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Awareness pulls you from the smooth, inky darkness of dreamless sleep. The first thing you see is the face of your best friend, contorted into something you can’t quite decipher. Words flow from his lips, albeit choked, and you realize belatedly that he must have been speaking for a while because there's an obvious lack of context. It feels like you’ve intruded or interrupted a private conversation but Yosuke is, undoubtedly, speaking to you.
You try to take stock of your surroundings. Your body feels like lead, rooted in place. Are you at the Samegawa flood plain? Come to think of it, this is familiar. You've been in a situation like this, with Yosuke falling apart in front of you. Now that you're paying more attention, you notice that Yosuke's crying the way he had back then, with a stuffy red nose and blotchy cheeks.
His words become shrill, panicked; so you do what you'd done back then (you manage to move your weighted feet to close the cavernous space between you and Yosuke) and embrace him, tight. He sobs into your shoulder.
It's not until he chants your name like a plea that you begin to think you're misinterpreting the situation. Isn't this about Saki?
Dreams do tend to warp toward your desires. You think you'll feel embarrassed about this in the morning, but for now, you'll take private pleasure in it.
"Please," Yosuke whines hoarsely, "wake up."
With a startled jerk, you do.
"He's awake!" yells Chie, a gasp coating her words. Chie?
You blink slowly. Your friends are circled above your head. They lean away when Kanji barks at them to give you space. Yosuke stays put, however, and you watch him cast Dia on you.
Lifting yourself up on your elbows, your gaze travels down your body. Your shirt has been unbuttoned to reveal a pool of blood; there's so much of it that the sight actually manages to unsettle you, make you rear back a bit.
"Easy," says Yosuke, placing a hand between your shoulder blades. "The wound's not there anymore."
Sure enough, you've been knit back together. Yukiko sits on her knees looking haggard, and you know that you have her to thank for that. "Your first time using Salvation..." you murmur to her. "You did well. Thank you."
Her mouth trembles; she presses her lips into a straight line and looks away. "I was so sure it wouldn't work. It wasn't, at first! You were dead and I couldn't focus on reviving you, I..."
Chie wraps Yukiko up in her arms. You say, "But it did." She quiets, breathing unevenly against Chie's neck.
Your stomach glows again and the blood dissipates. You look up at Yosuke, who's too focused on readying another Dia to notice your attention on him.
He's a wreck. His skin has gone pale, hands trembling around a translucent blue card. You reach out and grab his wrist.
"Yosuke. I'm okay."
He stares at you blankly. His cheeks are wet, eyes rimmed with pink, and you think back to your dream.
"We're heading back," you say definitively. It's a given; Yukiko's wrung dry, you've just come back to life, and Yosuke looks one breath away from keeling over himself. Still, it needed to be said and especially by you. It's the catalyst for everybody to stand, Kanji and Yosuke moving to either side of you for support.
It takes a bit of convincing, but eventually your friends decide that you're well enough to be left alone. Yosuke is the exception, standing stubbornly by your side with his arms crossed tightly over his torso while the rest of the Investigation Team disperses.
He casts glances at you the whole way home while making small talk to fill the silence. He mentions staying the night as though you don't have a choice in the matter, but even if you did, you'd welcome him any time.
When you reach the Dojima residence, you're a little disappointed to see that your uncle isn't home. Nanako is, and she explains mutely that her father is working at the precinct overnight. You ruffle her hair, inspiring a giggle, and resolve to never make such a fatal error in the TV world ever again. You were close to never coming home. She would have been waiting for somebody who wasn't ever going to show. Again.
After confirming that she'd already eaten dinner, you tell her not to stay up too late and lead Yosuke upstairs. It's only half-past eight but your body doesn't seem to think so; your legs quake and your abdomen is sore with exhaustion.
You consider offering Yosuke a spot in your futon but he usually declines, opting for the couch instead despite its lack of comfort. Tonight, it turns out you don't need to say anything at all; as soon as you've arranged the bedding in your favor he's slipping inside and smothering his face into the pillow.
Inching your way beside him, you study the contour of his body. He's stiff. You nudge him.
He turns over at your urging but refuses to look at you, eyes locked onto the ceiling.
"Yosuke," you murmur.
Yosuke silently covers his face with his hands. You can hear the soft inhale-exhale of his breaths, see the way his chest rises and falls with each beat. He’s teetering at the edge of a breakdown and it, if left alone, could be avoided altogether. But you’re feeling selfish. You want to comfort him. You want to be relied on. You want, most of all, for Yosuke to be comfortable enough pouring his heart out to you like he had in your dreams.
So you reach for him, a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Yosuke,” you repeat.
Just as you predicted, his next inhale sounds more like a gasp for air, followed by the softest sob you’ve ever heard—and then he’s turning onto his side, toward you, burying himself close to your chest.
“This is so lame,” he mutters shakily. He sniffs. “I’m getting worked up over nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. I almost died.”
He shudders. Your hand curves around his shoulder to slide down his back. He’s so thin.
“But you didn’t. So why…”
You repeat the motion of your hand, stroking him, and decide to remain quiet so that he’s able to gather his thoughts. Sometimes this decision backfires on you and Yosuke panics at the silence, withdrawing into his shell and quickly insisting on a different subject. You worry this will happen as you feel Yosuke tense beneath your palm, but he surprises you with a tired sigh.
“I guess it just came as a pretty big shock.”
Your fingers find the nape of his neck, curling and uncurling around soft, messy locks. “What did?”
“How much I…” He pauses, and you imagine him blushing. “How much you mean to me.”
It must be easier for Yosuke to say something so obviously sentimental while he’s essentially molded his body to yours in a pitch black room. He could even get away with passing it off as delirium or exhaustion, should this come up tomorrow. But you know it won’t—not unless you bring it up.
Yosuke finally lifts his head, adjusts his torso so that he’s talking to you rather than into you. You wish you could see his face; instead, you draw your hand to his cheek and marvel at the wetness. What’s it like to feel so much, you wonder?
“It’s not even like I’ve known you my whole life. I mean, sure, it seems like I have, but that’s…” He laughs; it’s a bitter sound. “God, I’m so pathetic. Latching onto you like this.” Emotionally, he means. You understand the concern but you don't agree.
“You’re stressing yourself out over nothing,” you tell him. “You care about me. What’s the problem with that?”
“I don’t know.” He turns his head away from your palm as if ashamed. “Maybe I care too much. Man, I’m a mess. I’m not making much sense anymore, huh.”
He sounds so miserable. It makes your heart ache.
“I like it.”
You feel Yosuke’s eyes on you, curious and shocked.
“You like that I’m clingy?” he huffs.
“It’s nice.”
Yosuke rolls right back into your chest and you can feel the embarrassment radiating off of him. “You’re so weird.”
“It’s not weird to be happy that someone really cares about you.”
“But it’s me.”
“You shouldn’t be so self-deprecating, Yosuke. I’m even happier because it’s you.” Yosuke’s incredible. Maybe one day he’ll realize that.
Today’s not that day. He releases a noise of vague assent, like he’s agreeing for the sake of avoiding an argument. As the room falls silent, you resume stroking his hair. You think Yosuke is starting to calm down until you notice the front of your shirt becoming slick in small patches. Still distraught, then.
You pull Yosuke’s face away from your chest with a careful grip on his cheeks. Your eyes have adjusted to the darkness which means it’s likely Yosuke’s have, too; still, he clenches them tight as if reluctant to look at you.
That’s alright.
You lean forward, kissing the corner of one eye. Your mouth dampens. His lashes, long and clumped, brush against your lips and Yosuke swallows hard. He exhales and reaches for you, clutching desperately at your wrists—not pushing, but pulling.
Despite the strange, lingering taste of salt, you persist, pressing butterfly kisses to the expanse of Yosuke’s cheek, his temple, his forehead. The hand resting on the other side of his face works to wipe away the clinging wetness. For a moment, you’re worried that your efforts to console will be in vain, but Yosuke relaxes as you fill the silence with your love for him.
“Partner,” he whispers, and he’s the one to meet your mouth with his own.
The movement is surprisingly smooth; perhaps it’s because Yosuke isn’t overthinking it, simply tilting his head and slotting your lips together like that’s where you’d been planning to kiss next. (It hadn’t been. Your confidence only reaches so far, and there are boundaries you were certain Yosuke wouldn’t want to cross—but he’d initiated. He came to this conclusion on his own.)
When you pour every ounce of affection and fondness into the kiss, still cradling Yosuke’s jaw, Yosuke manages to last a good ten seconds before he pulls away with a whimper and covers his face with a wrist, knocking yours out of the way in the process.
You hum. “Too much?”
Yosuke fidgets and hiccups, scrubbing at his face. He seems too overwhelmed to speak.
He needs normalcy—an excuse to stop crying. You decide it’s time; Yosuke looks completely drained and you're not much better off.
“You’re that worked up over a kiss? I suppose I should take that as a compliment…” you tease, eyes lidded. He inches his wrist down and glares at you.
“Shut up! I wasn’t expecting you to—I mean, I’d hoped, but—argh! Stop trying to get me to confess!”
“Does that mean there’s something to confess?”
“Not if you keep giving me shit.”
Yosuke says this, but his sniffling has ceased and he can manage to match gazes with you. If there is an oncoming confession (you and he both know there is), you don’t want it to be now. Not while Yosuke looks like he’s on the cusp of passing out.
(More indulgently, you also want to be able to see him more clearly. He’ll blush, which you’ve always found cute. And won’t it be nice for Yosuke to see his feelings reflected back at him?)
“Let’s get some rest.”
He nods, yawning his agreement, and then: “Turn over.”
“Hm?”
“Just—do it!”
So you do. He drapes an arm around your waist and presses himself to your back. Holding you. You feel warm. Safe—which must be the intention. Loved. His heart beats in tandem with yours.
“Yosuke,” you murmur.
He doesn’t respond. His breathing is slow and steady. Asleep, you ascertain; you’re surprised he hadn’t succumbed sooner. You close your eyes and smile.
“Thank you.”