ᡣ𐭩 •｡ ᵗʰᵉ ᶠᵃᵘˡᵗ ˡⁱⁿᵉˢ ⁱⁿ ᵇʳᵉᵃᵗʰ; ˢⁱˡᵉⁿᵗ ᵗʰʳᵉᵃᵈ, ᵍᵉⁿᵗˡᵉ ʰᵃⁿᵈˢ ⊹ ࣪ ˖

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4th place snagged by rinisagi + burnout confession trope (except the confession is silent bc theres barely any dialogues in this fic)

here we gooo!

i made sure to add lots of tired stares, heavy sighs, and way too much unspoken “help me” energy !!   writing this mess was a rollercoaster buh we gotta get into that quiet chaos and soft freakouts at one point 🤸

the title is s#!t, too i dont have the creative juices to come up with a better one my bad :point_right: :point_left:

lastly, i just wanted to exptess my deepest gratitude to sally sweetheart for proofreading my work ,, so yeah no more typos yay!! have fun reading

update: tysm for the feature 🫶 :sparkles:

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⊹   ˑ ִ ֗           ˖ ་            ֙ ⋆   ˎˊ˗

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the fault lines in breath; silent thread, gentle hands.

isagi stops mid-run, cleats sliding in the mud like he’s running on nothing. the drill continues around him—echoing shouts, breathless lunge, the ball thudding off metal post—but isagi stands still  as though gravity finally ed to tug on him. his shoulders slouch so low they might collapse; his eyes are full of all the maps he’s drawn in his head of places he’s never reached. rin watches him from the sideline, heart thudding like a warning.

when isagi finally sways like a tree caught in a sudden wind, rin steps forward, quiet as smoke getting in your eyes. he doesn’t call his name. he doesn’t offer a line about how even the strongest blade can dull if you grind it on stone too hard. he’s never known how to string words together when everything inside him wants to combust. so instead of speaking, rin walks around him and closes the gap—just enough so that isagi can feel the heat of his body, the steady hum of his pulse.

rin’s hand moves without thinking, sliding across isagi’s back, fingers pressing into the hollow where shoulder meets spine. it’s a touch tempered by years of practice—of battles fought and battles lost—something urgent and soft, like holding a dying bird in your palms. he doesn’t know what to say. how do you hold someone who’s unraveling by the seams, whose every breath tugs loose another thread? how do you stop the wind from pulling them apart, strand by strand, until there’s nothing left but the outline of who they used to be?

rin doesn’t know. he doesn’t know how to fix the hollow in isagi’s chest, the one he keeps filling with effort and ambition  and the silent scream of not being enough. but he knows this: he won’t let isagi unravel alone. if the thread leads anywhere, he’ll follow it—barefoot, hands bloodied, pulling it through thorn and ash. he’ll be the knot at the end of the rope, the thing that keeps him from slipping entirely. if he can’t stop the breaking, he’ll hold the pieces. gently. reverently. as if they were his own. so he stays silent and breathes into the space between them, warm as confession.

isagi’s breath hitches, ragged as a broken cello. he wants to speak, maybe to apologize for the weight he’s become or to ask rin not to leave. but the words splinter into dust before they reach his lips. instead, his hands curl into fists at his sides, knuckles white. rin’s fingers tighten their circle on his back, like a lifeline thrown across a chasm. and isagi leans into it—trusting, trembling, as if he’s finally dared to hope there’s someone at the other end.

rin presses his cheek to isagi’s shoulder, mouth close enough to taste the salt of sweat. he lets his palm drift upward, over the tense muscles at the nape of isagi’s neck, and whispers a name without saying a word. it’s not forgiveness he offers—it’s presence. it’s the quiet promise that even when everything else falls away, he’ll remain.

the field lights hum like a winding-down song and shadows pool around them. isagi tilts his head, brushing his lips against rin’s hand, a silent rupture of gratitude and grief. the touch is desperate, tender, like they’re both clinging to the same last breath of air. rin doesn’t flinch. he leans into isagi’s warmth, as though drawing strength from the very thing that’s breaking him.

and in the quiet after the fall, when ambition has blistered down to bone and all that's left is breath and the ache of trying too hard for too long, they press into each other like shelter. nothing is said at first. the world doesn’t need them to speak, not now, not when their hands find each other so easily in the dark. and then, barely audible, like something slipping loose from between cracked lips: “ i don ’t want to keep doing this if you’re not beside me.” a pause. a heartbeat. “i’m so tired and all i know is that i love you.”

it’s not a victory. it’s not surrender. it’s something heavier, holier. they don’t rise—they lean. they don’t promise—they stay. and in that burned-out hush, in the hollow where greatness used to echo, they choose something quieter. they choose each other.

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˚₊‧꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

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bye bye brain fried ,,

mua aah ૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა ♡

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