Shintaro doesn’t mean to find him.
It just happens—like most things with Juri.
Juri is sitting somewhere he shouldn’t be.
Not unsafe.
Just… not where people usually stay this long.
It’s too quiet for that.
The kind of quiet that settles wrong—like it’s waiting for something to end.
The lights hum overhead. Too bright. Too steady.
No one lingers here unless they have to.
But Juri does.
Like he’s already run out of places to go.
Shintaro tells himself it’s coincidence.
The same hallway. The same waiting area.
Juri, already there.
It happens enough times that it stops feeling accidental.
“You again,” Juri says once.
Not surprised. Not annoyed.
Just… noting it.
Shintaro sits down beside him.
That’s when it starts meaning something.
He doesn’t mean to stay. Juri doesn’t ask him to either.
That’s the difference.
He doesn’t ask for anything.
Not comfort. Not answers.
Shintaro realizes—he doesn’t have to be anything here.
He can just… be.
So he stays.
Juri is already there when he arrives.
Sitting on the floor. A spot where people don’t usually stay this long.
Not completely comfortable, but not unsafe. Just somewhere that isn’t meant for lingering.
“You’re still here,” Shintaro says.
Juri huffs. “So are you.”
It’s light. It’s wrong.
Juri looks fine.
That’s the problem.
Shintaro doesn’t ask what’s wrong.
He’s learned—people who want to be stopped don’t talk like this.
“You ever think about how things end?” Juri asks.
Shintaro shrugs. “Sometimes.”
Juri nods. Like that’s enough.
“I don’t think I get to pick mine,” he says.
Shintaro doesn’t say don’t talk like that. He doesn’t say you’ll be fine.
He just says—“You’re still here.”
Juri laughs. Small.
“Yeah,” he says. “For now.”
A pause.
Then—
“You’re weirdly easy to talk to,” Juri says.
Shintaro huffs. “You say that like it’s a compliment.”
“It is.”
A pause.
“You get it,” Juri says.
Shintaro glances at him. “Get what?”
Juri shrugs. “That it doesn’t really matter how things end.”
Shintaro goes still.
“Yeah,” he says.
“That helps.”
Shintaro recognizes it—and doesn’t argue.
They sit there.
Not fixing anything. Not pretending.
Shintaro doesn’t mistake what this is.
And more importantly—he doesn’t try to make it anything else.
Shintaro doesn’t say what he wants to. Juri doesn’t ask.
And somehow—that’s the only reason it lasts as long as it does.
Shintaro isn’t there at the end. Not in the way that matters.
He hears about it after. In pieces. In softened words.
Enough to understand—Juri didn’t fight it.
Shintaro doesn’t ask for details.
He already knows what they would sound like.
They don’t meet in a meaningful place.
Just a hallway. Or a waiting area that’s been used too many times.
Jesse recognizes him. Not by name.
By presence.
“You stayed,” Jesse says. Not a question.
Shintaro nods.
“So did you,” he says.
That’s enough.
Silence. Not heavy. Just… understood.
Jesse looks away first.
“Did he—” he starts, then stops.
Shintaro doesn’t ask him to finish.
“He knew,” Shintaro says.
Jesse exhales.
Something in his chest loosens.
Not relief. Just… less weight.
“Did it help?” Jesse asks.
Shintaro shakes his head.
“No.”
Then, after a second—“But leaving wouldn’t have either.”
Jesse huffs a quiet breath.
“Yeah.”
They don’t exchange names. They don’t need to.
There’s nothing else to say. They’ve already done the part that mattered.
He meets Taiga later.
Not on purpose.
Just… the kind of overlap that happens when someone leaves and the people who knew them are still there.
Taiga looks like someone who has been told the truth too late. Shintaro sees it immediately.
Taiga recognizes him first. Not from any formal introduction.
From proximity. From the way Juri used to look less alone when he was around.
“Shintaro,” Taiga says.
Shintaro nods.
“Taiga.”
That’s enough.
Silence settles. Not awkward.
Just… shared.
Neither of them says Juri’s name first.
They don’t have to. It’s already there.
In the way Taiga doesn’t ask why Shintaro stayed. In the way Shintaro doesn’t ask what Taiga lost.
Taiga studies him.
Too steady. Too calm.
“Are you—” Taiga starts, then stops.
Shintaro doesn’t make him finish. “You weren’t supposed to know yet,” he says.
He watches Taiga for a second. Then, quieter—
“I get it,” he says.
Taiga exhales. Of course he does.
“You were there,” Taiga says.
Not a question.
Shintaro nods.
“You stayed.”
Not accusing. Not admiring.
Just stating.
Shintaro shrugs. “Someone had to.”
Taiga almost laughs. “He didn’t let me.”
Shintaro glances at him.
“I know.”
That lands. Fully.
They stand there—not as rivals, not as replacements, but as two people who loved the same person—and were given different permissions.
Taiga looks away first.
“…Does it help?” he asks.
Shintaro considers that.
“No.” Honest. Immediate.
Then, quieter—
“But I don’t think leaving would’ve either.”
Taiga nods.
He understands that more than he wants to.
“If there was something to blame,” Taiga says once, quietly, “I think I’d be doing better.”
A beat. Then—
“He was stubborn,” Taiga says.
Shintaro huffs. “Still is.”
Taiga almost smiles.
That’s as close as they get.
Shintaro doesn’t make a scene of it.
There’s no announcement. No final moment that gathers everyone in one place.
He just… gets worse.
Slower than Juri.
Quieter.
Until one day, he isn’t there anymore.
When Shin opens his eyes again, the world is different.
Not unfamiliar. Just… rearranged.
He looks down at his hands.
They feel lighter.
Like something has been taken away—or returned.
He meets him again.
Not the same. Not exactly.
But close enough that Shintaro doesn’t question it.
This one falls straight into his arms—trying to end things quicker.
For a moment, the world narrows.
Just weight.
Just breath—ragged, uneven, too fast.
Juri clutches at him like there’s something solid to hold on to.
Like he expects resistance.
He’s not supposed to interfere.
But it isn’t time yet. That’s all.
Shintaro holds him anyway. No one else does.
The noise comes back first—voices, footsteps, something breaking the quiet from far away.
They only see Juri—on the ground, folded into himself like something that almost broke.
Hands reach for Juri.
They pass through Shintaro like he was never there.
Juri doesn’t notice.
Or maybe he does—because his grip tightens, just for a second.
Then loosens.
Shintaro doesn’t follow when they pull Juri away. He stays where he is.
Until the world shifts.
Another room.
Another body that is already losing.
He exhales. Shifts his weight slightly.
“Try not to aim for me this time,” he mutters.
There’s no reason to say it. He says it anyway.