The fluorescent lights in the waiting room hummed, a low, constant thrum that vibrated in Satoru’s teeth. It was a sterile, unforgiving sound, a blanket over the silence. He counted the slats in the acoustic tile ceiling, then the tiny pinpricks in each slat, trying to anchor himself. His hands were cold, clammy, clenched tight in his lap, the knuckles white against the faded denim of his jeans. He could still feel the phantom ghost of a sticky soda can in one of them, the one he’d crushed a few minutes ago. Or maybe an hour. Time had lost all meaning, folding in on itself, each tick of the distant clock a fresh stab.
Haruki was in there. Somewhere. Behind those double doors, past the hushed nurses and the smell of industrial cleaner mixed with something sharp, like regret and burnt sugar. He didn't know what ‘in there’ meant, not really. Just that Haruki had been found. Badly. And it was because of… because of *them*. That word, ‘them,’ sat like a stone in Satoru’s throat, heavy and impossible to swallow. He could hear the echo of the shouting, the jeering, the sudden, sickening impact. Not Haruki's, not really. His own. The memory was a sudden, jarring cut, pulling him from the present.
His breath hitched. He tried to straighten his spine on the too-soft plastic chair, but the plastic clung to his shirt, a static charge against his skin. He felt trapped, pinned. The walls, painted a bland, institutional beige, seemed to press in, reducing the vastness of the hospital to a cramped box. He kept flicking his eyes to the entrance, a conditioned response. Even though he knew, rationally, it was impossible, a part of him, a deeply rooted, animalistic part, expected *him* to walk through those sliding doors. The attacker. Not just any attacker, but *his* attacker. The face was a blur now, thank god, but the impression, the sneering contempt, the sheer brutality of it, was etched into his bones.
He closed his eyes for a moment, the hum intensifying. It wasn’t just a sound; it was a physical vibration, a tremor running through his body, mimicking the internal shake he couldn’t stop. He hadn't felt this acutely helpless since… since that night. The lack of control, the sudden, violent erasure of his autonomy. It had started with a shove, then a word, then another, then the fists. The words, those were the worst. Sharper than any blow, they had carved out a hollow space inside him, a constant, gnawing void where safety used to be.
Now, the void felt like it was growing, consuming the sterile waiting room around him. Haruki’s attack had ripped the thin gauze from Satoru’s own healing. He had believed he was moving past it, had put on a brave face, learned to navigate the world again with a careful, calculated distance. But here, in this place of vulnerability and whispered anxieties, it was all laid bare again. The fear was a cold, slick thing, wrapping around his throat. He ran a tongue over dry lips. His jaw ached from clenching.
A subtle shift in the room. A draft. Satoru’s eyes snapped open. The sliding doors at the far end of the corridor had parted. A tall figure, broad-shouldered, moved into the space, then stopped. Yuma. His arrival was like a deep breath Satoru hadn't realized he was holding. Yuma stood there, a solid silhouette against the bright afternoon light filtering faintly through the distant windows, his face unreadable. His presence was always like that – a quiet force. He wasn’t loud, never had been, but he filled a room just by existing in it.
Yuma's eyes found Satoru, a direct, unwavering gaze. There was no false cheer, no easy comfort offered. Just recognition. The corners of Yuma’s lips were pressed into a grim line, a reflection of the unspoken truth. Haruki wasn’t just a mutual acquaintance; he was a shared thread in their delicate, complicated fabric of a community, a community that often felt like it was under siege.
Yuma took a step, then another, his worn sneakers making almost no sound on the polished linoleum. Satoru watched him, a morbid fascination taking hold. Yuma's movements were deliberate, unhurried, a stark contrast to the frantic energy buzzing beneath Satoru’s skin. Yuma didn't ask if the seat next to Satoru was taken. He simply approached, pulling the plastic chair nearest to Satoru, the legs scraping faintly on the floor, a sound that cut through the fluorescent hum. He didn’t sit down immediately. He paused, looking at the chair, then at Satoru, a silent question passing between them.
Satoru didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His throat was too tight. He just watched as Yuma nudged the chair, not just into the adjacent spot, but *closer*, until the armrests almost touched. The space between them, a carefully maintained buffer zone, evaporated. Yuma settled into the chair, the plastic groaning under his weight, a solid, tangible presence. The air around Satoru, which had been thin and cold, suddenly felt thicker, warmer, imbued with the quiet heat of Yuma’s body.
Yuma didn’t say anything. Just sat. His gaze swept over Satoru's face, pausing on his clenched hands. He didn't reach out, didn't offer a platitude. He just existed, a large, still point in Satoru’s swirling chaos. The silence stretched, a heavy, comfortable blanket, not an oppressive one. Satoru found his own breathing starting to mirror Yuma’s, deeper, slower, less ragged. It was involuntary, a physiological response to proximity. His body was recognizing a form of safety even before his mind could acknowledge it.
He felt a sudden, irrational urge to explain, to articulate the spiraling terror. But the words felt too large, too ugly, too unformed. He looked down at his hands. "It's… stupid," Satoru finally managed, the words a strained whisper, barely audible above the hum. He hated how small his voice sounded. How fragile. It felt like giving away too much, exposing the raw, tender parts that he usually kept hidden under layers of forced casualness. But Yuma didn’t flinch. Didn’t shift. Just waited.
"What’s… stupid?" Yuma’s voice was low, a rumble in his chest, so quiet it almost felt like it was inside Satoru's own head. No judgment. Just a simple query. The simple question, devoid of any emotional charge, felt like an invitation, not a demand. It was the only thing that could have worked in that moment, Satoru realized. Any pressure, any overt sympathy, and he would have recoiled.
Satoru swallowed, the lump in his throat still there. "This. All of it. Haruki… I mean, yeah, I'm worried. Of course. But it’s… more than that. It’s like it’s happening again." The words tumbled out, faster now, a torrent held back for too long. "The feeling. Like… like when it happened to me." He risked a glance at Yuma, whose gaze was still steady, unblinking. Yuma didn't pretend not to know what 'it' was. He had been there in the periphery, had seen the aftermath, had been one of the few who hadn't looked away.
"Every time I hear those doors slide open," Satoru continued, his voice cracking, the vulnerability a sharp, unwelcome burn, "I keep thinking… I keep thinking *he’s* going to walk in. The guy. The one who… the one who did it. I know it’s crazy. I know he wouldn't be here. But it feels… real. Like the threat is still right outside. Like it never left." He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, the image of a snarling face, distorted and vague, flashing behind his eyelids.
The silence returned, but it was different now. Less sterile, more… absorbent. Yuma was taking it in, not reacting, just absorbing. Satoru felt the tremor in his own body subside slightly, a minuscule easing of tension. The weight of his confession, instead of crushing him, felt surprisingly lighter. Yuma shifted, almost imperceptibly. Satoru’s eyes flickered open. Yuma hadn't moved his chair, hadn't turned his body. Instead, he’d subtly angled his broad shoulders, just enough. His right shoulder was now a solid, impenetrable wall, partially obscuring Satoru's view of the sliding doors at the corridor's end. A physical block, quiet and deliberate.
It wasn’t a gesture of comfort in the traditional sense. No pat on the back, no reassuring words. It was something deeper, more primal. Yuma was creating a visual sanctuary, a physical barrier against the perceived threat. Satoru found himself staring at the dark fabric of Yuma’s hoodie, the subtle ripple of muscle beneath the cotton. He could almost feel the heat radiating from Yuma’s side, a warmth that slowly, carefully, began to seep into his own chilled skin.
He felt the surge of something unexpected. Not relief, not exactly. More like a profound, dizzying sense of being seen. Yuma understood. Not with words, but with action. With his very being. The quiet weight of Yuma’s presence was an anchor. Satoru’s gaze travelled from Yuma’s shoulder, up his strong neck, to the sharp line of his jaw. Yuma was still looking straight ahead, at nothing in particular, his expression unyielding, almost grim. But his eyes, when Satoru caught them in a fleeting side-glance, held a depth Satoru hadn't quite registered before. A steadfastness. A silent, unshakeable promise.
The hum of the fluorescent lights seemed to soften, to recede into the background. The antiseptic smell still clung to the air, but it was less sharp, somehow. The rigid tension in Satoru’s neck and shoulders began to ease, a slow, arduous process. He could feel the slight ache in his jaw from clenching it, the residual tremor in his hands. But the immediate, paralyzing panic was starting to recede, like a tide pulling back from the shore, leaving behind a vast, quiet expanse.
He wanted to say something, anything. Thank you. Or, I’m sorry. But the words felt inadequate, too small to contain the enormity of what Yuma was doing, simply by *being* there. By blocking the view. By not leaving. By not asking for anything in return. He felt a sudden, overwhelming exhaustion. The kind that settles deep in your bones after a long, drawn-out battle. He was tired of being afraid. Tired of being on guard. Tired of fighting. Just for a second, he wanted to stop.
His head felt heavy, his eyelids drooping. He felt the pull, an almost irresistible urge, to lean into the warmth, into the solid, unmoving presence beside him. It was a terrifying thought, to give up that much control, even for a moment. To trust someone else, completely, with his vulnerable, exposed side. But the alternative, to remain adrift in his own fear, felt even more unbearable. The decision wasn't made in his head, but in his body, a slow, instinctual surrender. A slight sway, then a deliberate lean.
His temple brushed against the soft cotton of Yuma’s hoodie. The fabric was warm, slightly damp, carrying the faint, clean scent of detergent and something uniquely Yuma. Satoru closed his eyes again, pressing gently into the solid muscle beneath the fabric. He felt Yuma’s shoulder shift, subtly, not away, but settling, accommodating. A barely perceptible adjustment that spoke volumes. The quiet weight of Yuma's shoulder was grounding, an anchor in the storm. For the first time since he'd heard about Haruki, since he'd been thrown back into the dark echoes of his own past, Satoru didn't feel utterly, terrifyingly alone. He didn't feel safe, not entirely, but he felt… protected. And that, in the sterile, humming silence of the waiting room, was a terrifyingly precious, fragile beginning.
The doors at the end of the corridor remained closed. The hum continued its low, persistent song. The world outside, the one full of sharp edges and sudden violence, felt momentarily distant, held at bay by the quiet, unyielding presence beside him. But the quiet was a lie, a thin skin over something still raw and waiting. He knew that. Still, for now, this was enough. More than enough.
His own attacker was still out there, somewhere. The memory a constant, dull throb. And the fear for Haruki, the very real, immediate danger that had brought them to this antiseptic place, was still unresolved. Yuma’s shoulder felt like a temporary shield, a borrowed comfort against a world that kept reminding Satoru how easily it could break you. He knew it couldn't last, this small, fragile peace. But for the moment, with Yuma's steady breathing a silent rhythm beside him, Satoru let himself rest.