It was winter.

It was winter and the sky was grey and cloudy, the threat of cold rain hanging over the city every day. It was winter and everything seemed dreary the way that it always did when they weren’t touring and there was no new music to record. It was dreary in that way that made him want to curl up in his home with a bowl of soup, nestled in a blanket and watching the rain patter against the window from the safe shelter of his apartment. Instead, he found himself on the train to his friend’s apartment with wet socks, a soaked umbrella and a glum disposition. Ryou hadn’t been returning his calls—again. And it was the third time in as many months that Kei had had to venture all the way to his best friend’s home unannounced because Ryou refused to pick up his phone.

Kei sighed, rustling his fingers through his messy hair; the wind had sent some rain careening into it, too, rendering it even more unkempt than it had been when he had left his own home. He ignored the inconvenience of it all, the disgruntled looks of all the men and women piled onto the train around him. Most of them were in business suits—anyone who could avoid leaving the house on days like this would—and most of them looked as if they’d rather be anywhere else than inside the soggy train with dozens of other people who would also prefer to be anywhere else.

Kei was almost glad when he got off at Ryou’s stop, though that meant that he would have to venture into the rain again; he strode out of the station with his gut filled half with annoyance and half with worry. A large part of him didn’t believe that anything bad could have happened to his longtime friend; the first time this had happened, he’d rushed over to Ryou’s apartment in a panic, thinking that something terrible had happened, only to find Ryou at home and in one piece with absolutely no explanation of why he couldn’t bring himself to pick up the phone. Ryou hadn’t seen any fault in his actions, hadn’t seen any problem with the fact that he hadn’t answered Kei’s calls—had had no idea why that had worried his friend.

Kei couldn’t help but be annoyed as he thought back to that time, the pure clueless confusion in Ryou’s gaze—and he was a difficult person to upset in even the slightest sense—because he was sure he was being made to rush over to his friend yet again to find the same scene: Ryou insisting that nothing was wrong, that Kei was overreacting and he was fine. And yet Kei knew that he’d rush over anyway, every time. And that was what drove him crazy.

The fourth time Kei rang Ryou’s doorbell, he was becoming more than fed up; he followed it with a pointed knock on the door, deciding he’d refuse to let up until Ryou opened the door. With anyone else, Kei wouldn’t have even stayed for four rings; with anyone else, Kei would have presumed the person wasn’t home and simply come back later—but he knew Ryou almost never left his apartment anymore unless forced to by work obligations or by Kei. The guitarist sighed and leaned on the doorbell, hearing it buzz unceasingly through the door. A long minute later the door swung open fiercely.

“What?” Ryou snapped angrily as he pulled open the door, staring up at his friend with angry eyes. Kei blinked at the sight of the other man; Ryou was unshaven, his hair completely unkempt, his clothes wrinkled and disheveled. The guitarist just frowned but didn’t say anything.

“I’ve been trying to call you for the last three days, and you haven’t picked up or returned any of my phone calls. I was worried,” Kei said softly, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice as he spoke. Ryou just shot him an irritated look, though his gaze was dull.

“I was sleeping,” he said listlessly, though his tone remained a little displeased. He offered no further explanation than that, and Kei stared at him, completely taken aback by the other man’s less-than-adequate justification for his actions. The guitarist blinked.

“For three days?” he asked dimly, sounding a little annoyed himself by that point. Ryou just glared, holding the door open for his friend with a disgruntled expression. “Do you want to come in? You’re soaking wet.”

Ryou’s voice was listless even as he made the offer; it would normally have a joking tone accompanying it, but in that moment, Ryou simply sounded tired, despite his protestations of having been asleep. Kei frowned and nodded, walking inside as Ryou held the door open for him. “Just wait there. I’ll get you a towel,” Ryou proclaimed quietly as Kei began toeing off his shoes at the door, standing there with a sigh as he propped his umbrella against the wall and waited for the other man to come back. A moment later, Kei barely managed to catch the towel that struck him in the chest.

“Thank you,” he said courteously, despite being more troubled by the other man’s behavior than thankful for the gesture. He patted himself gently with the towel, trying to get some of the wetness out of his clothes while his eyes traversed Ryou’s apartment, lingering in several places for long moments before moving on. Ryou, without preamble, made his way over to the couch and plopped himself down, waiting for Kei to finish his best attempt at drying out his clothing. A moment later, Kei moved nearer.

“Ryou, this place is filthy,” Kei said softly, looking around the room again with soft eyes. It wasn’t that the other man was usually particularly orderly as much as it was the absolute level to which he’d let everything fall into disarray; drawers were open with contents spilling out, blankets and papers and clothes and books strewn about nearly every section of the floor, dishes unwashed in the sink. Ryou pulled his legs up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them.

“Thank you, mom,” he hissed softly, sounding more hurt than angry. He turned his head to look up at Kei with large, forlorn eyes that made the guitarist feel inexplicably guilty for his words for reasons he couldn’t even begin to fathom. He hadn’t said anything cruel, and yet somehow, the look in Ryou’s eyes made him feel as if he’d made an amazing slight. He cleared his throat.

“Don’t make me feel like shit, Ryou. When was the last time you left this apartment? Or saw anyone, for that matter? You skipped the last meeting,” Kei inquired seriously, giving the other man a serious look. The look in Ryou’s eyes couldn’t have been more frightened; he tugged his legs closer to his chest and cringed visibly. Kei looked around the apartment again. “When was the last time you got food, even?”

Ryou just whimpered, and Kei sighed, feeling a low burning feeling in his chest that he couldn’t readily identify. He, Kei, wasn’t supposed to be the mature one in the relationship with the older man; he wasn’t the one who was supposed to be taking care of Ryou when for so long, it had been the other way around. He frowned, crossing his arms.

“Why don’t you get dressed, and I’ll take you out to lunch?” Kei suggested after a moment, shooting the vocalist a somewhat forced smile. “I’ll treat.”

Ryou stared at him for a long moment, as if what he had just suggested was a completely foreign concept. He looked panicked, inexplicably so, and Kei wasn’t sure how to respond to the other man’s reaction, wasn’t particularly sure what to say. After a long moment, though, Ryou just shook his head, running a hand nervously through his hair. “I really need to shower,” he excused after a moment, as if that somehow countered the suggestion. Kei just sighed again.

“Why don’t I go pick something up while you’re in the shower, and we can eat in, then?” he finally put forth, feeling strangely drained by the conversation. Ryou was silent and still for a moment before he nodded his acquiescence, giving his friend a half smile.

“Just leave the door unlocked when you leave, and let yourself back in,” Ryou said with a slow smile, standing up off the couch. He gave the other man a gentle look before disappearing out of the room, leaving Kei standing there with a heavy heart.

* * *

Ryou was still in the shower when Kei came back with several cartons of Chinese food in hand. He could hear the sound of the shower running from the other room as he glanced around the wreck of the apartment, trying to find a place to deposit his load. He was soaked all over again, overburdened by the necessity of carrying both his bags and an umbrella, but he just took it with a sigh as he found a free bit of counter space and set down his bags.

By the time Ryou came out of the other room ten minutes later, in only a pair of low-slung cargo pants, Kei had managed to clear a space on the low table in the middle of the room, setting out all their food containers and two plates—which he’d had to wash himself, since none of Ryou’s dishes were clean—out across its surface. He hadn’t been able to resist the urge to straighten up a little while he had been at it, moving the load of clothing into a corner and stacking the books and papers in semi-organized piles. Ryou plopped down on the floor at the other side of the table, resting his elbow on his knee. After watching him for a brief moment, Kei reached out a hand, extending a pack of cigarettes to the other man.

“I got these for you, too. I figured you didn’t have any,” Kei murmured after a minute, and the almost gleeful smile that found its way to Ryou’s face as he took the pack from his friend’s hand made him glad that he had. Ryou almost immediately tore open the packaging and selected one, slipping the thin cylinder between his lips and groping along the floor for a lighter. A moment later, he surprised Kei by finding one, seeming to have some sense of organization in all of his home’s chaos. He lit his cigarette quickly, releasing a low sigh as he pulled in the first lungful of smoke. Resting his arm on his raised knee once more, he smiled at the other man.

“Thank you,” he said sincerely, seeming so much more like the Ryou that Kei knew. His hair was still wet, hanging in limp waves upon his shoulders, his shirtlessness revealing prominent collarbones as he puffed contentedly on his cigarette. Kei cracked a soft smile, feeling a little reassured by the familiarity—at least that which existed between the two of them.

“There’s food, too,” Kei remarked after a moment, gesturing toward the items on the table—as if that fact hadn’t already been obvious. Ryou nodded slowly, looking distracted as he puffed on his cigarette again as if it were a life-giving elixir. Kei wasn’t eating either, just watching Ryou as he smoked his cigarette down to the filter. Absently, Kei pushed an ashtray he had found while clearing away the chaos across the table to Ryou. Smiling another easy smile, Ryou stubbed out his cigarette and turned his body to face the table more, reaching for his chopsticks. Seeing this movement, Kei smiled again, feeling a bit more at ease as he reached for his own.

Both men took some time dishing food onto their plates silently, neither seeing the need to speak. Ryou was the first to take a bite of his food, looking thoughtful as he rolled the flavor around in his mouth. Kei took a bite too, mirroring Ryou’s movements, before Ryou finally swallowed and moved to speak.

“You’re too good to me, Kei,” he admitted after a moment, though his voice had the vague impression of being relaxed and unbothered. “Much better than my behavior warrants.”

Kei frowned, lowering his chopsticks, filled with a bite of food. He set both the food and the utensils back on the plate, suddenly feeling the weight of the other man’s words as he met Ryou’s eyes. The vocalist was the first to look away, as if being analyzed made him uncomfortable, as if he couldn’t stand the feel of even Kei’s eyes piercing him that way. The other man’s jitteriness made Kei bite his lip nervously.

“I just want to know what’s going on with you,” Kei admitted quietly after a moment, voice low and vulnerable. His words made Ryou shift uncomfortably under the other man’s scrutiny. “I mean…how long have we known each other, Ryou? I’ve never seen you get this bad. Missing meetings, and practices, ignoring phone calls…I just want to know what I can do to help you.”

Ryou looked up at Kei after a long second, but rather that see that same uncertainty he had encountered earlier, Ryou just smiled resignedly at him, eyes filled with quiet but sad conviction. Finally, he reached across the table to place his hand on his friend’s arm, squeezing gently.

“Don’t worry about me, Kei-chan,” Ryou said softly, the uncharacteristic use of the honorific to try to calm the other man’s nerves. “You know how things go with me—I’m like the ocean. If you wait long enough, the tide will come back in. I just….don’t know where the moon is right now.”

They held each other’s eyes for a long moment, both of their gazes serious—and the grim certainty in Ryou’s eyes almost made Kei want to cry. He didn’t, though, just held the other man’s eyes for the longest of moments before nodding mutely, though Ryou’s words did nothing to quell the soft worry in his chest. Still smiling gently, Ryou removed his hand from Kei’s arm, shifting back on his haunches and grabbing his chopsticks once more, turning back to his meal. And Kei did the same, and things dragged on.