His stomach turned, a sick knot of nausea crawling up his throat. The taste of Isuke's mouth was wrong, foreign, not Taichi. And yet—warmth. The same warmth his body craved. The warmth of arms that steadied him, lips that pressed against his own, breath that mingled with his.
'Why does it feel like this?'
Yu thought, shame burning so hot behind his eyes he thought he'd collapse.
'Why do I feel anything at all?'
He hated himself for the flutter in his chest, for the tremble in his knees that made him lean—just slightly—into the hold. He hated himself more for remembering how Taichi used to hold him just like this, strong and sure, grounding him when the world was too cruel. That memory—of a love that had been steady once, and had faded to cold absence—tore through him until he could no longer tell the difference between need and revulsion.
"Don't… stop."
He whispered. His voice cracked in the middle, thin and fragile.
Did he mean don't stop? Or don't, stop? Even Yu didn't know. The words tangled with his tears, broken by his own confusion.
But Isuke didn't hesitate. He heard only invitation. His lips pressed harder, more certain now, as if Yu's trembling plea had unlocked the last of his doubts.
Large, warm hands spread across Yu's waist and back, firm and grounding. They anchored him, pinned him—yet they steadied him too. Yu's body, paralyzed by the storm in his head, yielded, standing still in Isuke's embrace. He didn't fight. He couldn't.
Inside, he shattered. His heart screamed for Taichi, for the love that had once blanketed him so fully that he never feared nights alone, never wondered if he was enough. But Taichi was absent now, his warmth a memory slipping through Yu's trembling hands.
And in its place, this pale imitation—the wrong voice, the wrong lips, the wrong heart. Still, Yu's unstable emotions clawed for any refuge. Even this one. Even him.
Yu's tears wouldn't stop, blurring his vision, wetting their kiss. His shame gnawed deep into him, but so did the need to cling to something. Anything.
Yu's lips trembled under Isuke's. His body, traitorous and weak, leaned into the warmth even as his mind screamed at him to pull away. Every brush of Isuke's thumb on his cheek, every steady press of his palm at Yu's back sent shivers down his spine—not of love, but of need. The gnawing emptiness Taichi's absence had left inside him devoured everything, leaving only hunger for closeness, for reassurance, for anything that might ease the hollow ache.
His body swayed. His chest ached. His tears smeared the kiss, yet still… still he couldn't make himself cry out, couldn't summon the will to shove Isuke away.
And when Isuke's hand slid firmer around his waist, tugging him closer, Yu's knees nearly gave out. A soft sound escaped him, half whimper, half sigh—and it terrified him more than anything else.
Then, reason pierced through the fog like a blade.
'This isn't Taichi. This will never be Taichi.'
With sudden desperation, Yu twisted his head aside, gasping in shaky breaths as the kiss broke. Isuke lingered for a heartbeat, lips grazing his cheek, eyes half-lidded with a longing that made Yu's stomach turn. He could feel it—Isuke wanted more, he was about to chase his lips again.
But Yu found his voice, thin and trembling.
"Stop… Sakura and Haruka will be back soon. With the twins. You… you need to leave."
Isuke froze, the words cutting through his haze. For a long, awful moment, he didn't move. Then, slowly, he buried his face against Yu's neck, inhaling deeply as though he could brand the scent into his soul. His nose brushed skin, his breath hot, his arms unwilling to let go.
Finally, reluctantly, he loosened his grip. He lingered one last time, pressing close as if reluctant to surrender this moment. Then he stepped back, gaze roaming Yu's tear-streaked face with hunger and tenderness twisted together.
"I love you, Yu."
He murmured, his voice hoarse but certain.
"More than anyone. More than him. I'm so happy to see you again."
And then, with a last heavy look, he turned. The door creaked open. Light spilled in. And then he was gone.
Yu stood frozen in the silence that followed. His body still trembled where Isuke had touched him. His lips burned, his skin felt unclean, his chest ached with betrayal—not from Isuke, but from himself.
He slid to the floor, hugging his knees, broken and confused. The warmth he craved had left him hollow. And the man he loved most, the only one he wanted that warmth from, wasn't here.
The silence after Isuke's departure felt heavier than any noise. Yu sat crumpled on the living room floor, arms wrapped tight around his knees as though he could hold himself together that way. His tears had slowed, but his chest heaved in shallow, uneven breaths. The taste of the kiss still lingered on his lips—foreign, wrong, bitter with shame.
His heart screamed for Taichi, for the warmth and constancy he had always given. Yet all Yu could feel was the echo of Isuke's arms, his hands, his words. His body ached with a terrible betrayal of his mind; his pulse had quickened, his breath had hitched, as though part of him had wanted what he never truly did.
'I'm disgusting… I let him touch me. I let him… kiss me.'
The thought hollowed him out. He pressed his forehead to his knees, shaking, wishing he could tear the memory away, wash his skin clean, rip out the confusion that twisted his heart. He felt tainted, as if he had betrayed Taichi even though his mind had begged Isuke to stop.
The clock ticked on, merciless.
---
The sound of keys at the door jolted him upright. Panic slammed through him. He scrubbed at his face with shaking hands, dragged himself to the couch, and forced a smile that barely stretched over the tremor in his lips.
The door swung open with Sakura's cheerful voice.
"Yu, we're back! You should've seen Taro, he tried to run off with another kid's toy truck—"
Haruka followed behind, laughing as she wheeled the stroller inside. The twins' happy babbling filled the space like sunlight.
Yu's heart broke all over again. The warmth of their presence collided with the cold ache of what had just happened, but he masked it—he had to. He couldn't let them see. He tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, smoothing his expression as if nothing had happened.
"Welcome back."
He said softly, his voice only just steady.
"Did they… did they have fun?"
Sakura set down a bag of snacks on the table and eyed him with concern—just for a flicker, as though she sensed the crack beneath the mask—but she said nothing. Instead, she smiled brightly and began telling him about the park.
Yu nodded, listening, holding the twins close when they reached for him, their little arms anchoring him. Inside, though, he felt more adrift than ever, drowning in a secret he could never speak.
The apartment glowed with the warmth of Sakura and Haruka's chatter. They set out takeout boxes and poured tea while the twins climbed into Yu's lap, their laughter bright and effortless. Yu mirrored their joy, his smile practiced but convincing, his voice light as he listened to stories about the park and Haruka's misadventures abroad.
Inside, though, he felt like glass. Every laugh left him hollow, every gentle pat on his hand from Sakura made him want to break down. But he couldn't—not here, not when his friends had done so much already. He tightened his arms around the twins, their small bodies grounding him even as his heart ached with the memory of Isuke's arms and the poisonous images still burned into his mind.
'Just hold on. Just smile. Just keep moving.'
He played the role of the grateful friend, the gentle mother, the devoted partner still waiting for his husband. The performance nearly cracked when Sakura caught him staring too long at his untouched tea, but Yu quickly shifted to cooing at Taro's babble, masking his silence with the innocence of the children. The evening passed with warmth all around him, warmth he could not let himself feel.
---
Across the city, Taichi's world was gray. He hadn't set foot near Sakura's or Haruka's apartment in days, and his phone never lit up with personal messages anymore. He told himself Yu needed space, that work was the only thing he could control now, but the absence gnawed at him.
His meals were nothing but half-eaten rice balls and lukewarm convenience store coffee. His once crisp suits sagged, wrinkled and stained, but he couldn't muster the energy to fix them. At the office, people avoided his gaze, whispers trailing behind him—
"What happened to Arifukua?"
"He used to shine…"
That night, clutching a thick file in one hand, Taichi trudged toward the client's drop-off point on the first floor of Arifukua Corporation. His eyes stung from lack of sleep, his throat raw from too much cheap alcohol and too few words of thanks from the people he was killing himself to please.
And then he saw him.
Riku Arifukua. His father.
The older man was heading towards the buildings door, his own steps brisk and sure, his tailored suit immaculate in contrast to Taichi's rumpled figure. Their eyes met across the dim lobby, and the air went sharp and cold.
Taichi froze, the file suddenly heavy in his hands. His heart clenched, not with anger this time, but with the weight of exhaustion and the echo of Yu's absence.
Riku's gaze flickered—disdain, curiosity, regret all hidden beneath his sharp exterior. Neither moved. Neither spoke. The silence stretched until the tick of the lobby clock filled it.
And for the first time in years, father and son stood face to face with nowhere left to run.
The lobby was hushed, save for the muted hum of the evening lights and the shuffle of cleaners in the distance. Father and son stood across from each other, the air heavy, like a storm waiting to split.
Riku Arifukua's sharp eyes, trained to read contracts and faces alike, swept over Taichi. He saw the wrinkled collar, the tired slump of his shoulders, the faint shadow of unshaven stubble. This wasn't the fiery son who once stormed out of his house with curses and pride. This was… something else. Withered. Withstanding. Wearing himself thin.
Taichi shifted his weight, the thick file still in his hand, his body angled as if to turn and walk away—flee, even. He didn't trust himself to speak, not to this man, not when his throat was dry and his chest tight.
But then Riku's voice, awkward and stilted, cut across the silence.
"…How's Yu's health? And… the pregnancy?"
The words landed like stones in water. Taichi froze mid-step, his back stiffening. His throat worked once, twice, before anything came out.
"I—"
It cracked. A pitiful choke of sound, nothing like the strong voice that once swore to protect Yu with his life. His lips trembled, and when the words finally spilled, they were raw, broken, vulnerable.
"…I don't know."
The sound was so fragile it barely carried. Shaky, strangled, like confession and collapse all at once.
Riku blinked. Ling, steady as iron at his side, glanced up sharply, startled by the naked pain in that answer.
Taichi's fists clenched at his sides, knuckles white.
'I don't know how Yu's doing. I don't know how the twins are. I don't know if he's eating well, if he's sleeping, if he's… happy.'
Each thought tore deeper, because Yu had always been his world, and now he didn't even know the smallest details of that world anymore.
The silence that followed wasn't empty—it was suffocating. For the first time, it was Riku who found himself at a loss, watching his son stand there like a broken man, and wondering what storm could have undone him so completely.
The silence stretched, thick as lead. Taichi's ragged—
"I don't know."
—still echoed faintly in the marble lobby, a wound Riku hadn't expected to see laid so bare. He clenched and unclenched his hands at his side, pride telling him to say nothing—let his son stew in the mess he'd made.
But then he saw the way Taichi's shoulders hunched, how his knuckles were white around the file he clutched, how the fire that once fueled his rebellion was now dim embers choking on ash. For the first time in years, Riku saw not the angry delinquent who spat in his face, but his son—lost, weary, and crumbling under a weight no one should bear alone.
'Damn it all…'
He took a slow breath, swallowing his pride like glass shards, and stepped forward. His voice was steadier than he felt.
"You're killing yourself like this."
Taichi flinched, his head lifting just slightly, eyes tired and wary.
Riku pressed on.
"I'll move you up. A better position—pays enough you won't have to burn yourself out every night chasing scraps. And a bigger house, near the company. Enough space for… for Yu. For the twins. And the new ones on the way."
Taichi blinked, stunned, but his mouth already opened to reject it, the old reflex sharp as ever. Riku cut across the lobby towards him, resting a firm hand on his shoulder, the gesture heavy with both weight and unfamiliar warmth.
"I won't force you to be my heir."
Riku said, quieter now.
"Stay where you are if that's what you want. Hell, maybe one day you'll start your own company. That's fine. But you won't do it like this—not at the cost of your family."
He let out a humorless chuckle, shaking his head.
"You think I don't know what it costs to choose wrong? I lost everything. A wife I loved. A son's respect. A daughter-in-law I never met. Family dinners I should have been at. Grandchildren I've only just held once in my arms. All gone because I kept choosing this—"
He gestured vaguely to the company walls around them,
"—over home."
His eyes fixed on Taichi, sharp but trembling with the edge of regret.
"So listen to me. If the day ever comes when you have to make that choice… choose home. Every time. Work can be rebuilt. A company can be saved. But the people you love?"
His hand squeezed Taichi's shoulder, firm.
"Once they're gone, they don't come back."
Taichi's throat locked tight, his chest burning, the words sinking deeper than he wanted them to.
The silence after his own words was heavy, and it pressed against Riku's chest like a weight he deserved to bear. He hadn't wanted this. He hadn't planned to lay himself bare in front of the son who had every reason to hate him. Yet seeing Taichi like this—hollow-eyed, wrinkled suit, the edge of his old fire buried under exhaustion—it scraped raw something he thought had long turned to stone.
So much of his life had been about control:
His company, his reputation, even the people around him.
But no amount of money or power had bought him back the things he'd lost. His wife's laughter. The sound of Taichi's small feet running down the hall. A boy's trust, shattered with the truth of an affair. And now, standing here, he realized his grandson's smiles might be next on that list if he didn't say something, do something, anything to bridge the gulf.
Ling would have told him he was becoming sentimental in his old age. He felt it was a weakness. Maybe it was weakness. But it was the truth—and Riku had run from the truth long enough.
He studied Taichi's face, waiting for the anger he was so used to, for the biting retort that would cut him down like a blade. Instead, he saw only the faint tremor of a man fighting something inside himself. That—more than anything—made Riku's chest ache.
'God help me…'
He thought.
'I don't want to lose him too.'
Taichi wanted to spit the offer back in his father's face. Every instinct screamed to reject the hand that had failed him for so long. His pride clawed at him, bitter and sharp, telling him he didn't need Riku's pity or scraps.
But then the memories hit—the late nights, the bitter taste of convenience-store meals wolfed down at his desk, the sting of liquor in his veins as he forced smiles at strangers while Yu and the twins used to wait at home. Worse still, the look in Yu's eyes as the warmth between them thinned, as doubt settled in the cracks where his love used to overflow.
If he kept going like this, he wouldn't just break himself. He would lose Yu. He would lose everything that mattered.
The fight drained out of him, leaving nothing but a shell of a man who wanted, desperately, to go home. To the warmth of Yu's arms. To the babbling coos of his sons. To the soft swell of Yu's belly, carrying more life that belonged to both of them.
Taichi's throat worked, but no words came. His body made the choice for him. He nodded—once, stiff and jerky, but enough.
It was all he could manage. But it was enough.
For a long moment, Riku stood there in silence, his hand still hovering in the air where it had rested awkwardly on Taichi's shoulder. His son had nodded. Not with the reckless fire of youth or the bitterness he had braced himself for—but with a tired, raw acceptance that stripped away all pretense.
Riku swallowed hard, the lump in his throat unfamiliar, unwelcome. He wasn't used to feeling relief in such small gestures. A nod shouldn't have meant this much. Yet here he was, clutching it like a starving man with a scrap of bread.
"You can start tomorrow."
He said, his voice measured, careful not to tremble. A pat, awkward but firm, landed on Taichi's shoulder—neither wholly affectionate nor cold, but something in between. A beginning.
Then, unable to linger longer without betraying the storm inside him, Riku turned sharply on his heel and strode away. Ling followed at his side, her eyes flicking once toward Taichi before returning to her usual steel mask.
Behind them, Riku's thoughts churned.
'A son who bends instead of breaks… grandchildren I barely know… and a daughter-in-law who looked at me like a ghost.'
Regret pressed deep, but he forced himself forward.
'Tomorrow…'
He promised himself.
'Tomorrow would be different.'
---
When Taichi returned that night, his body was heavier than usual, though his father's words still echoed faintly in his ears. He unlocked the door, expecting—hoping—to be greeted by Yu's soft hum or the twins' babbling. Instead, silence.
The house was not empty, but it felt that way. His suit jacket slipped from his shoulder as his gaze swept across the mess:
His own clothes draped carelessly over chairs and the couch, dishes stacked in the sink from meals half-cooked and half-eaten, dust collecting on shelves Yu once polished daily.
The air smelled faintly of stale food and loneliness.
He stepped further inside, and it struck him—the déjà vu of a life he thought he had left behind. His chest tightened as he was pulled backward in time, to the apartment his mother had rented after divorcing and leaving Riku's home. Back then, Yu's Aunt—Nakama Ito—would sometimes take him in when his mother left for work, and Yu's mother—Naoko Hokohayashi—would stop by with the twins, Yukio and Yumi, small and bright. Those moments had been gentle, safe.
But then his mother had died—overworked to death—and Taichi, only just becoming a teenager, was left alone. The apartment had slipped into disorder then, too—laundry piled high, dishes unwashed, silence so thick it pressed on his ears. The loneliness of those days bled into the present as he looked around this house, stripped of Yu's warmth.
The sting of Yu's absence hit him harder than any blow. Harder than his father's smacks, harder than Isuke's schemes, harder than the grueling weight of work. This emptiness was a wound deeper than all of them.
He sat heavily on the couch, head falling into his hands. The fabric beneath him still carried faint traces of Yu's scent, and that almost undid him completely.
---
The bouquet of roses felt heavier than bricks in Taichi's grip. His new suit was stiff, the collar biting against his throat, but he bore it proudly—it was supposed to mark the beginning of a change. A better man, a better partner, a better father.
He knocked, heart thudding. When the door creaked open and Haruka Minami stood there instead of Yu, disappointment flared hot in his chest, though he smothered it quickly beneath a polite, eager smile.
"Haruka…"
He said, voice strained but hopeful.
"Is Yu here? I…I came to see him. To apologize. To tell him—"
He raised the bouquet, almost sheepishly—
"the truth. That I'll fix this."
Haruka's eyes flicked to the flowers, then to his face. A pointed look, sharp enough to slice through the practiced smile.
"Sakura took him to the hospital. A checkup for the babies. I'm here with the twins."
The words hit like a slap. Hospital. Babies. Taichi's throat tightened. He lowered the bouquet slightly, his knuckles whitening around the stems.
"Ah… I see."
He forced a breath.
"Then—how is he? How are they all?"
His voice cracked as he added, almost a whisper.
"How's his health? With the new babies…?"
Haruka hesitated. For a moment, she looked past him, as if weighing whether to speak at all. When her gaze settled back on him, it was steady and unflinching.
"Yu is trying to be strong."
She said firmly,
"But I hear him crying at night when he thinks no one can hear. The twins are fine—playful, happy. And the babies seem healthy, too. But this stress…"
Her jaw tightened.
"This stress isn't good for him. Or for them."
Taichi's breath left him in a low exhale.
"And you…"
Haruka went on, her voice sharper now.
"You should know better. After everything he's given you—two sons already, and now another pregnancy—you're not there to watch over him. To love him. To be what he needs. Instead, you're killing yourself with work and leaving him alone to break."
Her words cut deeper than any blade. Taichi flinched visibly, his body bowing slightly as if the rebuke had physical weight. He stared down at the roses in his grip, petals trembling with the tremor in his hand.
Taichi stood stiff in the doorway, the dozen roses trembling in his grip. Haruka's sharp words still hung in the air, cutting deeper with every heartbeat. He tried to smile, to insist—
I'm here now.
—but his throat refused to obey.
Haruka folded her arms, blocking the entrance with her body. Her gaze bore into him, unyielding.
"You think flowers fix what's broken? You think a couple of visits erases months of absence? No, Taichi. Not this time. Yu cries himself to sleep, and you're not the one holding him anymore."
The words twisted like a knife. He almost dropped the bouquet.
Taichi's lips parted, desperate to defend himself, but nothing came. He'd thought the promotion, the new suit, the roses—he'd thought they would be enough. But here, faced with the truth of Yu's pain spoken aloud, they all felt like flimsy props in a cruel play.
At last, Haruka exhaled and stepped aside, her expression softening just a little.
"You can come in and see the twins. But don't think this is for you. It's for them."
Taichi nodded numbly, stepping inside. The apartment smelled faintly of baby powder and warm rice. He saw his sons on the playmat, giggling, reaching for each other's hands. The sight cut him to the core. He knelt down, roses placed forgotten on the table, and touched their tiny fingers, the weight of Yu's absence pressing down harder than ever.
---
Meanwhile, at the hospital, Yu lay on the examination table, the sterile chill of the hospital room pressing in around him. Sakura sat by his side, holding his hand tightly. The doctor's voice was gentle as the sonogram wand glided across Yu's belly, the black-and-white screen flickering with life.
"Both heartbeats are strong."
The doctor said warmly.
"Your twins are growing well."
Yu blinked rapidly, tears spilling despite himself. He turned his head, biting down on his lip, his chest aching with a hollow absence.
"Taichi should be here."
He whispered, voice trembling.
"He should see this… he should see them."
Sakura squeezed his hand, her eyes fierce but kind.
"He'll regret not being here, Yu. But you're not alone. I'm here. And so are they."
On the monitor, two tiny flickers pulsed steadily—proof of the lives inside him. Yu's tears fell harder, because Taichi wasn't there to see. Because in the quiet corners of his heart, Yu still remembered the accusation, the doubt in Taichi's eyes, and he feared that maybe… maybe he really had already lost him.