. “Oh no, I saw that face. That’s not a ‘No, don’t be silly’ reaction. That’s a ‘Saki, how do you know’ reaction.”

Torpe peeked over the edge of the table, face beet red, his newsboy cap pulled down almost over his nose. “Wh-What are you talking about?! That’s—That’s ridiculous! W-Why would you even—?!”

“Oh come on,” she laughed, taking a sip of tea like nothing had happened. “You light up like a lantern every time he walks into the room. And don’t think I haven’t noticed you bump into furniture more when he’s nearby.”

“I—! That’s not—! Rui—say something!!” Torpe shot a mortified look toward the scientist.

Rui looked like he wanted to melt into the wall. His ears were pink.

“I…” Rui blinked at Saki. “He does bump into things a lot…”

Torpe made a noise like a kettle boiling and dropped back behind the table.

Saki just giggled.

“Oh my God,” she grinned. “You like him.”

“I hate you!” came Torpe’s muffled voice.

“You love me.”

“I changed my mind.”

Later that day, after Saki had left and Torpe had finally peeled himself off the floor, he sat on the edge of the bed, hands buried in his lap, still pink.

Rui leaned against the doorframe.

He smiled faintly. “She’s… sharp.”

Torpe groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Too sharp.”

There was a pause.

Then Rui stepped closer. Quietly. Calmly.

He knelt in front of him.

Torpe looked up, startled.

“Hey,” Rui said softly. “She’s not wrong.”

Torpe’s breath caught.

“I mean,” Rui continued, suddenly flustered himself. “If—If she is. I just. I want to be honest. I do—like you. A lot. And I know we haven’t really said it out loud, but… if that’s something you want—”

Torpe suddenly grabbed the front of Rui’s shirt.

And buried his face into his shoulder.

Rui blinked, startled — then smiled.

He wrapped his arms around him, slow and sure.

“…Okay,” Rui whispered into his hair. “We don’t have to say it. I get it.”

A tiny squeak of agreement.

And then silence, warm and full, as they sat together with no more questions left between them.

Chapter Text

It happened because Rui forgot to lock the basement.

He always did.

But this time, he was distracted. His thoughts had been trailing Saki’s lingering presence, Torpe’s flustered grip on his shirt, the growing warmth between them. And in his chest, a low humming ache — what happens if he can’t stay?

He didn’t notice Torpe heading downstairs with a basket of blankets.

He didn’t notice the door creak open.

Didn’t hear the soft gasp when Torpe stepped into the low-lit room.

And saw it.

The machine.

Half-covered in an old sheet, glowing faintly from underneath.

Torpe’s hands tightened on the basket.

It was unlike anything he’d ever seen — a box-shaped thing with a surface like dark glass, blinking with faint, pulsing light. Metallic limbs curled along the walls like skeletal arms. Strange instruments. Floating panels of color suspended in midair, flickering.

The air hummed.

And Torpe, equal parts terrified and fascinated, dropped the basket and stepped closer.

“…What are you?” he whispered.

A soft chime responded.

Torpe flinched.

One of the screens flashed. A sudden flicker — images, moving too quickly to process. A forest. Then gone. A city, blackened and hollow. Smoke. Ash. Then — people. No. Bodies. Strewn like toys after a storm. Buildings split down the middle like cracked porcelain.

Then silence.

Then Rui’s voice.

Not live.

Not here.

Recorded.

“Log Entry #1142.

No contact for 87 days. Atmospheric levels stable.

Still no signs of life.

Still alone.”

Torpe stepped back.

The voice was hollow. Too calm. Too tired.

His chest tightened.

Another recording played.

“I remember when the skies went black. First over the oceans. Then the coasts. It was slow, like watching the world drown in reverse.

I was the only one who made it underground.

I didn’t realize that meant I was the last.”

Torpe’s hand shook.

There were other recordings — pages of notes written in Rui’s handwriting. Screens showing projections, dates in numbers he didn’t recognize. One blinking panel read:

TIME DISPLACEMENT ENGINE: OFFLINE.
STASIS CYCLE COMPLETE.
UNSTABLE TEMPORAL SIGNATURE DETECTED.

And suddenly the words Rui had never said made too much sense.

Torpe stumbled back.

Hit the wall.

And froze.

Because Rui was standing at the top of the stairs.

“…Torpe?”

His voice was soft.

Small.

Torpe couldn’t speak.

His heart pounded like thunder in his chest.

“You—” Torpe’s voice cracked. “Y-You were alone.”

Rui descended slowly.

“I—”

“You were the last one,” Torpe whispered, eyes wide. “You—your world—there’s—there’s nothing left, is there?”

Rui stopped at the foot of the stairs.

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

Torpe covered his mouth.

Everything Rui had kept quiet suddenly crashed in like a flood.

The gadgets. The silence. The way Rui sometimes stared at the sky like he didn’t trust it to stay blue. The way he touched things — people — Torpe — like they were too fragile. Too precious.

Because they were gone where he came from.

“…Why didn’t you tell me?” Torpe’s voice trembled.

“I didn’t want you to look at me like that,” Rui whispered.

Torpe blinked. “Like what?”

“Like I’m broken.”

Torpe’s breath caught.

But then — without thinking — he stepped forward.

Arms around Rui.

Tight.

“I’m not scared of you,” he said fiercely into Rui’s shoulder. “Not even if you’re from the future, a dead world. Not even if you’ve seen everything end. I’m still not scared of you.”

Rui’s hands clenched.

And then he buried his face into Torpe’s neck and broke.

Years of silence. Of holding it in. Of being the last voice in a world gone mute.

Now undone by one boy with sunset-orange eyes and a heart far too soft for this world.

Chapter Text

The night was quiet, thick with the scent of rain. Torpe sat cross-legged on the rug near the fireplace, fingers curled around a chipped porcelain mug filled with something warm Rui had called synthetic cocoa.

He wasn’t sure what that meant, but it was sweet and rich and made his stomach feel like a soft pillow.

Rui sat beside him, cross-legged as well, sleeves pushed up, hands smudged with soot and wire residue. A dull silver device rested between them, round and glassy like a snow globe — except this one hummed, pulsing faintly in time with Rui’s heartbeat.

“…What does it do?” Torpe asked, voice hushed.

Rui glanced at him, then smiled.

“It’s called a holosphere,” he said, tapping the glass. “Watch.”

A low whir answered.

Then a flicker.

A shimmer of light swelled from the device’s center — hovering in the air, gathering shape. Torpe’s eyes widened as a city bloomed above the orb, cast in hazy blue light. Towers too tall to be real. Roads that moved. Lights that shimmered from walls instead of lamps.

“Is that—?”

“My city,” Rui said quietly. “Before.”

Torpe blinked up at it, breath caught in his throat. It was beautiful. Surreal. Like something from a dream.

“It looks…” Torpe’s voice trailed off. “Are those—trains in the sky?”

Rui chuckled softly. “Maglevs. Magnetic rails. Fastest way to get across the districts.”

Torpe stared.

“But,” Rui added, his tone softening, “you couldn’t open your windows anymore. The air was too poisoned. And by the end, the lights were mostly emergency signals.”

Torpe looked at him.

“…Were you scared?”

A pause.

Rui’s smile dimmed.

“I think I was past scared by then. It was more like… waiting to disappear.”

Torpe’s hand inched closer.

Until their fingers brushed.

Rui blinked down.

Then turned his hand and gently threaded their fingers together.

“…But then,” Rui said, quieter, “the machine didn’t take me to safety. It took me to you.”

Torpe’s face lit up with color.

He made a small noise and hid his face behind his mug.

Rui laughed.

“Don’t hide. I like seeing your face.”

Torpe squealed softly.

“Rui!” he hissed.

“I mean it.”

There was a pause. A long one.

The city projection flickered, then shifted — changing to something smaller. A photograph. No… a memory.

A group of people. Laughing. Sitting in a circle. Rui was in the background, younger, with longer hair and a white lab coat far too small for his frame.

Torpe pointed. “Is that… you?”

Rui nodded.

“My team. Back at the research dome. We were trying to figure out how to undo everything before it collapsed.”

“…Did you?”

“No,” Rui said softly. “But we tried until the very end.”

Torpe’s hand squeezed his gently.

And Rui looked at him — really looked — like he was memorizing every inch of his expression.

“I used to think there was nothing left for me. No one left. But now I…” He swallowed. “I think you’re my second chance, Torpe.”

Torpe’s heart fluttered.

“…Even if I don’t understand your world?”

“You don’t have to,” Rui said. “You understand me. That’s more than anyone ever did.”

Torpe’s lip trembled.

He set his mug down shakily.

Then shifted closer — just enough that their shoulders touched.

“…Will you show me more?” he asked quietly.

Rui turned to him.

“Anything you want.”

Later, in the comfort of firelight and half-lit ghosts of the future floating above them, Torpe fell asleep curled against Rui’s side, head on his shoulder.

Rui didn’t move.

Didn’t even breathe for a long moment.

Because for the first time in years, he felt it:

Hope.

Not the kind from machines or predictions.

But the kind made of warm mugs, trembling smiles, and shy boys with sun-bright eyes who chose to stay.

Chapter Text

The mornings had softened.

The sun dripped in warm puddles across the wood floors, dust dancing through the air like quiet snow. Torpe stirred slowly on the couch, arms curled around the pillow Rui had used the night before. It still smelled like him—something faintly clean and metal-sharp, but warm.

He yawned softly.

Then stretched.

Across the room, Rui was tinkering at the workbench. Not with anything glowing or menacing—just a tiny device the size of an apple, with gold-thread wires and a faint pulsing light. He was humming under his breath. Something soft. Melodic.

Torpe sat up slowly and hugged his knees.

“…You hum when you’re focused,” he mumbled.

Rui turned. “You’re awake.”

“You hum,” Torpe repeated, eyes a little sleep-soft.

Rui smiled. “It’s an old song. Something we used to play in the labs to stay sane during late shifts.”

Torpe tilted his head.

“…Will you teach it to me?”

That caught Rui off guard.

He blinked. “You want to learn a song from the future?”

Torpe nodded, sleepy and sure.

“I want to know more about what’s in your head.”

Rui’s smile turned soft. Surprised. Like it still shocked him that someone wanted to know him for him.

“…I’ll play it for you,” he said.

And he did.

Later, with the projector orb on the floor and Torpe curled beside him, Rui conjured the soft, luminous piano of the melody he'd been humming. Torpe closed his eyes, fingers brushing the ghostly projection of keys in the air.

“I can’t read this kind of notation,” he mumbled, squinting at the future-coded symbols.

“I’ll translate it,” Rui said. “You’ll pick it up.”

Torpe peeked up at him through his lashes.

“You always act like I can do anything.”

“You can,” Rui said simply. “Even if you hide behind your cap when you get flustered.”

Torpe let out a tiny, embarrassed noise and shoved his face into Rui’s shoulder.

“That’s mean.”

Rui laughed softly. “It’s the truth.”

Torpe mumbled something unintelligible into Rui’s shirt.

“Say that again?”

“I like that you believe in me,” Torpe muttered quickly, ears bright red.

Rui froze for a moment.

Then gently leaned into the contact.

“…I like that you’re here,” he whispered.

Torpe squeaked. Rui chuckled and pulled him closer.

They stayed like that—half on the floor, tangled in a half-blanket and the fading projection of Rui’s melody from another world—until the room was gold with afternoon light.

Later that evening, after a shared dinner and a very clumsy attempt at future card games (Torpe lost spectacularly and pouted for twenty full minutes), they found themselves tucked together on the small couch, one blanket shared, legs a little tangled.

“Rui,” Torpe whispered.

“Mm?”

“…What were your nights like? Before you came here?”

Rui went quiet for a long moment.

Then: “Quiet. Too quiet. I had machines talking to me, but it wasn’t the same. I missed human voices. Laughing. Breathing.”

Torpe shifted, laying his head against Rui’s shoulder.

“…You don’t have to be quiet anymore.”

Rui turned his head just slightly.

Torpe was blushing.

But his fingers slipped into Rui’s hand anyway, threading them together without a word.

“…Thank you,” Rui whispered.

They sat like that for what felt like forever.

And Torpe, still easily flustered but braver than he used to be, whispered into Rui’s neck:

“Sing that song again. The one you hummed this morning.”

Rui smiled.

And he did.

Chapter Text

The air smelled like spiced cider and pine.

The lanterns strung across the square glowed in gold and amber hues, lighting the cobbled streets like a ribbon of captured stars. Laughter echoed between buildings, and the faint sound of fiddles drifted in from the makeshift stage at the town’s center.

Torpe adjusted his cap nervously.

He wasn’t drunk this time.

He was very aware of that.

“Does it… feel strange?” he asked Rui softly, eyes scanning the crowd.

Rui turned to him, scarf pulled loosely around his neck. “What?”

“Being around so many people again.”

Rui considered it.

Then smiled faintly. “I don’t think I mind it, if you’re here.”

Torpe blushed instantly. “You can’t just say things like that.”

“I can,” Rui said simply. “And I will.”

Before Torpe could properly hide his face, Rui leaned down and gently adjusted his cap, pulling it back just enough to see his eyes.

“There. Don’t hide those.”

Torpe squeaked and muttered something about cider stands before walking off quickly, ears red.

They weaved through the festival crowd together. The atmosphere was cozy, warm. Children chased each other between booths, and elders sat with mugs and music, heads bobbing to the rhythm.

For a while, things were easy.

Until they weren’t.

It happened near the pie stall.

Rui had wandered a few steps ahead, distracted by an intricate device someone was selling—something clockwork, with faint ticking and brass fittings. He bent over it, intrigued.

Torpe hung back.

Until she arrived.

She had sharp eyes, a confident stride, and curls pinned up like she was the lead actress in a theater play. She swept over to Rui without hesitation, heels clicking, voice honey-sweet.

“Well, you’re not from around here,” she purred, smiling. “Let me guess—traveler? Inventor? Or just very, very lost?”

Rui looked up, startled but polite. “Something like that.”

She touched his arm lightly.

“Careful. Men like you don’t last long in these towns without someone to… guide them.”

Torpe felt his stomach drop.

Rui didn’t pull away.

Not immediately.

He smiled—just a little, the kind of smile he used when people didn’t know him—and said something Torpe couldn’t hear.

Torpe turned.

Walked away.

He didn’t even think about it. His legs just moved.

The sound of laughter and music faded, like he was underwater.

All he could hear was his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.

He’ll leave.

The thought hit him like a stone.

Why wouldn’t he? That woman was pretty. Confident. She probably knew how to kiss without squealing like an idiot. She wasn’t afraid of crowds. Or shadows. Or saying what she wanted.

Torpe ducked into a quiet alley behind one of the booths, breathing hard.

He pressed a hand to his chest.

Tried to breathe slower.

He won’t leave. He said he wouldn’t.

But people always said things they didn’t mean.

People disappeared.

People vanished.

And even when they said “I’ll be right back,” sometimes they never came at all.

Like Saki.

Like his parents.

Torpe’s eyes burned.

He sank down against the stone wall, knees hugged tight to his chest.

He didn’t even notice Rui until—

“Torpe?”

Torpe jerked his head up.

Rui stood at the alley’s edge, looking concerned. Behind him, the woman from earlier was nowhere in sight.

“I was looking everywhere for you,” Rui said softly. “Why did you run off?”

Torpe turned his face away.

“I didn’t run.”

“You did.”

Torpe was quiet.

“…I saw you,” he mumbled.

Rui blinked. “Saw me…?”

“With her.”

A pause.

Rui knelt down, slow and careful.

Torpe refused to look at him.

“She was touching your arm,” Torpe said quietly. “You smiled at her.”

“I smiled because she was selling stolen tech schematics and I needed to distract her long enough to grab a piece,” Rui said flatly.

Torpe blinked.

Rui held up a small, glowing chip. “Stole it back. She wasn’t very observant.”

A beat passed.

“…Oh.”

Torpe felt very stupid.

And very small.

“…Still,” he whispered. “You didn’t push her away.”

Rui’s expression softened.

He reached out slowly.

Touched Torpe’s cheek.

Torpe didn’t flinch. But his lips trembled.

“I didn’t push her away,” Rui said softly, “because I knew you were watching. And I needed you to see that I wasn’t interested.”

“…I didn’t.”

“I know,” Rui whispered. “But that’s not your fault. That’s just… the fear.”

Torpe stared at him.

“Will you leave me?” he asked suddenly. Voice small. Childlike.

Rui didn’t answer right away.

He sat down beside Torpe.

Then wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

“No,” he said. “I won’t leave you.”

Torpe leaned into him.

Slowly.

“…Even if I get jealous over stupid things?”

“Especially then.”

Torpe closed his eyes.

“…I hate how scared I am.”

“I don’t,” Rui murmured. “It means your heart still works.”

They stayed there in the alley until the music faded, and the lanterns began to flicker out one by one.

Chapter Text

The quiet of the alley wrapped around them like a blanket.

Torpe didn’t move for a long time. Not even to adjust his cap, which had slipped sideways when Rui pulled him into that gentle, one-armed hug. His face was pressed to Rui’s shoulder, half-hiding, but not because he wanted to disappear—more because the weight in his chest made it hard to lift his head.

Rui said nothing.

He just… stayed.

And that silence, that patience, was louder than any promise.

Eventually, Torpe’s voice broke the stillness.

“…I know I overreacted.”

“You didn’t,” Rui said without hesitation.

Torpe frowned into Rui’s coat.

“I did. I panicked over nothing, and—”

“You panicked because you’ve been abandoned,” Rui murmured. “Because people have left. You’ve learned to run before they can.”

Torpe blinked.

“…You noticed that?”

Rui exhaled, soft and warm.

“I live with you, Torpe. I see how you freeze when someone turns their back. I see how tightly you cling to the little things. Your teacup. Your coat. Your piano. Me.”

Torpe let out a small, fragile laugh.

“That’s embarrassing.”

“It’s human.”

Torpe went quiet again. Then, after a long pause:

“Did you mean it? That you’re not going to leave?”

Rui shifted so he could meet Torpe’s gaze, hand brushing Torpe’s fringe aside. Their eyes met in the dimness—sunset orange against faintly misted blue.

“I meant every word.”

“…Okay,” Torpe whispered.

He didn’t say more.

But he leaned into Rui more fully, arms curling lightly around Rui’s middle.

For once, Rui didn’t hesitate. He wrapped both arms around the boy in his arms and pressed his chin to the top of Torpe’s head.

They stayed like that—unmoving, tucked together under the festival’s distant hum. A pocket of stillness in a world full of noise.

When they did finally stand, the stars had shifted. The crowd outside the alley had thinned a little, and the music was gentler now—something slower, with strings and the rhythmic tap of shoes on stone.

Rui offered a hand.

Torpe took it.

“Do you… want to go back?” Rui asked softly.

Torpe nodded.

“Only if we stay close.”

Rui squeezed his fingers.

“We’ll stay as close as you want.”

The festival wasn’t so loud anymore. Lamps still flickered overhead, and couples danced lazily under the soft light. A few vendors were still open, mostly sweets and cider now.

Rui steered them toward a quieter corner where musicians played without words.

Torpe leaned into him.

“…Will you dance with me?” he asked, so quietly Rui barely heard it.

He turned, surprised.

“You want to dance?”

“No,” Torpe said, red-faced. “But I want you. So I’ll dance. Just this once.”

Rui smiled.

He took Torpe’s hand.

No one watched them as they swayed at the edge of the square. The music wasn’t perfect, and their steps were far from graceful—but they moved like they had all the time in the world.

And maybe, just maybe, Torpe began to believe he wasn’t dancing alone anymore.

Just like the first festival they spent together.

Chapter Text

The music began to fade as the night deepened. The last song drifted across the square like a lullaby, slow and sweet, a gentle violin tune that swayed like the breeze. The festival crowd had thinned until only lovers and late-night wanderers remained, trailing laughter and candlelight behind them.

Rui and Torpe didn’t leave right away.

They sat again, this time on a low stone wall near a sleepy cider booth. Torpe leaned into Rui’s side, his fingers still curled loosely in Rui’s scarf. His cheeks were warm, his cap tilted just enough to show his glowing orange eyes. He hadn’t stopped blushing since the dance.

Rui didn’t point it out.

He liked the warmth too much.

“You didn’t squeal this time,” Rui murmured teasingly.

Torpe immediately turned his face away, flustered. “D-Don’t say that!”

“You didn’t,” Rui said again, smirking just a little.

Torpe buried his face in Rui’s shoulder with a helpless groan. “You ruin everything.”

“I’m cherishing it.”

“You’re teasing me.”

“That too.”

But the way Rui’s fingers gently smoothed through Torpe’s hair told another story. His touch was delicate. Reverent. Like someone holding something rare and breakable.

Torpe peeked up at him after a moment, eyes soft.

“…Why are you looking at me like that?”

Rui didn’t answer right away.

He just smiled.

And said, “Wait here.”

Before Torpe could protest, Rui stood up and stepped into the darker side streets beyond the square, vanishing into the thin mist curling between stone walls.

Torpe blinked.

“…Rui?”

But he was gone.

Ten minutes passed.

Torpe sat alone under a paper lantern shaped like a swan, kicking his legs nervously. He almost got up to look for Rui—almost. But something told him to wait. The warmth Rui left behind still lingered in his scarf, and in the faint indentation on the wall beside him.

Then he heard footsteps.

Soft ones. Hesitant.

Torpe looked up—and froze.

Rui stood at the edge of the square, illuminated by a lantern above his head. His coat had picked up a bit of mist, and his scarf was half-loose. He looked like he’d stepped out of another world entirely.

Which, Torpe remembered, he kind of had.

In Rui’s hand was a small box.

Wooden. Simple. Carved with delicate care.

“Rui,” Torpe said, standing. “What is—”

“Wait,” Rui said gently.

He walked toward Torpe.

His voice wasn’t steady—just a little rough, like something was caught in his throat. But he didn’t stop. Not even when he reached Torpe and dropped to one knee, right in the middle of the sleepy festival square.

Torpe’s breath caught.

Rui opened the box.

Inside was a silver ring.

Not ornate—nothing extravagant. But the band was shaped like twined branches, engraved by hand. Rui’s own hand, no doubt. Nestled at its center, where a gem might’ve sat, was a tiny piece of glass—the kind Rui sometimes used in his machines. But this one shimmered faintly in the lanternlight, like it held some kind of warmth.

“Torpe Tenma,” Rui said, voice low.

Torpe’s hands flew up to his face instantly. “Wh-Wh-Wh-What—?!”

“I know we’ve never called this courting,” Rui said, “and I know I don’t have a home in this time. Or… any time, really. But you’ve made something feel like home to me again.”

Torpe’s hands trembled.

“I don’t have family left. I don’t have a future. But I want one. And I want it with you.”

Torpe squeaked so loudly he nearly fell off the wall.

Rui smiled, almost sheepishly.

“I know what this gesture means to your time. I read every book I could. Studied the traditions. Because I wanted to do this the right way.”

He held up the ring.

“Torpe. Will you marry me?”

The entire world held its breath.

Torpe’s knees gave out, and he dropped to sit across from Rui, hands pressed to his flushed cheeks, mouth opening and closing with no sound coming out.

Finally, he squeaked again.

And then whispered, “Y-Yes.”

Rui blinked. “Yes…?”

Torpe lunged forward and hugged him so tightly that the ring nearly dropped from Rui’s fingers.

“Yes yes!! I-I mean—yes! You—idiot—yes!!” Torpe buried his face in Rui’s shoulder again, breath hitching with joy and disbelief. “I thought you were flirting when you danced with me and I thought that was already too much and now you—you’re asking to marry me?! I—I—I can’t—!”

“I take it that’s still a yes,” Rui said, laughing gently as he held Torpe close.

“Yes forever,” Torpe mumbled, unable to lift his face.

Rui slipped the ring onto his finger.

It didn’t sparkle like a diamond.

But it glowed.

They didn’t go back home right away.

They stayed, just the two of them, under the final flickering lantern. Torpe curled into Rui’s coat, fingers tracing the edges of the silver band, heart still fluttering like a bird.

“I feel like I’m dreaming,” Torpe whispered at some point.

Rui kissed the top of his head. “Then I’ll make sure you never wake up.”

Chapter Text

The early spring came softly.

Mornings brought frost around the windows and little buds on the trees. Torpe liked to open the shutters wide and hum while warming his hands on a cup of tea. And Rui? Rui stayed beside him now. Always. Watching the sunlight catch on the ring around Torpe’s finger like it had a voice of its own.

They hadn’t said the word wedding out loud for a few days, not since that night at the festival.

But the way Torpe watched the rain fall like confetti, or how he traced lace patterns in the fabric store window, or how Rui started building something secret in the shed with a locked door and that look in his eye—

It was happening.

It was real.

“You’re awfully quiet today,” Rui said, one afternoon as they walked through the village. A small paper parcel was tucked under Torpe’s arm, filled with carefully selected cloth: navy blue, ivory, soft grey. The merchant had complimented the “blushing bride” — before realizing both of them were blushing and one of them had just about melted.

Torpe looked up from the cobblestone path.

“…I keep thinking I’ll wake up,” he murmured.

Rui smiled gently, brushing their hands together as they walked.

“Would a pinch help?”

Torpe huffed. “No. It’d only make me squeal.”

“I’d like to see that.”

“You always say that. You always make me—” he stopped himself and ducked behind his newsboy cap. “Y-You know.”

Rui only chuckled, leaning a bit closer. “You still don’t know how adorable you are when you do.”

That earned a high-pitched noise and a flustered elbow to the ribs.

But Torpe didn’t move away.

Back at the cottage, Torpe spent his afternoons reading by the hearth or sewing little bits of their clothes. Sometimes he worked in the kitchen, fiddling nervously with ingredients, trying to figure out what kind of cake he’d like if someone ended up baking one. Rui had offered, half-joking.

But Torpe had actually nodded.

And Rui had nearly dropped his mug.

Every evening now, Torpe watched Rui disappear into the backyard shed.

He wasn’t allowed in.

Not yet.

That made him curious. Rui didn’t keep secrets. Not from him.

So whatever it was… it wasn’t just some mechanical project.

One morning, while Torpe stitched blue thread into the hem of a white shirt, he mumbled without looking up:

“Do people in your—uh, where you’re from—still get married?”

Rui looked up from the diagrams he was sketching at the desk. His eyes softened.

“No.”

Torpe’s needle paused.

“No one was left to love,” Rui said, after a moment. “But that doesn’t mean I forgot how.”

Torpe swallowed.

“Then this must be… strange for you.”

“It’s not strange,” Rui said, standing. “It’s everything I didn’t let myself hope for. Until you.”

That earned him a high-pitched squeak and a thrown pillow.

He caught it.

And kissed the top of Torpe’s head.

That night, Rui stayed up late.

He stared at the little metal box he’d spent three weeks shaping. A music box—but not one like they made in this time. It was sleeker. Wired with little copper coils, embedded with glowing nodes from his future tech. Inside, beneath the turning pin, a chip recorded the faint hum of the first night Torpe played piano just for him.

When it played, it lit up in soft pulses—orange and blue.

Rui added one last engraving along the edge: T.T. — the world I found.

Then locked it again.

Torpe never asked what Rui was building.

He didn’t need to.

Because one day, near dusk, Rui led him by the hand out to the backyard, where spring flowers had bloomed in the grass.

A single wooden archway stood there, simple and clean, dressed in ivy and ribbons.

And beneath it—beneath the fading glow of fireflies and stars—Rui placed the music box in Torpe’s hands.

“This is where I want us to say it,” he whispered. “The vows. The promises. Whatever name it takes in this world.”

Torpe opened the box.

The piano played.

And the lights flickered.

Orange. Blue. Orange. Blue.

Torpe didn’t say anything.

He only clutched the box to his chest and leaned into Rui’s embrace so tightly that neither of them could breathe without breathing together.

Chapter Text

It rained the day before the wedding.

Just a soft drizzle, like the world knew not to ruin the garden Rui had tended or the ribbon-covered arch Torpe had shyly added little flowers to when no one was looking.

But by morning, the sky cleared.

And the whole world smelled like something new.

The garden glistened in soft dew. The wooden arch was dry, its curls of ivy fresh and still clinging to its frame. Even the birds seemed to understand. They sang from the trees like guests arriving early, each chirp and flutter a tiny celebration.

Torpe stood in the bedroom, in front of a mirror.

He wasn’t wearing his cap.

His hands trembled as they adjusted the pale veil at the back of his hair — gauzy and soft, falling over his shoulders like morning mist. The rest of his outfit was simple: a carefully sewn white shirt with pearl buttons, slate-gray trousers, and a deep navy ribbon tied delicately at the base of his neck.

But the veil… the veil was what caught in the light.

Sunset gold peeking beneath it.

Eyes bright, shy, and still somehow stronger than they used to be.

He swallowed.

“…I look silly.”

Behind him, Saki leaned against the doorframe with her arms crossed and a tiny, unmistakable smirk.

“You look like someone who’s about to make the weirdest man in this village cry.”

Torpe flushed instantly. “D-Don’t—don’t say that—!”

“I’m right,” she said, tossing him a small bouquet. “Now stop panicking and get out there.”

Rui waited by the arch.

He wore the deep violet vest Torpe had sewn for him—embroidered with tiny constellations in silver thread, ones from his sky. The fabric caught the morning light, making his pale shirt look like moonlight in motion.

He held nothing.

No speech. No script.

He only stared at the edge of the garden path, heart thundering, like the world might fall apart if he blinked.

And then—

Torpe stepped out.

No cap.

Just him.

And the veil.

Rui forgot how to breathe.

The moment felt impossibly fragile — like the second before a snowflake lands, or the last echo of a song. Torpe walked slowly, his hands trembling around the flowers, veil swaying softly behind him. He didn’t look up right away, not until he reached the arch.

And then—

He saw Rui.

And smiled.

Shy. Glowing.

“I-I forgot what I was supposed to say,” Torpe whispered, cheeks scarlet.

“That’s alright,” Rui said quietly, holding his hands. “I remembered for both of us.”

They didn’t have a minister.

They didn’t need one.

They had Saki watching from the edge of the garden, arms crossed, eyes a little misty. They had a handful of curious neighbors behind the fence, whispering and smiling. And they had the music box from Rui’s world playing faintly beside them, its copper-lit glow pulsing in soft waves like a heartbeat.

Rui took a breath.

And began.

“I never thought I’d love again,” he said, voice low and steady. “I never thought I’d want to stay. Not after everything I lost.”

Torpe’s hands tightened around his.

“But you… you taught me what it means to choose someone. Every day. In small ways. You made a place in me that no emptiness could touch.”

He reached up and gently lifted Torpe’s veil.

“You made me want forever.”

Torpe stared at him with glassy, wide eyes. His lips parted — and he let out the tiniest, squeakiest breath.

Rui smiled. “Still flustered?”

Torpe nodded furiously.

And then whispered, “Y-Your turn to squeal next.”

“I’ll try.”

Torpe inhaled shakily.

“I… I don’t know how people usually do this,” he said. “But I know that when you’re gone, the world feels colder. That when I see something beautiful, you’re the first person I want to tell.”

His voice trembled.

“And I know that even when I’m scared, even when I think you might leave, the part of me that believes in you never goes away.”

He reached for Rui’s hand.

“I want to love you like that. For the rest of my life. Even if I squeal every time you look at me too long.”

That got a laugh.

And a few very emotional giggles from somewhere behind the fence.

Rui slipped the ring back onto Torpe’s finger.

Torpe, with shaking hands, offered a second one—engraved with a tiny stitched pattern, mimicking the embroidery on Rui’s vest. Rui looked at it like it held the stars.

Then he kissed him.

Not a small kiss.

A slow, deep, utterly soft one — arms wrapped around Torpe’s waist, hands trembling just enough to betray everything he was holding back. Torpe made a sound in his throat, squeaked again, and kissed him back, veil fluttering around both of their faces like wings.

The applause from the fence didn’t register.

The world had narrowed.

Just them.

Just this.

Just forever.

That night, they lay together on the living room rug — not in their bed, not just yet — wrapped in a quilt and the soft afterglow of something enormous and peaceful.

Rui played with Torpe’s hair, veil now folded beside them, flowers drying nearby.

“I’ve never seen you so brave,” Rui whispered.

Torpe squeaked once, then buried his face in Rui’s chest.

“I’ve never felt so safe,” he whispered back.

And Rui, for the first time in his life, let himself believe that time could hold something instead of take it away.

Chapter Text

The sun spilled golden warmth across the garden, filtering through the ivy that wrapped the wooden archway where so many promises had been made.

Torpe and Rui sat side by side on a worn bench beneath the branches, hands loosely intertwined. Between them, a small wooden music box rested, softly humming the melody of that first night—the song of a world rediscovered, and a love that had stitched broken timelines into one.

Saki stood nearby, a smile playing on her lips as she watched her brother and the man who had become his heart. Her hair, still dyed faintly pink at the tips, caught the sunlight as she moved to join them, her steps light and sure.

“You two really know how to make a place feel like home,” she said, voice steady but warm.

Torpe’s eyes, bright and steady now, met hers without hesitation. “We’re still building it,” he said. “Together.”

Rui nodded, squeezing Torpe’s hand. “It’s taken time. But every moment is ours.”

Saki settled beside them, her gaze drifting toward the horizon where the village lay peaceful under a sky painted with the soft glow of dusk. “I never thought I’d find this kind of peace again,” she murmured.

Torpe smiled gently. “Neither did I. But with you—and Rui—it’s possible.”

There was a quiet understanding between them all, a shared acknowledgment of the past’s shadows and the light they were choosing to live in now.

Later, as the stars began to twinkle, Torpe leaned into Rui’s side, the veil he’d worn on their wedding day folded neatly on the bench beside him. The newsboy cap lay forgotten, replaced by confidence that no longer needed hiding.

Rui kissed the top of his head. “Home,” he whispered, “is wherever we choose to be.”

Torpe squeezed his hand, voice soft but sure. “With you, it always will be.”

And beneath the vast, timeless sky, three souls found a quiet light—a future shaped by love, healing, and the unbreakable bond of family.

Chapter Text

The wind carried the smell of fresh bread through the windows.

Saki was the first to burn something — as usual — but no one minded. The laughter that followed her muttered curses and the sound of something clattering to the floor made it all worth it.

Torpe sat at the table with a book in his lap, half-read, his fingertips dusted with flour. He had been helping, until Saki practically pushed him away and told him, “It’s your turn to sit and be spoiled.”

He wasn’t used to that. Still wasn’t.

But today, he was trying.

Rui sat across from him, sleeves rolled up, a screwdriver tucked behind one ear, and a tangle of delicate copper wires in his hands. The object was strange — at least to anyone else in this time — a smooth device that glowed faintly with pulses of light. A gift in progress. A future gift.

“Is it for me?” Torpe asked, tilting his head.

Rui smiled without looking up. “You’ll see.”

Saki peeked in from the kitchen. “If it doesn’t explode,” she teased.

“It won’t explode,” Rui and Torpe said in perfect unison.

That made Saki laugh — a rare, full laugh that filled the room like sunshine. She disappeared again into the kitchen, where the scent of overbaked crust mingled with jam and cinnamon.

Rui eventually set his project aside and moved to sit beside Torpe, arms draping loosely around his shoulders.

“You like it when we’re all together, don’t you?” Rui murmured.

Torpe nodded, head resting against him.

“I thought for a long time… that no one stayed,” he whispered. “But you did. And she did. It feels real now. Not like a dream anymore.”

Rui pressed a kiss to his temple. “Because it is real. And it’s ours.”

Outside, the small garden rustled in the breeze. The archway, now woven with flowering vines, swayed slightly. A cat — one that had started lingering after Saki fed it once — leapt up onto the windowsill and blinked lazily at them.

“I’ve been thinking,” Torpe said quietly. “About… building a piano.”

Rui looked at him in quiet surprise.

“I mean it,” Torpe said, cheeks warm. “One that’ll stay here. For others. For… when we’re gone someday. Maybe someone will find it and wonder what kind of music was played on it.”

Rui kissed him again.

“I’d like that,” he said. “We could put it under the arch.”

“And I’ll teach Saki how to play,” Torpe added, grinning.

From the kitchen, Saki shouted, “You better teach me the song about cherry pies and us being tiny stars!”

They laughed — all three of them — and the room glowed with it.

As the sun began to dip behind the horizon, and the stars slowly began to peek through the darkening sky, the house stayed lit not by candles or inventions, but by the kind of joy that needs no light to be seen.

Love had taken root in the unlikeliest place — in a broken time, in scarred hearts, in quiet boys who hid behind caps, and men from dead futures who learned to hope again.

And the days went on.

But they no longer feared what tomorrow would bring.

Because they had already chosen each other.