When Houtarou wakes up, it takes him a several long, drawn out moments to realize exactly what woke him.

It's his phone, lit up on his bedside table. It's ringing, not vibrating, and he groans at the thought of someone calling him at—he slides his gaze from his phone to his digital clock—three-fifteen in the morning.

But nobody would call him this early if it wasn't important, so he reaches out tiredly to grab his phone, almost knocking it to the floor in the process.

It takes a second longer than it should for him to read the name on his caller ID through sleep-blurred eyes, but Fukube Satoshi makes him groan again.

Still, Satoshi would be texting him if it weren't important, so he clumsily flips his phone and presses it in the approximate direction of his ear and ends up smacking himself in the cheek instead.

"It's three in the morning," he says instead of a greeting, a yawn breaking his voice halfway through the sentence. Satoshi laughs, the sound tinny through the line, but it sounds stilted enough to make Houtarou pause.

"Sorry," Satoshi says, and he actually sounds apologetic enough to make Houtarou sit up in his bed. "I just—um. Can I come in?"

"In?" Houtarou repeats, furrowing his brow. "Wait, are you outside?"

The silence is telling. Satoshi doesn't say anything, but Houtarou is already swinging his legs over the side of his bed.

"I'll be right down, don't—don't hang up, what the fuck, Satoshi," he's saying as he stumbles out of the room, more than a little grateful for the fact he's the only one in the house. His friend sucks in a shaky breath, quiet but loud enough that it makes something in Houtarou's stomach churn anxiously.

But Satoshi does as he asks. He doesn't hang up, and as Houtarou makes his way downstairs, he recognizes the irregular hitch in his friends breathing as choked-back tears.

He can't remember ever seeing Satoshi cry. He feels sick, wondering what the hell has got him in such a state, and by the time he's fumbling with the front door he's more worried than he's ever been.

Satoshi is standing on his front porch, phone clutched in his shaking hand. His fingers are red with cold and so is his face, flecks of snow catching and melting in his hair and against his skin as he slowly closes his phone at the sight of Houtarou.

"What," Houtarou says, voice catching, "The fuck, Satoshi, get inside—how long have you been out here?"

"Um, twenty minutes?" Satoshi tries, letting Houtarou reach out to grab his shoulder and haul him inside. "I was at the park until then. I didn't mean to…sorry."

Houtarou has no idea why he's apologizing or what he's even talking about and quite frankly he doesn't care yet. He drops his cellphone on the table by the door with the house keys and barely remembers to lock the door again as he tries to tell his heart to stop running a marathon.

"Whatever, just, take off your jacket and—come upstairs, okay, fuck, you're freezing."

Satoshi doesn't protest. He lets Houtarou help pull off his jacket, dropping it on the floor of the closet by the door instead of actually hanging it up. His whole body is trembling, Houtarou realizes, and his skin is icy to the touch.

He wonders how long Satoshi had been outside. He wonders why.

By the time he's dragged Satoshi upstairs by the elbow, his shaking has subsided into something a little less concerning, but he still hasn't said what the hell is going on.

Houtarou wants to ask.

Instead, he closes his bedroom door behind them both and watches as for once, instead of immediately flopping onto his bed and cracking jokes, Satoshi just stands there looking lost.

Houtarou makes his way around him to his dresser, pulling out the warmest pair of pants he owns—well, second warmest, considering he's wearing the other pair—and something long sleeved.

"Take these," he says as he shoves them in Satoshi's still-shaky arms. "You need to warm up, your clothes are wet—do you need a shower?"

"I'm fine," Satoshi says automatically, staring down at the clothes in his arms as if they're something strange and unfamiliar. Then, realizing how utterly unbelievable the words I'm fine sound coming from him at the moment, he musters up a truly pathetic smile and says, "I mean, I don't need a shower."

Houtarou thinks he does. Or at least a bath, but he knows if he pushes it, Satoshi will stop talking to him. So instead he turns around while Satoshi starts undressing, frowning harder than usual to himself.

The only time he's ever seen Satoshi so despondent, let alone this upset, was that snowy day on cusp of spring—months and months ago, when he'd hidden Ibara's chocolate's away, when he'd averted his gaze and confessed he had given up on obsession in a tone that implied he hadn't.

Ibara. His skin itches at the thought of her, of them—her and Satoshi, Satoshi and Ibara—and he wonders if she has anything to do with this. Then he feels a stab of guilt, because she's his friend and he shouldn't automatically assume such a thing simply because he's not entirely comfortable with her and Satoshi's relationship.

He's so caught up in his thoughts he almost doesn't notice the rustling of fabric has stopped, but when he does, he turns to find Satoshi staring vacantly past Houtarou and out the window.

The snow is coming down harder, now, the clouds dark and thick in the distance, moon barely visible behind the coverage. Satoshi looks so far away that Houtarou briefly wonders if he's there at all, and he reaches out to touch him, fingers curling at his shoulder to reassure himself.

Satoshi blinks up at him and the illusion is lost; he's there, he's real, and Houtarou's clothes hang off his shorter, skinnier frame so awkwardly it would be comedic in any other situation. Instead of laughing, Houtarou forces himself to keep his voice steady as he says, "You should lay down."

"Oh," Satoshi says, looking down at Houtarou's bed. Then, completely unprompted, he says, "Mayaka and I broke up."

Houtarou, who had been about to say something—anything, really, to urge him into the bed or maybe ask if he needs anything else—sputters, coughing, tightening his grip on Satoshi's shoulder without really thinking about it.

Satoshi isn't looking at him. He's staring at the bed, or maybe at nothing at all, and Houtarou wishes he could say this was a surprise to him. Sure, Satoshi had been trying with Ibara, but it had been obvious to him and Chitanda that he was miserable. Honestly, he's surprised they lasted this long. He doesn't say that, though—he knows that for some reason Satoshi had wanted desperately to try with Ibara, to make himself feel the same as her.

"I'm," he starts, hesitating, sliding his hand from Satoshi's shoulder to put arm around him in an approximation of a hug. "I'm sorry."

He is, too. He hadn't been comfortable with the two of them dating, but that was his own personal feelings getting in the way of rationality; Satoshi had wanted something with Ibara, and now it's gone, and he's like this because of it.

Satoshi inhales, deep and trembling.

"Me too," he chokes out, and he's finally crying, hunching his shoulders under Houtarou's arm and shaking as violently as he had been when he was outside, lifting a hand to press against his damp face.

Houtarou, who can handle tears about as well as he can handle children—which is to say, not at all—does the only thing he can think to do. He pushes Satoshi to sit on the edge of his bed, gently as he can and without removing his arm from his shoulders.

Satoshi lets Houtarou lead him. He's cries quietly, which isn't surprising; his stronger emotions have always been quiet and hard to discern. But he still cries, shaking and gasping, covering his eyes with the sleeve of his borrowed shirt.

Houtarou wants to ask why now, but he doesn't say anything. He lets Satoshi cry, curled under his arm, and tries very hard to ignore the tightness in his own chest.

By the time his shaking has subsided and his breathing has evened out, it's after four in the morning and both of his sleeves are damp with tears. Houtarou wants to say something, but knows how terrible he is at comforting people, so instead he waits.

"I'm sorry," Satoshi finally says, muffled by his posture and the sleeve against his face. His voice is rougher than Houtarou has ever heard, and his heart practically lurches at the sound. "For. Showing up, like this, and—sorry."

"You don't need to be," Houtarou assures him, leaning closer against him to press his forehead to Satoshi's hair. "I'm glad you're here, not…" freezing to death like an idiot, he doesn't finish. Satoshi laughs, a strangled, broken noise that makes Houtarou's chest hurt.

"Do you know why?" Satoshi asks, and he doesn't need to clarify what he means. Why Ibara broke up with him, or he broke up with her. It was probably her—Houtarou knows Satoshi could have gone on forcing himself to pretend for far longer.

"I can guess," Houtarou admits. He could deny it—should deny it—because it's a fresh wound, but he knows Satoshi needs to be aware that he knows. That he's always known. That he's been waiting.

Satoshi probably already knows all of that, of course. But he's very good at convincing himself otherwise.

Houtarou draws himself back, just enough so Satoshi can angle his head to look over at him. His face is red with the effort of his tears, eyes bright and mouth drawn.

A hand reaches for Houtarou's free arm, fingers cool against his wrist as they curl into a loose grip. Satoshi looks less devastated and more resigned and Houtarou stills, heart in his throat.

Satoshi straightens his posture just enough to bring his face level with Houtarou's, and when he leans in, Houtarou should lean back. He knows this. He should turn away, remove his arm from Satoshi's shoulders, should go sleep in his sister's vacant room.

But Houtarou has never claimed to be a good person, so he lets Satoshi kiss him, lips warm on his. Even with their mouths closed, Houtarou can taste the salt of his tears, and he closes his eyes and sighs into it as his heart sinks from his throat to its rightful place behind his ribs.

It's just a kiss, he tells himself; it's just a kiss, for now. Satoshi is the first one to draw back, and Houtarou opens his eyes just enough to see. Satoshi's not shaking under his arm any longer and his expression is lighter than it's been all night.

"I've wanted to do that since middle school," he says. His voice is still hoarse, but he's almost smiling when he turns his face into Houtarou's arm.

"I've been waiting for you to do that for just as long," Houtarou says. Satoshi laughs, and this time it sounds almost like normal, bright and easy.

It's ruined by a jaw cracking yawn, and Houtarou remembers that crying is an exhausting activity and it's well past four in the morning. Unlike him, Satoshi probably hasn't slept at all, so he draws his arm back from Satoshi's shoulders.

"We can talk—" he almost says in the morning, realizes it technically is the morning, and goes with, "Later. We can talk later."

"Are you staying?" Satoshi asks, and he tightens the loose grip on Houtarou's wrist to indicate his distaste at the possibly of him leaving to sleep in his sister's room.

And he should, really. But he doesn't want to, and the effort it would take to force himself to leave Satoshi and head downstairs is more than he cares to exert, so he shakes his head.

"It's my bed," he says as a thinly veiled excuse. "You can't kick me out."

"I'm not trying to," Satoshi assures him, the smile on his face easing itself into his voice as well. He leans back, drawing Houtarou with him as he moves to lay on his side; Houtarou follows suit, reaching his free hand to pull the thick bedding over them both.

While Houtarou typically sleeps facing the wall, this time he faces Satoshi, who lets go of his wrist in favor of an arm around Houtarou's waist. They've slept like this before—almost every time they've shared a bed or a futon—but it's a little different, now. Satoshi knows Houtarou knows and neither of them are pretending.

Houtarou wants to say it—I like you, is on his tongue, but he doesn't, because now isn't the time. Satoshi would want to hear it, would say it back, but with Ibaya still on his mind and the months he's spent trying to convince himself to feel differently still weighing on him, it wouldn't be right.

"Houtarou," Satoshi says, voice quiet between them as Houtarou slides his own hand over Satoshi's hip.

He looks like he wants to say something, and Houtarou waits, but Satoshi huffs and closes his eyes instead.

"Goodnight," is what he eventually whispers, and since it can't be seen, Houtarou lets himself smile.

"Yeah," he breathes in agreement, closing his own eyes. "Goodnight, Satoshi."

They'll be fine.