Fushimi barely has time to settle on the couch before there's a knock on his door.

Yata had put this off for a while now. Maybe longer than he should have. Definitely longer than was smart. But he sags against the doorframe, forehead thudding softly against the wood as he lets it hold him up for a moment. He could feel the way his hands trembled and he shoved them into the too-large pockets of his hoodie to hide it.

He was running out of options here and as much as he hated to ask anyone for help... Well. Had he mentioned running out of options here? He didn't know what else to do.