Work Text:
Adachi steps outside when his phone buzzes.
He doesn’t answer it.
He just looks at the screen.
Tokyo Office.
That’s—
Strange.
They don’t usually call him directly.
For a second, he just stands there, staring at the name, trying to figure out what it could be about.
Then— Something shifts.
It’s subtle at first.
So subtle he almost misses it.
The ground doesn’t spin.
It just… tilts.
Adachi frowns.
“…huh…”
The phone is still in his hand.
He forgets to answer it.
Another step—or at least, he tries to take one.
It doesn’t quite work.
His balance goes first.
Then everything else follows.
“…ah—”
His knees hit the pavement.
Harder than he expected.
His hand catches him a second too late, palm scraping slightly as he tries to steady himself.
The phone slips from his fingers, clattering somewhere beside him, the screen still lit, still ringing.
Adachi doesn’t reach for it.
He stays there, on his hands and knees, breath catching unevenly as the world refuses to settle back into place.
I’m just tired.
The thought comes automatically.
Easy.
Familiar.
He’s been staying late.
Skipping meals.
Telling himself it’s fine because it always is.
“…just—need a second…”
Behind him—a sound.
Low.
Mechanical.
Close.
It doesn’t register.
Adachi lifts his head.
Slowly.
Too slowly.
There’s movement in his peripheral, something large—something wrong—
He turns.
Too late.
Impact.
It’s dull.
Sudden.
Wrong.
The world drops out from under him, his body giving way completely this time, the ground rushing up in a way that doesn’t make sense.
For a second, there’s nothing.
Then—
Oh.
The realization comes, quiet and distant.
I got hit.
Sound crashes back in.
Voices.
Shouting.
Footsteps.
Too much.
The sky stretches above him, bright and blurred at the edges.
The phone is still ringing somewhere nearby.
Or maybe it stopped.
He can’t tell.
Sirens.
Faint.
Getting closer.
“…Yuuichi…”
The name leaves him soft. Automatic.
Like it’s the only thing his mind knows to reach for.
The light fractures.
Sound pulls away.
And then—
Nothing.
(っ˕ -｡)ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁
Kurosawa steps into the office expecting a normal day.
The familiar rhythm is already in place—keyboards, quiet conversation, phones ringing just often enough to blend into the background.
He takes a few steps in—and stops.
There’s a cluster of people near the center of the room.
Too many.
Too close together.
They’re not working.
They’re talking—but not in the usual way. Voices low. Urgent. Edges of concern that don’t belong in the middle of a weekday morning.
Kurosawa’s gaze sharpens.
This isn’t—normal.
Someone notices him.
Then another.
The conversation falters.
Not completely—but enough.
A shift passes through the group, subtle but immediate, like a ripple moving outward.
And then— “Kurosawa- san!”
Rokkaku breaks from the cluster, already moving too fast, weaving through desks without his usual ease.
That alone is enough.
Kurosawa straightens slightly.
Rokkaku doesn’t slow until he’s right in front of him, breath uneven, words already tripping over themselves.
“It’s Adachi—”
Everything narrows.
“He got hurt—outside and he—”
“Hurt?” Kurosawa repeats.
It comes out steady. Measured.
Like if he says it calmly, it will stay something small. Manageable.
Rokkaku nods his head, quick.
“There was a truck—he—”
He can’t get it out cleanly.
He doesn’t need to.
Something cold settles, sharp and immediate.
“…Where?”
“The Nagasaki Hospital. They already—someone called an ambulance, he—he hit his head, I think—”
Kurosawa doesn’t wait for the rest.
He’s already moving.
Someone calls after him—he doesn’t register who.
His steps are too fast, not quite controlled, the polished calm he carries so easily cracking at the edges in a way that would be obvious if anyone were close enough to look.
The elevator is too slow.
He doesn’t think about it.
He turns.
Takes the stairs.
Each step hits harder than it should, the sound echoing up through the stairwell, sharp and uneven.
His breathing follows, quicker than he wants it to be.
Kiyoshi...
The name comes without effort.
Not spoken.
Just there.
He hit his head.
Too many thoughts try to follow.
None of them settle.
The image won’t form.
And that’s worse.
He reaches the ground floor too quickly, pushing through the doors without slowing, the outside air hitting colder than before.
It doesn’t matter.
All that matters is—
Hospital.
He doesn’t remember starting to run.
Only that he is.
(っ˕ -｡)ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁
The hospital is too bright.
Kurosawa notices it immediately—the harsh, sterile lighting, the way it flattens everything into something too sharp, too clean.
He doesn’t slow down as he steps inside.
“Excuse me—”
His voice comes out steady. It surprises him.
“I’m here for Adachi Kiyoshi.”
There’s a brief pause as the receptionist looks something up, fingers moving across the keyboard with a calm that feels completely out of place.
Then— “He’s already been admitted,” she says. “Room 407.”
Something in Kurosawa’s chest loosens.
Not relief. Not yet.
But—better than the alternative.
“Is he—”
He stops.
Tries again.
“…how is he?”
A nurse nearby glances over, stepping in before the receptionist can answer.
“He has a head injury,” she says, professional but not unkind. “It’s been treated—nothing too severe, thankfully. We’ve wrapped the wound.”
Kurosawa nods.
The words register.
Nothing too severe.
He holds onto that.
“He’s been in and out of consciousness,” she continues. “That’s normal, given the impact. We’re monitoring him.”
In and out.
“Can I see him?”
The nurse studies him for a second—taking in the tension he’s trying, and failing, to fully hide.
Then she nods.
“Go ahead.”
The walk to the room feels longer than it should.
Each step measured, controlled, like if he moves too quickly something will break.
Room 407.
His hand pauses on the door.
Just for a second.
Then he pushes it open.
And the room is quieter than the rest of the hospital.
Dimmer, too—the lights lowered, machines humming softly in the background.
Adachi is there.
The sight of him lands all at once.
He’s lying still, the white of the sheets too stark against him, a bandage wrapped carefully around his head. There’s a faint trace of something darker at the edge of it, already cleaned, already contained.
It doesn’t look like enough.
It looks like too much.
Kurosawa steps closer without thinking.
“Kiyoshi.”
The name comes out quieter than before.
Not a call.
Something softer.
There’s no response.
Not immediately.
Kurosawa’s hand hovers for a moment before settling carefully against the side of the bed, close enough without disturbing anything.
Grounding.
In and out of consciousness.
He watches.
Waits.
Counts each second without meaning to.
“…Yuuichi…”
It’s barely there.
More breath than voice.
Kurosawa stills.
Adachi doesn’t open his eyes.
Doesn’t move.
Like the name slipped out of him without waking fully.
Something in Kurosawa’s chest tightens sharply—then eases, just as quickly, like it doesn’t know which direction to go.
“I’m here,” he says, softer still.
Adachi doesn’t respond.
But he doesn’t need to.
Kurosawa stays.
(っ˕ -｡)ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁
Adachi stirs again.
It’s subtle at first—just a small shift against the pillow, like his body hasn’t quite decided if it wants to wake yet.
Kurosawa is on his feet immediately.
“Kiyoshi?”
A faint sound.
“…mm…”
His eyes open a fraction.
Not fully.
Not clearly.
Just enough to let the light in—and the shape in front of him.
He squints.
Focuses.
And there—too close—too familiar—
“…tch…”
Kurosawa freezes.
Adachi’s expression pinches, like he’s deeply inconvenienced by what he’s seeing.
“…stupid… Kurosawa…”
The words are slurred, soft—but there’s a familiar edge to them.
Adachi squints harder, like that’ll help.
It doesn’t.
“…why are you…” he trails off, losing it halfway through.
Another pause.
Then, quieter—more confused than anything—
“…too close… Go away...”
Kurosawa instinctively leans back a fraction.
It doesn’t help.
Adachi frowns deeper.
“…stop…”
Kurosawa freezes.
“…stop?”
Adachi shifts, just slightly, like he’s trying to get comfortable and failing.
“…stop being so… handsome…”
A beat.
Kurosawa blinks.
Adachi keeps going.
Because of course he does.
“…and… smelling nice…”
Kurosawa actually stops breathing for a second.
“…and—”
Adachi’s voice dips, softer, like the effort of speaking is catching up to him—
“…hot…”
Silence.
Kurosawa is completely still.
Adachi exhales, like he’s just solved a very important problem.
“…it’s distracting…”
And then, as abruptly as it started, his head tilts slightly to the side.
His breathing evens out.
Gone again.
The room falls quiet.
Kurosawa doesn’t move.
Not for a long moment.
Then—very slowly—he sits back down.
“…I see,” Kurosawa exhales.
It’s quiet—but it almost sounds like a laugh that doesn’t quite make it out.
There’s a faint, helpless curve to his expression now.
“…I’ll keep that in mind.”
(っ˕ -｡)ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁
Adachi eventually surfaces again, slowly this time.
Not all at once—just in pieces.
Sound comes first. A quiet hum. Something steady, rhythmic. Then the weight of his own body, heavy and distant, like it doesn’t quite belong to him yet.
Light.
Too bright.
He winces faintly, eyes fluttering open before immediately wanting to close again.
“…mm…”
“Adachi?”
The voice is close.
Too close.
His eyes open again, slower this time.
Focus struggles to catch—and then it does.
Kurosawa.
Yuuichi...
Kurosawa Yuuichi...
His boyfriend.
Right there.
Adachi freezes.
Because something is—wrong.
Kurosawa is leaning over him, one hand braced against the edge of the bed, the other resting near his side.Close enough that Adachi can see the faint crease in his shirt, the way the fabric pulls slightly where his sleeves have been rolled neatly to his elbows.
His arms—
Adachi’s brain stutters.
His shirt—
It’s still crisp. Still white.
But the top buttons are undone, just enough to reveal a sliver of skin that absolutely. Was. Not. Necessary in a hospital setting.
Adachi blinks.
Once.
Twice.
“…Kurosawa…?”
“I’m here,” Kurosawa says, calm. Gentle.
Like nothing is wrong.
Like this is normal.
It is not.
Adachi stares at him.
Really stares this time.
“…why are you…” he trails off, because his brain has completely abandoned the original question.
Because now there’s a new problem.
A much bigger one.
“…so close…”
Kurosawa tilts his head slightly.
Just enough to lean in closer.
“You seemed to prefer it,” he says softly.
Adachi’s brain stops.
“…what?”
There’s something in Kurosawa’s expression now.
Subtle.
Barely there.
But very, very deliberate.
“You said I was distracting,” he continues, voice just this side of mild. “So I thought I’d stay where you could see me.”
Adachi’s soul begins to leaves his body.
“I—what—”
Kurosawa doesn’t move. If anything, he shifts closer, the movement smooth, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world.
Adachi can smell him.
That’s a mistake.
A terrible mistake.
“…You—” Adachi starts, and then immediately loses whatever point he was trying to make.
Kurosawa watches him quietly.
Patient.
“Am I still distracting?” he asks.
Adachi makes a sound that is not a word.
His face is burning.
His brain is gone.
Everything is too much.
“…You’re—”
He stops.
Tries again.
Fails again.
“…This is illegal…”
Kurosawa pauses.
Then—very softly—almost a laugh— “I see.”
Adachi drags a hand over his face, immediately wincing at the movement.
“Don’t—don’t do that—”
“Do what?”
“That—” Adachi gestures weakly in his direction, which does not clarify anything at all.
Kurosawa glances down at himself, as if genuinely considering the question.
“I’m only doing what you asked.”
“I did not—!”
“You told me to stop being handsome,” Kurosawa adds lightly. “I’m afraid that’s a bit... difficult.”
Adachi makes another strangled noise.
“…huh? No…”
It’s weak.
Unconvincing.
Completely ruined by the fact that he’s still staring.
Kurosawa’s expression softens.
Just a little.
“Hm?”
Adachi freezes.
“…no,” he admits, much smaller now.
A pause.
“…but can you at least—” he swallows “—be less… that.”
Kurosawa considers him.
Then, very deliberately—he leans back.
Just enough.
The distance returns.
Barely.
“Like this?” he asks.
Adachi exhales like he’s just been given oxygen again.
“…yes… thank you…”
Kurosawa hums softly, settling back into his chair.
“…you’re welcome.”
But the faint curve at the corner of his mouth doesn’t fade.
(っ˕ -｡)ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁
Adachi eventually shifts.
Uncomfortable lying down now.
He's more aware of his body, of the weight of it, of the dull ache that follows when he moves too quickly.
“…mm—”
“Careful,” Kurosawa says immediately, already moving again.
Before Adachi can fully push himself up, a hand is at his shoulder—steady, warm—guiding him gently.
“Here,” Kurosawa murmurs, adjusting the pillow behind him, one arm braced at his back as he helps him sit.
Adachi lets himself be moved.
He doesn’t have the energy to argue.
The world tilts for a second as he sits upright.
He winces faintly, eyes squeezing shut.
“…okay,” he mutters, more to himself than anything else.
“Too fast?” Kurosawa asks.
Adachi shakes his head, then immediately regrets it.
“…maybe a little.”
Kurosawa’s hand lingers at his shoulder, thumb brushing once—absent, grounding.
“Take your time.”
Adachi breathes in slowly.
Out.
Again.
Finally things start to settle.
He opens his eyes, staring vaguely ahead as he tries to piece things together.
“…I remember going outside…” he says slowly.
Kurosawa doesn’t interrupt.
“…Tokyo calling…”
A pause.
“…then—”
The memory catches.
Not cleanly.
Just fragments.
“…a sound… movement…”
His brow furrows.
“…sky…”
That part is clearer.
Bright.
Too bright.
“…and—sirens, I think…”
It trails off there.
Like the rest is just out of reach.
Adachi exhales. “…and then I woke up here.”
Silence settles for a second.
Then— “Is that everything?” Kurosawa asks.
Adachi glances at him.
“…I think so.”
Kurosawa tilts his head slightly. “…you don’t remember anything else?”
Adachi frowns.
“…should I?”
A pause.
Kurosawa’s expression shifts—subtle, but unmistakable.
Something interested.
“…you said quite a lot, actually.”
Adachi freezes.
“…I did?”
Kurosawa nods once, very calm. “…while you were half asleep.”
Adachi’s brain immediately goes to the worst possible conclusion.
“…what did I say.”
Not a question.
A demand.
Kurosawa hums softly, like he’s considering where to start.
“Well,” he says, “first, you seemed very annoyed.”
Adachi’s stomach drops.
“…what.”
“You saw me and made a face.”
“…that’s normal,” Adachi says quickly. “That’s a perfectly normal reaction!”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
Kurosawa nods thoughtfully. “…you also told me to go away.”
Adachi chokes.
“I—what—no I didn’t—”
“You did.”
“I wouldn’t—why would I—”
Kurosawa watches him unravel with quiet patience.
“…you seemed to find me… irritating.”
Adachi is going to pass out again.
“That’s not—” he stops, recalibrates, “—that’s out of context.”
Kurosawa’s mouth curves slightly.
“I’m sure it was.”
A beat.
Adachi narrows his eyes.
“…what else.”
Kurosawa pauses.
Just long enough to make it worse.
“…you asked me to stop being handsome.”
Silence.
Adachi’s soul vanishes from his body completely.
“I did not!”
“You did.”
“I would never—”
“You also asked me to stop smelling nice.”
Adachi makes another strangled noise.
“…and to stop being hot.”
That’s it.
That’s the end.
Adachi’s face goes fully red.
“…No.”
Kurosawa nods once.
Very sure.
“…Yes.”
Adachi stares at him.
Horrified.
“…you’re lying.”
I’m not.”
“…you’re exaggerating.”
“I’m not.”
“…you’re—”
He stops.
Because there is no winning this.
There is only one solution.
Adachi grabs the blanket—and pulls it up over his head.
“Kiyoshi—”
“I’m going to live here now,” comes the muffled response. “This is my life. I live here.”
There’s a pause.
Then—very quietly— Kurosawa laughs.
Not loud.
Not teasing.
Just soft, warm, and completely unable to stop it.
“…I see.”
The blanket shifts slightly as Adachi burrows deeper.
“…stop looking at me…”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m not,” Kurosawa repeats, still smiling.
A beat.
Then—the mattress dips.
Adachi goes still under the blanket.
“…what are you doing.”
There’s a soft rustle of fabric.
Warmth.
Closer than before.
“…joining you,” Kurosawa says, voice quieter now.
The blanket lifts—just enough—and then settles again.
Adachi blinks in the dim, enclosed space.
Kurosawa is there.
Too close.
Again.
“…you can’t just—”
“I can,” Kurosawa says gently.
Adachi hesitates.
“…I said embarrassing things.”
“I know.”
“…you’re not supposed to reward that.”
Kurosawa’s expression softens.
“I’m not,” he says. “…I’m just staying.”
Something in Adachi’s shoulders loosens.
Just a little.
“…oh.”
Silence settles again.
But this time, it’s different.
Adachi shifts closer.
Careful of his head.
Kurosawa’s arm comes around him without hesitation.
“…you’re still kind of too hot,” Adachi mumbles.
Kurosawa huffs a quiet breath.
“I’ll try to work on that.”
“…don’t,” Adachi adds, softer now.
A beat.
“…As you wish.”
The blanket stays pulled over both of them.
The world outside dimmed to nothing.
And for now—It's enough.