In the days that followed, Giyuu found himself inexplicably drawn to Obanai's room, sometimes lingering a few extra moments after checking his vitals or adjusting his IV. He couldn't explain the pull. As a nurse, he had always approached his patients with empathy, but this felt different—a quiet, pervasive feeling that persisted long after he'd left Obanai's side.
Obanai, too, felt something strange. He'd never been one to trust easily, and his wariness of others was practically second nature. But there was something about Giyuu, a gentleness in his movements and words, that softened him. Over the next few weeks, they fell into a steady rhythm, an unspoken understanding. Words weren't often exchanged, but every glance, every quiet nod, seemed to build a bridge between them that neither quite knew how to cross.
..
As Obanai's physical condition gradually improved, he found himself waking up with more energy, though the fatigue and malnourishment had taken their toll. Giyuu made sure to handle every aspect of his care personally, from his meals to physical therapy exercises.
One evening, after a particularly rough day, Giyuu brought a homemade meal to Obanai's room. The hospital food wasn't the best, and he'd noticed Obanai picking at it unenthusiastically, his appetite slow to return. It was a simple dish, carefully prepared, but Obanai stared at it like it was some rare delicacy.
"Did you... make this?" he asked, his voice a soft murmur.
Giyuu looked away, a faint flush dusting his cheeks. "I thought you might... enjoy something different."
Obanai stared at him for a moment, a strange expression on his face, before he picked up his chopsticks and took a bite. The silence that followed was comforting, filling the room in a way that felt warm, almost like home. Neither said anything, but Giyuu could tell from the subtle softening in Obanai's expression that he appreciated it.
Over time, their quiet moments became routine. Giyuu would bring small things—books he thought Obanai might like, an extra blanket on the cold nights, or even a cup of tea he'd steep himself in the hospital break room. And though Obanai rarely said anything, he accepted these gestures, the subtle barriers around him starting to fall away, one small act at a time.
...
One rainy afternoon, Obanai was leaning against the window, watching the storm with a distant expression when Giyuu entered his room. Obanai didn't look away as he approached, his eyes still fixed on the rain, his face softened by the dim light filtering through the clouds.
"Giyuu," he said quietly, a softness in his tone that Giyuu hadn't heard before. "Do you... always do this for your patients?"
Giyuu paused, uncertain how to answer. He glanced down, as if contemplating the words he could use. "Not... exactly," he admitted, choosing his words carefully. "You're different."
Obanai looked at him, his gaze penetrating but curious. There was a vulnerable, tentative quality to his expression, as though he was as surprised by Giyuu's answer as Giyuu was to say it. "Different?" he echoed, the word almost foreign on his tongue.
Giyuu's cheeks flushed again, but he met Obanai's gaze. "I don't... know how to explain it," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I just feel... drawn to you."
For a long moment, they simply looked at each other, the storm outside intensifying, the room bathed in quiet, soft shadows. Neither said anything more, but something passed between them in that silence—an understanding that was as subtle as it was undeniable.
...
As Obanai's health continued to improve, Giyuu found himself stealing glances whenever he could, but he wasn't the only one who had noticed. Some of the other nurses had taken a liking to Obanai, popping into his room on their rounds and even stopping to chat with him. It wasn't unusual, but for some reason, every time Giyuu saw it, he felt an unexpected pang—a feeling that twisted low in his stomach, stirring an uncomfortable possessiveness he didn't understand.
Obanai, meanwhile, had developed his own silent jealousy. He noticed how the other nurses would speak to Giyuu, how they'd laugh a little too easily, or brush a hand against his arm as they passed by. It irritated him, a prickling sensation that he didn't know how to manage. He didn't dare say anything, but his face would grow dark, his eyes flashing in subtle irritation whenever someone else was around Giyuu for too long.
One day, after a younger nurse had stopped by Obanai's room, complimenting Giyuu on his dedication, Obanai's expression had shifted, cold and guarded. As soon as she left, he muttered, "You seem to... enjoy all the attention."
Giyuu blinked, surprised by the comment. He frowned, unsure how to respond. "I'm just doing my job," he said softly.
Obanai narrowed his eyes, his jealousy evident even in his silence. It was irrational, he knew, but he couldn't help it. "You're not... just doing your job with me, though," he finally whispered, almost as if he regretted admitting it.
Giyuu froze, his breath catching. He hadn't expected that level of honesty from Obanai, not so soon. For a brief, vulnerable moment, they stared at each other, the tension thick in the air, as though everything they'd held back was on the verge of surfacing.
...
One evening, when Obanai was almost fully recovered, they found themselves together again, seated in comfortable silence. The conversation was light, casual, until Obanai looked at Giyuu, a rare intensity in his gaze.
"I'm leaving the hospital soon," he murmured. The words hung heavily in the air, like a bitter pill neither of them wanted to swallow.
Giyuu looked down, his heart sinking. He should've been happy—Obanai's recovery was the goal, after all. But the thought of not seeing him every day felt... wrong. He swallowed hard. "That's good," he said softly, though the words felt hollow.
Obanai's fingers tightened on the edge of his blanket. "I don't... want to leave you," he admitted, his voice breaking with the weight of vulnerability he'd kept so carefully hidden.
The admission hit Giyuu like a wave, crashing over the silence between them. He looked up, his expression softened, finally allowing the depth of his own feelings to show. "Then don't," he whispered.
The room fell silent again, but this time, it was a silence filled with the promise of something unspoken—a fragile bond that had survived through weeks of stolen glances, shared silences, and quiet gestures.
Obanai reached out, his hand trembling, and Giyuu took it, their fingers entwining in a gentle, steady grip. It wasn't much, but it was enough—a gesture that said everything neither of them had been able to say.
And in that moment, the slow burn ignited into a quiet, steady flame, one that neither had expected but both had desperately wanted.
