The sky was blanketed in a thick gray, as if someone had spilled a jar of ink over the clouds. The air carried the pleasant scent of damp earth, and though the streets weren't quite flooded, they felt cloaked in a deep stillness. It was one of those Sundays when people preferred to stay home, bundled up, enjoying quiet time with family.
Autumn had settled firmly across the region, bringing with it occasional rain showers that composed a soft melody against rooftops and windows—a soothing rhythm that made anyone listening yawn. Cool drafts crept through every crack, adding the perfect finishing touch to a scene that all but begged one to stay in bed.
In the midst of that atmosphere, two men were lost in their own worlds. On the left, Roberto was half sprawled across the couch, one leg dangling off the edge and the other bent against the backrest. He held a can of cheap beer in his right hand and the TV remote in his left, although he hadn't changed the channel in a while; captivated by a show full of absurd comedy that had caught his attention.
Beside him, right where the armrest met the body of the couch, he'd placed a trash bin borrowed from the kitchen. Into it, he tossed the empty cans one by one. He didn't do it out of a sudden sense of tidiness, but rather as a direct result of the scoldings and threats he had received from the home's owner.
A few weeks earlier, he had promised to go out drinking less after Dylan got sick because of him. That's when he started drinking at home, leaving the cans on the floor under the excuse of throwing them away later. At first, it wasn't an issue, but over time the pile grew, and the smell of stale beer became impossible to ignore.
That was what got him scolded, and also sparked his brilliant—and lazy—idea of putting the trash bin within arm's reach so he wouldn't have to get up every time he had a few sips.
That was Roberto, same as ever.
Meanwhile, across the room at the dining table, Dylan sat in front of his laptop. The dark wooden table was covered with a faded blue tablecloth, topped with a thin plastic cover. On top of it sat the laptop, alongside an open notebook where he occasionally scribbled a few notes.
His elbows were propped on the table, fingers laced under his chin, wireless earbuds tucked into his ears. Besides, his eyes were locked on the screen, just inches from his face.
He was watching a documentary about gorillas. The program discussed their physiology, habits, and the habitats they lived in. But he didn't always consume the same kind of content. Sometimes he looked up information on how to survive natural disasters, extreme climates, or out-of-control situations: like being stranded on a deserted island.
He'd also dabbled in learning basic crafts and martial arts through instructional videos. Still, those skills depended more on practice than theory, so his dedication to them was minor.
Dylan, one of the few humans who could truthfully say he had lived over a hundred years, retained fragments of knowledge on many of these subjects. But those memories were incomplete—not just from the toll of merging two consciousnesses after one had returned to a time not its own, but also from sheer attrition over the decades and a desire to leave certain experiences behind.
His future self's memory had discarded a lot of information it deemed irrelevant, leaving him at the mercy of instincts that were no longer as sharp as they once had been. That's why browsing the internet helped him reinforce and reorganize what he still retained. Plus, he occasionally stumbled upon facts that even he found new.
Roberto had made fun of that interest plenty of times. Upon discovering Dylan's fondness for animals and nature, he would often joke, half-seriously, "So what, you marry a snake in a past life or something?" Faced with remarks that were strangely insightful yet also completely off the mark, Dylan chose silence. Over time, without any reaction from him, the jokes slowly faded away until they all but vanished.
In general, the two shared the space in a kind of peaceful silence. It wasn't a sign of hostility, but rather an unspoken truce between two people who had stopped trying to fully understand each other. There was no resentment or serious conflict—just two very different natures coexisting under the same roof. Though lately, even that quiet dynamic had started to shift again.
So, in the midst of that gentle lull—filled only by the sounds of the TV, the rain tapping on the roof, and the occasional clink of a can hitting the bin—there came a light knock on the front door.
Recognizing the familiar rhythm, Roberto blinked as if the sound had reached him with a second's delay. He sat up slightly and turned his head toward Dylan, who remained focused, seemingly unaware of the visitor.
"Shit."
Clicking his tongue, he cursed softly and pulled himself up with a groan. Then, he stretched his arms above his head, letting out a yawn, and headed toward the entrance, scratching different parts of his body with disinterest—some visible under his shirtless torso, others only known to him and his girlfriend.
Before the visitor could knock again, he turned the handle without even asking who it was.
Standing outside, under a light drizzle, stood Haru. She wore a black hood, different from her usual hoodie: a waterproof one, practical for the damp weather. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, and a droplet of water slid down her collarbone, nudged by the breeze. In her arms, she cradled a wicker basket covered with a white cloth, large enough that she needed both hands to hold it.
"Well, well, would you look at that… If it isn't the ice man's girlfriend. What could such a dull guy possibly have to make a pretty girl come see him even in the rain?"
"Good morning, Mr. Roberto. What a surprise to see you here. I thought you usually went out on Sundays."
Ignoring most of his words, Haru gave him a polite smile and answered calmly, making it clear this wasn't their first encounter.
"Haha! Maybe I should clear out then, to give the lovebirds some space," Roberto added with a sly grin, letting out a nasal chuckle.
He took her neutral reply as an indirect jab. So, grinning from ear to ear, he raised his voice to make sure his friend would hear.
"Hey, Dylan! Quit watching your little animal videos and come take care of your girl! Be a man already, for fu— Agh!"
"Shut it, dumbass. No need to yell. I'm right here."
Before he could finish, Dylan smacked him across the back, turning his teasing into a pained yelp. Ever since he'd seen Roberto get up, he'd taken off his earbuds and closed the laptop without rushing. It hadn't been hard to guess who the visitor was, given the limited options.
He'd heard the entire exchange and caught the discomfort in Haru's eyes. She hadn't known how to react to Roberto's filterless jokes. That's why he stepped in… though clearly not fast enough.
The slap wasn't enough to fully relieve his irritation. So, after casting a glance at the sky beyond the doorway, he looked sideways at his companion, who was now rubbing a visibly reddened spot on his back.
"Roberto… don't you feel it's a bit cold today?"
"Uh? Yeah, kinda," he replied without much thought, still sulking from Dylan's aggressive reaction.
"Glad we agree. Because it's the perfect weather to warm up."
With that, Dylan placed a hand on Roberto's shoulder. The tall, burly man froze, suddenly realizing where that was going.
"Go grab the gloves from my room. Let's have some fun."
Roberto swallowed hard. A bead of cold sweat trickled down his forehead.
"Ah... crap. J-just remembered I had to call my girlfriend this morning. I mean, a few hours ago. I should've done it by now, but it totally slipped my mind, haha… You know how it is, right? She hates waiting, and if I don't call she'll think I forgot again, like I don't care, and… yeah, better not drag this out. Real shame, really. I'd love to stay, but you know how couple stuff goes. Priorities, right? I'll leave you to it. See you, Haru. I'll leave you with Dylan… so you two can, I don't know, talk or whatever, heh..."
With that tangled excuse—one even he didn't believe—he turned and retreated down the hallway, locking himself in his room.
Thus, Dylan and Haru were left alone, the front door still open behind her, letting raindrops splash the welcome mat. She was still smiling, but her expression had hardened, marked by the oddness of the scene. He, on the other hand, looked her over from head to toe with a tired gaze.
Of the two, Haru was the first to speak.
"Ahem…! Hey, Dylan. Good thing you're home," she said with a chipper tone.
Dylan didn't reply right away. For a brief moment, he wondered what had brought her out in this weather. But with no time to figure out her reasoning, he gave up and sighed. Then, with a casual flick of his hand, he gestured for her to come in properly and take a seat—inside the same house she'd once considered a potential crime scene.