February came quietly.
Snow fell in lazy spirals. The sky turned the soft blue of old photographs. And for the first time in months, Takara stood in front of his closet debating what to wear for someone else.
He checked his reflection, tried three jackets, then settled on the one Kayo once called "sunshine trapped in fabric"—a mustard-yellow coat with frayed cuffs and too many memories stitched into its seams.
Today wasn't just any day.
Today, Kayo was back in town.
And Takara would see him—for the first time since that night in Paris when they'd let each other go.
The gallery was small but modern, tucked in the heart of the university district. Posters with Kayo's name were plastered outside:
KAYO TSUKISHIRO: BETWEEN BRUSHSTROKES
Takara stood at the entrance longer than he meant to. His fingers were cold. His pulse tapped against his ribs like a warning bell.
Was this a reunion?
A reset?
A mistake?
He stepped inside.
The room was warm. Packed. Low classical music floated through the air as people murmured about shadows, textures, balance. Takara didn't care about any of that. He scanned the room for one face.
And then he saw him.
Kayo.
Standing near the far wall, dressed in black and gray, hair slightly longer, a silver ring on his right hand Takara had never seen before. He looked older. Brighter. But when their eyes met, everything froze.
Kayo excused himself from a conversation and crossed the gallery floor with quiet urgency.
Takara's heart was in his throat.
"Hi," Kayo breathed when they stopped face to face.
"Hi."
Neither moved.
Then Takara whispered, "You look like someone I used to stay up all night for."
Kayo smiled slowly. "You look like someone I never stopped writing letters to in my head."
And just like that, the world narrowed again. To them. Only them.
They didn't kiss.
Not there.
But their hands found each other naturally, like magnets reunited after too long apart.
Kayo guided him through the gallery, stopping in front of one piece that made Takara inhale sharply.
It was a massive canvas—deep swirls of cobalt and ash-gray. At first glance, it looked abstract. But the longer he stared, the more he saw the shape of a face. A hand reaching. A soft yellow arc cutting across the background.
It was him.
It was them.
Kayo leaned close. "I painted it after your letter."
Takara blinked hard.
"It's beautiful," he whispered.
Kayo's voice caught. "It was the only thing I finished in Berlin."
After the exhibit, they walked down the block to a quiet café. The windows fogged from the warmth inside. They sat by the corner booth, hot drinks steaming between them.
Neither rushed.
Neither pretended they were the same boys from the dorm.
"Can I ask something?" Takara said after a sip.
Kayo nodded.
"Did you ever regret leaving?"
Kayo didn't hesitate. "No. But I regretted how I left."
Takara nodded, eyes on the table.
"You saved me from myself that night," Kayo added. "You didn't beg. You didn't crumble. You let me go with dignity. I don't think anyone's ever done that for me."
"I didn't feel very dignified."
"I know."
They shared a silence that felt more like understanding than distance.
Then Takara asked, "Are you staying long?"
Kayo hesitated. "Actually… I was hoping we could talk about that."
Takara raised an eyebrow. "Talk about…?"
"I was offered a position here. At the university's art program. Assistant curator and visiting artist. It's temporary. But it's… something."
Takara blinked. "You're thinking about staying?"
"I'm thinking about us."
Silence stretched between them.
Then Kayo reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small box—not ring-sized. Just simple, square, and flat.
He slid it across the table.
Takara opened it slowly.
Inside was a key.
To an apartment.
Their city.
Kayo said softly, "I signed the lease this morning. It's small. Sunlight only hits the kitchen window. But it's near the bookstore you love. And the library I hated."
Takara stared at him.
"What… are you saying?"
"I'm saying," Kayo said, voice shaking slightly, "I don't want to write letters anymore."
Takara's throat closed.
"I don't want to watch the city change without you beside me," Kayo went on. "I don't want my next collection to be about longing. I want it to be about living. With you."
Takara pressed his palm to the key. It was warm. Heavy.
And terrifying.
Later that night, they stood in the new apartment.
It was bare. Smelled like fresh paint and winter.
Takara dropped his bag in the center of the floor and looked around.
"There's nothing here," he said.
"No furniture," Kayo replied. "No noise."
"But there's space."
"For us."
They turned to each other.
No crowd. No gallery. No distance.
Takara reached out, fingers brushing Kayo's collar.
And this time, they kissed.
It was slow. Not cautious—but reverent. A kiss built on everything unsaid. Every letter. Every call. Every ache and almost.
When they pulled apart, Takara whispered, "I want this to work."
Kayo rested his forehead against Takara's. "Then let's build it slow. On solid ground."
They didn't rush moving in.
They filled the apartment piece by piece.
A couch that squeaked. Plants that refused to die. A secondhand kettle. A shared bookshelf they organized together.
They fought, sometimes. About dishes. About bed covers. About Takara's habit of singing in the shower too early on weekends.
But now, the difference was this: they talked.
They stayed.
They chose each other, every day.
One night, curled on the couch with Kayo asleep against his chest, Takara whispered, "You know what scares me?"
Kayo murmured, "What?"
"This is the part of the story where something bad usually happens."
Kayo opened one eye. "Then let's be unpredictable."