Rein doesn’t follow immediately. He toes off his shoes, shuts the door gently, and leans his forehead against it for a moment, chest tight with the kind of ache he doesn’t know how to name.

The house was too quiet.Too still. The only sound is the soft hum of the fridge and the faint tick of the clock.

Normally, Damian would leave for work in the evenings. Rein glanced at the clock.

5:34 PM.

No shower running. No jacket zipping. No key jingling by the door.

Rein stood frozen in the hallway, bag still on his back. His chest felt like a balloon someone was slowly pressing on. He headed to Damian's room. 

He knocked softly on Damian’s door. "You okay?"

No answer.

"Should I call your job and tell them the apocalypse has started?"

Still nothing.

He cracked the door open. Damian was curled on his side, hoodie drawn over his head like a shell. His eyes were open, but he wasn’t looking at Rein.

The silence stung more than shouting ever could. And Damian never shouted. 

"…Okay," Rein mumbled. "I’ll go make us dinner."

Rein wants to start dinner but he also wants to cry.

He chooses dinner.

Rein moves automatically, washing rice, heating oil, chopping vegetables with practiced hands. It’s the same routine every day — structure, predictability, control. It keeps Damian calm. It keeps Rein sane.

The knife slips a little when he thinks of the look on his brother’s face earlier — the way he went completely still, shoulders drawn up like a hunted animal. Rein had seen it before, but never at school. Never like that.

By the time the food is ready, Damian still hasn’t come out. Rein takes a deep breath, plates their dinner, and knocks on his brother’s door before cracking it open.

"Damin? I made food."

Damian is now curled up on the bed under his weighted blanket, noise-cancelling headphones pulled tight over his ears, eyes fixed on the corner of the ceiling. His body is tense, one hand clutching the blanket in a white-knuckled grip. He doesn’t respond.

Rein walks in slowly, sets the plate down on the dresser, and sits on the edge of the bed. He doesn’t touch him. Doesn’t speak again. Just waits. His fingers tapped three times against the blanket, then stilled. Then three times again. 

After a while, Damian shifts slightly.

"I was going to work," he murmurs. "I had my things ready. I don’t want them to think I flaked. I don’t flake."

"I know," Rein says gently. "But it’s okay to stay home today."

"They’ll think I’m unreliable."

"You haven't skipped a day of work since you started working at the library. They’ll understand."

Damian blinks, frowns faintly. He doesn’t answer.

Instead, after several long minutes, he reaches one hand out from under the blanket and places it on Rein’s arm. It's light. Barely a touch. But Rein still feels like something inside him could crack wide open.

That night, Rein brushes his teeth, changes into his pajamas, and climbs into his brother’s bed without a word.

Damian doesn’t comment either. He just shifts over to make room.

Under the weighted blanket, in the quiet of the room, Rein finally lets his eyes close.

The dream starts in a sky that isn’t a sky at all.

Stars blink in patterns Rein has never seen before — and they’re pulsing, almost like breathing. A language drips from them like honey and ash. Somewhere far away, a voice whispers his name, but when he turns to look, he’s already falling—

—through clouds made of glass, past glowing trees, down into a lake that doesn’t ripple when he hits it.

He doesn’t feel fear. He feels known.

Then the lake shatters.

He wakes with a gasp.

But everything is quiet.

Damian is asleep beside him, breathing softly. The room is dark, warm, familiar.

Rein frowns at the ceiling.

"Okay. What the hell was that." Because he doesn't have weird dreams like this, Damian does the dreaming! 

After a few minutes of trying to make sense of it, he gives up. His brain is weird. That’s not new.

He rolls over and mutters, "Forget it," before pulling the blanket over his head and drifting back into dreamless sleep.

                                        _________

The next day Damian’s back to his usual self.

Well, mostly. He still wears his headphones around his neck and winces at the clatter of the cereal box, but he talks more — asks Rein if he wants toast or eggs, reminds him to double-knot his laces, and spends a full ten minutes deciding between his dark blue hoodie and his gray one.

(He picks the gray. Less contrast.)

Their morning routine clicks back into place like a puzzle piece.

And Rein is so relieved he almost forgets he has to go to school.

Until he walks through the front gates and feels approximately every single pair of eyes swing his way like he’s stepped onto the red carpet. Only this carpet is concrete, and instead of flashing cameras, it’s just… people whispering.

Rein blinks.

“What—oh.”

Oh no.

The fainting. He fainted. In public. In the middle of class. In front of The New Kid.

"I would like to disappear," Rein mutters to himself as he speed-walks toward the building. "Or be abducted by aliens. Or fall into a portal. Literally anything."

He tries not to make eye contact. It mostly works. Until he steps into the classroom.

The noise level is higher than usual. Laughter. Chatter. People clustered in little groups.

And right in the middle of it all?

The new kid. 

Laughing.

Smiling.

Actually talking to people.

Rein stops in the doorway.

For a second, he forgets how to move.

The new kid — the mysterious, faint-inducing, cheekbone-sculpted-like-he-was-carved-by-a-fallen-star new kid — is socializing. Casually. Like he didn’t just knock Rein’s entire nervous system offline yesterday.

"Ha! That’s wild," The new kid was saying, voice smooth, low, like warm honey with a secret in it. A couple girls giggled. Someone actually sighed. Rein wanted to throw a desk out the window.

Instead he blinked and just stood there. That wasn’t fair. No one should sound like that. Or look like that while sounding like that.

Then he glanced up. And everything stopped.

Literally. The entire class went silent. It’s not even dramatic. It’s instantaneous. One by one, people notice Rein in the doorway, and the noise dies down like someone’s turning a volume dial. Half the class looks curious. The other half looks vaguely concerned.

One girl tilted her head in pure curiosity. Another whispered something behind her hand. Someone else mouthed, "Is he okay?"

Rein fights the urge to spin around and leave instead he stared back. Then raised a hand in an awkward little wave.

Why are you waving, you idiot?

He rolled his eyes-mostly to himself-and dropped it immediately. He marched to his seat like a soldier trying to ignore the fact that he just fell face-first in front of enemy lines.

It’s fine. I’m fine. This is fine. Maybe they’ll forget by lunch. Or next century.

Before anyone could ask him anything—What happened? Are you dying? Is it contagious?—the classroom door opened again.

"Alright, settle down," Mr. Kelso called as he walked in, juggling a coffee mug and a stack of papers. "Pop quiz today."

Collective groans rose around the room.

Rein exhaled in relief.

Saved by academic suffering.

He dared one last glance toward Torren.

The boy was already looking at him, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Not mocking. Not curious. Just… knowing.