Makki is crying on the couch and you aren't sure how to respond.
Hands folded over his heart and phone clutched between them, Takahiro squeezes his eyes close as tight as possible and lets the tears just flow. His whole body heaves with silent sobs, ribs expanding and constricting arrhythmicly as anguish contorts him, flushing the skin of his cheeks a dark, splotchy red. Misery overwhelms him from head to toes and he just lets it happen, crying midday and midapartment.
You open your mouth to speak, but only a squeak of a sound comes out.
"Hiro?" You manage to say on your second try.
"Hey!" He scrambles to sit up straight, wiping the wet from his cheeks with his thumb. His voice is snotlined and jagged, even as he tries to sound chipper. "Hey! What's up, baby?"
You slink closer, hands knotted behind your back. "You okay?"
"Me? Pst, yeah. Totally." Makki shrugs and smiles, the wet of his eyes still threatening to roll over. "Just chilling."
You tilt your head and he understands the motion; Hiro pats his lap and you close the gap between you to slide into it, legs over his and hands finding his cheeks. They are still warm and wet with tears, gritty with their salt. His cheeks puffy out as he forces a smile for you.
"Do you want to talk about it?" you try. He shrugs again, face scrunched up in a playful pout, then lets the facade crumble. Shoulders fall as he nods and he lets his bottom lip quiver.
"Just missing my mom." His eyes are red against his strawberry blonde hair.
"Oh, Hiro..."
You aren't really sure what else to say. It's not like there's anything you could say to make it better.
You never knew his mother and you never will- something that Makki has lamented to you before. He insists that she would have loved you, maybe even more than he loves you. She would have loved the apartment, loved the ring Makki bought you, loved the list of babies' names that you two may or may not ever use.
"I got an ad for perfume." Makki says after a long while. There's a lift to his voice, as if he finds whatever he's saying to be silly. "Mom used to wear this awful perfume towards the end. Smelt like a fucking cheap hand soap."
He laughs midsentence, tripping over his words. "And she wore so much of it that when she hugged me, it'd just cling to my clothes for hours. My sisters and I hated it. Oh my god, we tried to come up with excuses not to hug her but she always fucking got us anyway."
When he laughs this time, it's more of a shaking exhale, caught somewhere in between misery, melancholy and amusement.
"I really want one more stupid, stinky hug from her," Makki whispers. "Just one more."
You know it's not the same, but you wrap your arms around him anyway and squeeze, scrambling to hold as much of him as you can.