Island of the Misfit Boy

by BlindDestiny

Skill is a broken boy, and that city is so far away... Slight AU. Hajime/Skill oneshot.

Island of the Misfit Boy

"What are you doing?"

The question pulls Skill's gaze from the horizon. Nice is walking towards him with his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets. His voice barely carried over the strong wind on the rooftop. Skill glances back at the city through layers of glass and fence. A grin is painted onto his lips. "Nothing, really. Just enjoying the weather."

"Right," Nice laughs through his nose. "I knew I'd find you here. You're always up here."

"I guess so."

Nice takes a breath, and the sound is lost in the breeze. He stands beside Skill and watches Yokohama flicker far away beneath the brightness of the sun.

The light reflecting off the skyscrapers makes Skill's fingers itch. There's a tightening in his chest. In the distance, an airplane is taking off into the sky.

His hands form fists at his sides. "One day,"

"Hm?"

Skill turns, the light now dancing in his eyes. "We made a promise, didn't we? To see the world from the top of that tower?"

Nice gives a thumbs-up. "The three of us."

"Yeah," Skill grins. "But that reminds me, have you seen my brother anywhere?"

Nice shrugs. "I was actually looking for him when I found you. He still owes me from our last bet."

"That's weird. I haven't seen much of him lately."

Nice kicks at the stray rocks littered on the rooftop. "He's gonna burn himself out at this rate…"

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, it's nothing." He waves the question away. "He's just working too hard. But if you haven't seen him either, I guess I'll look for him in the library. Wanna come?"

"No thanks. Just tell him I was looking for him, okay?"

"You got it!" A wave, and Nice leaves. Skill is once again alone on the roof.

A gust of wind tears through the links of fence and glass panes. It tousles Skill's hair and shoves it into his face. He glances back to the view of the city and those locks are blown away. From so far, the subtle swaying of the tall buildings is noticeable. They bend to the will of the breeze with their occupants none the wiser. But from here the entire city moves as if alive.

The wind slams into the sides of Facultas. It's sliced and weakened by threading through fence and wire. Facultas doesn't budge.

The gleaming city of Yokohama teases him in the near distance. Locked away behind layers of glass and steel. Tall fences lined with spools of barbed wire and bright, seeking lights that hunt the curious.

Skill lays his hand against the cool glass. His reflection stares at him from the other side, just as restless in the open air.

.

"Come on, Nice. Where are you?" Skill scuffs his shoe on the floor with a grumble.

Everything is dark. The rooms within Facultas are shut and empty. It's past lights-out. Skill had to sneak out of his room in order to get here, but Nice had said to meet him in the lower floor of the Administrative Building, said there was something he wanted to show him. Skill couldn't refuse such a request from his roommate, so here he is, standing in the dark with no sign of Nice.

Could something have happened to him? No, probably not. Nice frequently went out after-hours, and always managed to return to their room without issue.

Skill looks around. "Maybe I'm in the wrong place." That's always a possibility. And since it doesn't look like Nice is going to show up any time soon, Skill decides he might as well search for him instead.

So he starts walking down the dim hallway. The sounds of his footsteps fill it to the brim. There's still no hint of Nice anywhere as the hall begins to branch. One part continues on, while another leads to a dead end with a path to a stairwell.

Skill didn't know there were any floors below this one. Maybe that's why he hasn't found Nice yet. When he said lower floor, he meant the basement.

Even the stairwell is sparsely lit. Skill is careful on the way down to the lowest level.

As he emerges from the stairwell he immediately notices the sterile smell of the unfamiliar corridor. The smell of nurses and men in long white coats. The whir of fans and machinery roll in from somewhere far away. Tubes of wiring and the ducts of the central air system are exposed overhead, as if they were added as an afterthought.

What kind of place is this?

Skill treads carefully as he moves down the hall. He passes many shut doors with darkened windows. It isn't long before this hall branches too. He's drawn towards the path that's marked with several 'No Admittance' signs. He can imagine Nice now, seeing those signs and making it a point to ignore them.

So, since he's looking for Nice, he should check beyond the signs, right?

He eases past them before he can overthink it.

Through the restricted passage is another hallway, but this one is lined with thick and heavy-looking doors. They're riveted to the walls and adorned with latches instead of knobs.

His feet drift over to one of the doors. There's a covered slot to the side of it, just tall enough for him to stick his arm through. Not that he'd want to. These doors speak only of keeping things in.

Something pricks in his ears. A sound felt before it's heard. What is it? It's coming from above…

Skill tilts his head back and finds the exposed ducts of the ventilation system.

There's the sound again. It's soft… like breathing. Skill narrows his eyes. Sniffling, he decides. It's muffled, but there. He can hear it, although it sounds like whoever's making the sounds is trying their hardest to remain quiet. A hand over their mouth isn't enough to smother it.

He can't help himself. "Hello?"

A hiccup, and then silence.

Skill waits a moment. "I know you're there, I can hear you. … Are you okay?"

The sounds don't return.

"Is something the matter? What is all of this?"

Still nothing.

"I've never been down here before… it's weird." He kicks the heavy-looking door with his sneaker. There's no echo. It's completely solid. "Why are you crying?"

There's finally a response: an involuntary gasp, like the tiniest shriek. The voice is soft and high. Skill is certain it's a girl's voice.

"Are you sad about something?" The only answer is the central air kicking on. It hums low beneath Skill's breath. "Does it have to do with this big door?" So he tries to pull the latch, even braces himself against the wall and tugs with all of his strength, but it does not budge. The door is bolted shut—sealed, heavy iron and steel. "I… can't open it."

"… pointless…"

"Huh?" His face whips towards the open vents, to where he heard the murmur. A voice so small. "What was that?"

"… it's pointless…"

Skill frowns. "I only tried once. There are still options left."

She just repeats herself again. "Pointless."

He feels a spark in his chest. "I won't give up so easily!" He clenches his fits and starts for the door again, but he's cut off by another sound coming from the ducts. Something low and rumbling. A hollow, familiar sound. A growling stomach. Skill stares up for the longest time. A grin sprouts upon his face before he can stop it. "Are you hungry?"

The sound of shuffling. He can barely make out the girl's hushed "No."

He decides it's a lie. "Is that why you're sad?" No response. He digs in his pockets. The inside of his jacket. He pats himself down. "… I don't have any food with me," he admits. "But I'll bring you some, okay? Maybe tomorrow I can… Can you wait that long?"

"I told you—"

"I'll definitely bring you something tasty! So please wait just a bit longer! I'll be back!" And he turns, poised to dash down the corridor. "Oh! I almost forgot: My name's Skill. It's nice to meet you. What's your name?" There's no response. Even after a minute, his grin doesn't waver. "That's okay. You don't have to tell me your name if you don't want to, but be sure to remember me, okay?" A murmur that he can't make out comes from the vents. "In exchange, I'll bring you something to eat."

"You don't have to."

"But I want to."

A pause. "Why?"

That makes Skill stop. "I wonder…" His gaze falls to the ground. "Do I need a reason?" She doesn't say anything. "I don't think I do. It's just… something I want to do."

"But why?" she presses.

He gives a breathless laugh. "Do you have to ask? I don't know that either. But when I figure it out, I'll be sure to tell you. Maybe I just can't stand to hear a girl cry… especially over something like this."

"But it's not…" she stops. Skill waits, but she remains quiet.

A shrug. "I told you I'm going to bring you something, so I will. It's as simple as that." No response. "If it's too late for me to get you anything tonight… I can definitely bring something great tomorrow! I promise. How about it?"

A mumble comes from overhead. He can't understand her words, but they sound affirmative.

"Great. I'll be back. Make sure not to forget about me, okay?"

He runs off before she can answer. He doesn't give her a choice.

His mind sorts through all the best snacks as he climbs back to the higher levels. What should he bring? Something sweet, or…?

Skill finds his jaw aching. He's still smiling. Something tugs within his chest, tethered back to that heavy bolted door. He wonders if he should be worried.

He's almost back to his room when he runs into his roommate. Nice is halfway through a hamburger, and seems to be roaming the halls without any sense of delicacy. The wax paper crackles loudly as he takes another bite.

"Where have you been?" Skill asks, "I was looking for you."

Nice answers through stuffed cheeks: "The kitchen, obviously. You can only get the best stuff after-hours."

Skill only sighs.

"What about you? Where have you been?"

He blinks a few times in silence. A strange chill creeps upon his shoulders. "I'm not sure." Nice shrugs as if it's normal. Skill points to the hamburger in Nice's hand. "You wouldn't have any more of those, would you?"

.

It's no trouble for Skill to retrace his steps. The hard part was convincing his roommate to stay behind. But after telling Nice that he had simply forgotten something back in the Administrative Building, and that he was going to retrieve it and come right back, Nice waved him away as if he'd already lost interest.

Or maybe he realized that Skill was adamant about going alone. Knowing Nice, it's probably both.

But Skill doesn't mind either way. He slips back down to the lowest levels, to the exposed ventilation and heavy steel doors. His footsteps sound familiar against the halls.

With Nice's help, he managed to get his hands on two hamburgers. He keeps them tucked into the pockets of his jacket as he makes his way down the empty corridors.

The door is there, same as before. Dimly lit and bolted shut.

Where did his breath go? "Hey! I told you I'd be back!"

Shuffling comes from the overhead ducts. Noises carried over from inside the locked room. "You…"

There's a painful lurch in his stomach. "Do you remember me?"

"You are… S…" she trails off, stuck on the first sound of his name.

At least she remembered that much. He smiles for the effort alone. "Skill. I promised you I'd bring you something to eat."

"Skill…"

Her voice shapes his name and strangles his insides. "Yeah. I promised you something great too, remember? Here!" He takes one of the hamburgers from his pockets and goes to the wide slot by the door. He lifts the cover and slides the hamburger inside. The cover clicks back into place and Skill waits. "Do you see it? It's wrapped in paper."

More shuffling. Creaking metal. "I… see it."

He waits another moment. "Well? What do you think? Do you like it?"

There's nothing but the sound of crinkling paper. "… good…"

He releases a breath. "So you do like it!"

"It's… good."

"I'm glad," he grins, although he knows she can't see it. Maybe it'll carry over anyway. He certainly hopes so. "I found some other snacks too, and I can bring them to you some other—"

"No. That's okay."

Skill blinks. "Whatever you say."

The crinkling stops a minute later. "Do you…?"

"Hm? What is it?"

It's a long moment before she gets the words out. "Do you… have any more?"

Skill laughs, "Yeah, I brought two. You want it?"

"What about you?"

He's already stuffing the second hamburger into the slot. "I'm okay. Really. I brought these for you."

Another pause. Her voice is even softer. "Th-thank you." The sound of her tearing at the wax paper.

He's still smiling. "You're welcome."

As she takes the first few bites, Skill is certain that he hears her sniffling again. Crying. But it doesn't seem sad.

He decides it's not and doesn't mention it.

She says nothing while she eats. Maybe she's run out of things to say. Skill wonders if carrying a conversation has always been this difficult, and if it's always been this exhilarating.

His heart starts to creep into his throat. "I can come back again tomorrow, if you'd like. If you don't mind."

The chewing sounds stop, and Skill holds his breath.

"I mean," he stammers, "I'd like to come back and talk to you. I just figured that you would… want someone to talk to. It must be lonely down here by yourself all the time…" He wants to swallow those words back down as soon as they leave his mouth. He could kick himself.

Moments pass. She doesn't say anything. Did he upset her? He really could kick himself now.

But then a murmur: "You can come back."

There's that tugging in his chest again. "Really?"

"If you bring more of these, you can come back."

Skill can't stop himself from chuckling. "I can do that."

"Good."

He stays for a little while longer and talks. He can't contain himself. She draws it out of him. He talks about anything and everything. Her answers remain short, but he can't be discouraged. He tells her of his favourite foods, songs, his brother, his roommate. Lots of things.

Hours pass with every eager breath.

He later realizes that he has to leave and go back to his room. Nice will surely notice if he's gone so long. Maybe he's already asleep. Skill could just sneak back into the room… Is Nice a heavy sleeper? Skill can't remember.

"I have to go now, but I'll be back tomorrow. I promise! I'll bring you more hamburgers!"

There's no delay in her response: "Okay."

That word is recorded and replayed over and over in Skill's head as he goes back to his room. It overpowers his footsteps on tile, the click of the door, and even Nice's grumbling. It's the last thing he hears before he falls into sleep, linking seamlessly with dreams of conversations to come, and all the things he'd be sure to remember to tell her tomorrow.

.

It quickly gets out of hand.

Sneaking off to talk to this girl becomes something intoxicating. Skill is never where he should be. He's somewhere else as he goes about his day. His mind wanders while he sits through lectures, lying in bed staring at the bunk above, and even eating lunch on the roof with his brother. He can't control it. The girl's gravity is too much for him to escape.

A familiar word or lilt of voice is all it takes to throw him back in.

Just the thought of her sends a bolt of lightning through him. His chest throbs like a hunger pain.

And when night does fall, when the corridors are darkened, he finds his feet moving on their own. He clutches onto flimsy excuses. I'll just take a walk since I can't sleep. But his legs wander alongside his mind, and when he returns to his body he's down that secluded hall, in front of that bolted door, calling to that delicate voice caged inside:

"Hey—"

.

"Have I told you about my favourite place?" Skill asks one night when the images of Yokohama's skyscrapers are still fresh in his mind. "There's a place on the roof… where you can see the outside world. It stretches out so far… I'm going there one day."

"… Outside?"

"Yeah. I've seen it, but I've never been there. The city of Yokohama… is glittering. I made a promise to go there. To see the world from there. I know it's amazing. It has to be."

"Outside…"

"To an open place… with no ceilings or glass or fences. Somewhere you can see everywhere at once!"

"Every… where…" There's nothing but the sound of Skill breathing for a long time. "Does such a place exist?"

His breath bubbles and becomes laughter. "That's what I want to find out!"

Another silence. Skill's smile begins to fade. "I… I want to go too. I want to go outside. Get out of here. Out of this place." She suddenly chokes. "Everything… I want to see something besides these walls— bars and locks! The outside world!" Skill gulps. She's never been so loud before. Her voice is breaking. That fragile voice— "I want to leave! I can't stand this anymore! I'm human, right? Then why— Outside—I've never seen—So please—!"

"It's alright." He speaks over her. She stops shouting. Her sobs grate painfully between his ribs. "I understand. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you… but," A breath. A decision. "Don't worry. I'll take you." There's nothing but sniffling. Skill hates the sound. "We'll go see the world from the top of a glittering tower. I'll open this door, and we'll go outside together, okay?"

She doesn't say anything for the longest time. He can still hear her whimpering. "You… together?"

"Yeah," he smiles. "Together."

"Please, I…"

"It's okay." Skill splays his hand against the door. He searches for her presence through the layers of cold metal. "I'll find a way. I'm gonna show you the sky. I promise."

.

Feet hit the floor as soon as Skill returns to his room. Nice has leapt from his top bunk and placed himself in Skill's way.

"Where did you go?"

Skill takes a step back. Nice's gaze cuts into him. "I told you… I couldn't sleep, so I went for a walk."

"That was an awfully long walk. Where'd you go on this walk?"

"I… just walked around."

"Yeah, but where?"

"I," he stutters, "I went to the lounge downstairs… and then up to the roof! And looked at the stars! I got distracted, so it took longer than usual."

Nice narrows his eyes, and Skill immediately knows that he's messed up. "Hm. That's weird. Because the guard downstairs doesn't go on his break for another hour. Plus, the door to the rooftop is locked every night and it's currently overcast. Not to mention the light pollution."

"Wait—how do you know that?"

"So where were you really?"

"If you know when some of the guards take their breaks… and the doors—"

"You've been acting weird for a while now. You keep zoning out and not paying attention to anything me and Art say. Like right now!" He grabs Skill's shoulders, making him quiet. "And you keep staring into space smiling at nothing! And going on these long walks! Art's noticed it too. He's worried. So tell me: What is the matter with you?"

Skill's mouth forms words with no voice to propel them. Nice just stands there with his hands tightening around his shoulders. A moment becomes a minute. Skill's brain finally kicks back into gear. "Say, Nice… could you help me get outside?"

Nice's eyebrows lift. "What's this all of a sudden?"

"If it's you, you could definitely—and because I promised I would—"

"Whoa, whoa." Nice holds up his hands. "Wait a minute. What are you talking about?"

Skill takes a breath. That warm and distant smile is creeping back onto his face. "See… there's this girl—"

And Nice is staring at the ceiling, his eyes rolling so far he almost falls onto his back.

.

Skill tells Nice everything.

He tells him about the girl. The bolted door. The hamburgers. The promise he made.

Nice's face relays nothing. He waits until Skill is finished before reacting. It's a sort of sigh. "Alright. I'll help."

Skill practically leaps from his body.

Nice holds up a hand before he can say anything. "But first, I'll need more details. If we're really going to do this, we need to do it right." So Skill nods, calming down a bit. "Okay. I'll go tell Art everything later, but for now, promise me that you won't go back to see her until we get this sorted."

Skill's excitement falls flat. "You mean…?"

"Yes." Nice presses. "I mean, I can't believe you haven't been caught yet! Wandering around a place like that… We can't have you getting caught and complicating everything. Or worse. So you really need to stay here until we figure out what we're doing."

"B-but I didn't even tell her that I'd—"

"Come on, Skill. It won't be that long."

The look on Nice's face tells Skill that he's being silly. When he takes a step back, he can sort of see it too. A breath. "Fine."

Nice nods, a smirk forming on his lips. "Okay then. Leave it to me!"

.

Nice keeps his plans in his head. He isn't like Skill. Where Skill has scores of folded slips of paper stuffed under his mattress, Nice simply files the information away. Everything. Important things, trivial things, large-scale schematics and timetables… it didn't matter.

It's kind of scary. Nice doesn't know everything, and he's definitely capable of being an idiot, but Skill knows that when his friend is serious—when he's committed and concentrated—nothing can stop him.

Skill hopes to never be on the receiving end of that attention.

As Nice continues stacking information in his head and scouting areas within Facultas, Skill wanders aimlessly through the winding corridors. Nice moves with direction and mapping of his plan, while Skill can only wait. Rocking on his feet.

Nice says he doesn't need help.

Skill just wants to visit her.

His legs often carry him to the rooftop. Fingers entwine through chain-link fence and the occasional breeze sweeps in from above.

One thought of the girl tightens his grip on the fence. The sun glitters off of the skyscrapers in the distance, light dancing upon windowpanes. His teeth clench together. He forces himself to keep still. Nice has already scolded him for fidgeting so much. He calls him distracting or that he's keeping him awake.

Skill keeps his eyes fixed on that city so far away.

His brother stands beside him and takes in the view. Skill says nothing. Art doesn't pry.

.

It's only been three days when Skill returns to his room and notices a change. Something has begun to turn. He's sure of it.

Nice is lounging on his bunk, eyes closed and fingers tracing a path through the air. His mouth shapes thoughts that Skill cannot hear.

The door clicks into place and Nice springs to life. "One week."

"Huh?"

"Get ready. It's happening in one week."

"You mean—are you serious?" Skill stammers. "So— … That's… fast."

Nice shrugs. "Well, you sounded like you were in a hurry."

Something claws in Skill's throat. He swallows it back down. "You didn't hold back."

"Did you want me to?"

"No, no! I mean… wow." And Skill finally smiles. "That's incredible."

Nice waves the compliment away. "So do you want the details or not?"

"Of course!" He scrambles up to Nice's bunk and sits beside him. Skill leans in with a look he knows is overwhelming. "Don't hold back."

A grin flits over Nice's face. It's gone in an instant. "Yeah, sure…"

.

By the time the week is up, Skill is ready to burst. His steps are like leaps, heels ever loosening their stitches to the ground. Very little is left to anchor him to the Earth before he's swept away with the breeze.

Nice spends the week shaking his head at him. Art smiles in some polite way, but Skill can see the words lurking behind his lips. Art doesn't volunteer anything, and Skill's attention is spread too thin to ask.

Art frequently wonders if Skill is sure about this. Skill always says that he made a promise he intended to keep.

The sun goes down and Skill's legs are shaking. Their room has never been so small.

Nice once again tells him to stop fidgeting.

"I can't help it!"

He only clicks his tongue.

Skill groans. "Can't we just go already?"

Nice shakes his head again, mumbling about "timing." Skill waits for him to keep going, but there's nothing. He's retreated into his thoughts.

He stays there for another hour before glancing at the clock and springing up onto his feet. "Okay!"

"Now?" Skill asks, but Nice is already through the door. He scrambles after him.

"Let's go, then!" Nice trots down the hall, not waiting for any confirmation.

He leaves Skill standing puzzled. "Hold on." Nice stops as Skill narrows his eyes. "Don't you need me to show you the way?"

Nice waves a hand and continues on. Skill reluctantly follows. "No, I already know where it is. I had to go down there while I was planning."

"So you… found her?" He is not pouting, although the look on Nice's face says otherwise.

He laughs. "Don't worry; I didn't stay long enough to talk to her. I'm not going to steal her away from you or anything."

It's suddenly really hot in the corridor. Skill's legs have trouble functioning. "I'm not worried about that!"

"Oh?" Nice smirks as he opens a door to a stairwell Skill didn't know existed. But he doesn't say anything else. Skill bites down on his cheek and follows him down a flight, not saying anything either.

.

Their footfalls are quiet on the floor despite their brisk pace. Nice is constantly glancing around corners and down adjacent hallways. Skill frequently looks over his shoulder. He's never been so nervous walking around Facultas at night. He can barely hear a thing besides his heartbeat in his ears. There's so much at stake.

At last, they approach a door on a dead-end hall. The room where Art stays with his desk and his bed. Skill gently taps his knuckles on the door and receives no response. Nice does the same, louder this time, but again there's nothing. He whispers Art's name and knocks a third time, louder still. Skill notices that there's no light peeking out from beneath the door, and knowing his brother, he would still be up working or studying. A knot forms in his stomach.

Nice and Skill exchange glances.

Art isn't in his room.

Skill rakes a hand through his hair. "Where could he be? It's late… It's past lights-out!"

Nice only shrugs.

Skill is certain that several possibilities have already popped into his head.

But Nice isn't willing to share such uncertainties.

"… We'll come back for him." Skill hates how those words sound. "We have to worry about timing, don't we?"

Nice nods, lifting some of the weight from Skill's chest. "Yeah."

"Then… let's go."

.

Nice leads the way down to the halls of exposed ductwork. Skill doesn't mind. His heartbeat thumps too loudly in his ears for him to care.

They silently make their way around corners, through doorways. The central air turns on with a kick and they both jump.

Nice runs his hand down his face, muttering something like "ridiculous." Skill can't even laugh.

When they come upon the bolted door at last, Skill rushes over. He presses his hands onto it, gazing to the ventilation above. "Hey—" There's a gasp. "I'm sorry… that it's been so long." Nothing but silence. Skill swallows hard. "You still remember me, don't you?"

The rustle of fabric. A tiny voice responds: "I do. Skill."

A smile smears across his face. He can hear Nice behind him, laughing through his nose. "Do you remember our promise too? I brought a friend with me this time, and we're all gonna go outside together! Remember?"

"Yes."

"Great." And he turns to Nice. "So how are we going to get through this door?"

Nice only grins and pulls a set of keys from his pocket.

Skill's mouth drops open. "How— When did you even—"

A shrug. "It really wasn't a big deal."

He can still hardly believe it. "Whatever you say," he sighs and steps to the side.

Nice has to try a few times before he finds the correct key. The lock clacks loudly out of place. Skill holds his breath as Nice pulls on the heavy latch with both hands.

The door shudders open without urgency. The boys stand on either side and stare into the darkness within. A small girl stands in the threshold. She is only faintly trembling. Beyond her is a room with bare furnishings.

There's a short silence before Skill's thoughts come from Nice's mouth: "She's cute."

Skill can still read her nervous expression through a long mane of black hair. She knits her thin fingers in the fabric of her smock and takes in the surroundings. The open door. The dim hall. The two boys. Her red eyes are empty and unfocused, as if gazing far off into the distance.

Those eyes fall upon Skill before he realizes he's staring. It's an electric shock.

There's a poking at his side. Nice has elbowed him. "Well?"

"Oh." Skill mumbles. The girl's face flushes with colour as soon as he speaks. His voice feels small without the insulation of the bolted door. "Sorry that took so long. But I told you I'd find a way, right?"

She watches him talk with incredible fascination. "You are…"

"Yeah," he smiles, "I'm Skill. And this is my friend Nice." Nice raises a hand. The girl can only glance at him. "I told you about him once before."

Nice looks at him. "Only once?"

"Well it could have been more, I can't remember."

"And I couldn't get you to shut up about her once you told me why you were sneaking out every night."

Skill almost chokes. "Nice!"

"Yeah, yeah…" He sighs, pulling his hands behind his head. "So, are we doing this, or what? Remember our timing? And we still have to find Art too…"

"Right. Of course!" Skill looks back to the girl and his smile grows soft. He holds out a hand before he realizes what he's doing. "Are you ready?" She simply stares at his outstretched hand. "I promised, remember? We're going outside. I'm gonna show you the sky."

"Where you can see… everything at once…" she mumbles.

Skill's smile tugs wider. "Right!"

She chews on her lip. "Okay." And her small hand weighs on his fingers. It's surprisingly warm.

He holds gently onto that hand as the warmth travels up his arm.

Nice claps a fist onto his palm. "Alright. Let's do this!"

Skill nods, and Nice begins walking. The three of them move in a tight clump, with the girl remaining only two steps behind Skill. There's barely any tug on the link of their hands.

Nice weaves his way around a corner and murmurs beneath his breath: "Since Art decided to be a no-show, we have to change the route a little. So it'll be different from what I told you earlier."

"Got it. … You did tell him the plan, right?"

Nice scowls. "Of course I did! I even told him a time." A sigh. "Doesn't seem to matter though. He's been so distracted lately…"

"Distracted?"

"Haven't you noticed? He always has his nose in a book, or is lost in thought… It's kind of like you with the Girl."

"He hasn't been very talkative," Skill muses. "I wonder what's bothering him?"

Nice simply shrugs and leaves it at that.

The girl's hand twitches within his grasp. "… who…?"

"Oh, my brother. I told you about him too. You'll meet him later. His name is Art."

"That reminds me," Nice starts, glancing at the girl from over his shoulder. "What is your name? You haven't told us. I guess we could keep calling you 'Girl,' but—"

Skill swats at him with his free hand. "Come on, Nice, that's mean!"

"It is?"

"Of course it is!" Everything in his face changes when he turns to the girl. "I asked you before, but: what's your name?"

She stares at the floor. Her hair moves in front of her eyes. "… 0-1."

"Huh?"

"Success No. 0-1."

Nice's face scrunches. "That's not a name!"

Her hands turn into fists. "That's what they call me! That's all anyone's ever said to me! So what can I do?!"

His mouth clicks shut. He and Skill look at each other.

Skill swings his arms. "Well, then… why don't we think of an easier name for you? How about it?"

She says nothing. It takes a while for her to nod.

So Skill looks at her. This girl shaking beside him. This girl that's the starting point of everything. The beginning of something new and exciting. The burst of colours he's never seen and flavours he's never tasted.

A beginning, huh?

"0-1…" Nice mumbles, "The first… like 'Start'? Or maybe something Japanese would be better—"

"Hajime."

Nice jumps. "Oh! I was about to say that!" And his eyes turn towards the girl. "What do you think? Do you like it?"

She peeks at them through curtains of hair. "… Hajime…?"

That voice catches in Skill's chest. "Yeah!"

"O-okay." Her smile is as faint as the curve of the horizon. Skill takes care to burn it into his memory.

Nice shows a thumbs-up. "Hajime-chan it is, then!"

.

They've only climbed to the next storey when the air is shattered with sound. A siren sounds above their heads. It explodes through the halls and covers every bit of Facultas.

Nice's face drops. "We have to go now! Come on!" He and Skill go to run, but they move in opposite directions.

They pause and look at each other.

Skill is fidgeting again. "You said it was this way, right?" Nice just stares at him. "Nice?"

"Wait. What about Art?"

And Skill stops in his tracks.

Had he really just forgotten his brother?

His insides shred to ribbons.

Nice nods. "I'll go get him." And he sprints off before Skill can argue, speed teeming with adrenaline and direction. "You guys go ahead! We'll catch up!"

Skill finally remembers his body. "Nice!" But the other boy has already turned a corner and disappeared amongst the sirens. Skill's muscles bundle and knot.

"You- you're hurting me…"

"Oh! I'm sorry!" He lessens his grip on Hajime's hand. A breath. Her eyes pull him in. "I… I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to."

She bites on her lip and holds his hand a little tighter.

Skill can feel his smile threatening to break his face in two.

But despite Nice's words, he doesn't want to move too far without him. What if he can't find Art? What if they can't catch up?

The thunder of approaching footsteps forces Skill to abandon his uncertainty. He turns to Hajime: "Let's run!" and they move away from the footsteps. Skill tries to remember the route Nice had explained to him earlier. Remember how it's changed. If he's mapping correctly, they should be headed the right way. He hopes they are. Hajime remains two steps behind as he leads her down the halls, linked by the strong grip of their fingers.

Skill retreats into his head as they press forward. He thinks back to Nice's instructions.

What comes next?

Is this the right path?

His feet lead them to a metal catwalk that crosses an unbelievably huge room. From the lack of light and the hollow echoes that sound below, it appears that the room is empty. Skill fleetingly wonders what the room could possibly be used for. They burst through the doors at the end of the catwalk before he can put any more thought into it.

A few more empty halls. Some flights of stairs. Footsteps and yelling. Older voices close in around them. Shadows dance on the walls as the voices grow louder.

They come to a room packed full with electrics. Boxes dripping with wires line the walls. Levers to control power supplies.

Skill remembers what Nice told him. He remembers which lever to pull. At least, he hopes so.

He finds the lever, pulls it down, and moves on.

He also makes sure to grab the long coil of rope that Nice had previously hidden away in the corner of the room. It's right where he said it would be. Skill hooks it over his arm without breaking stride. There's no time.

They keep running. The approaching footsteps are all around them now. Skill's mind is so full of things that he can no longer hear them. There's only his and Hajime's panting as they press forward.

Another corridor, this one ending with double-doors. Skill shoves them open and cool air licks at exposed skin. Even the dully burning fluorescent lights are gone now. Instead of tile floors, they storm across dirt and grass.

They come to a halt at the base of a massive concrete wall. The lights around them are off, shut down by the lever from before. A disbelieving laugh sounds through Skill's panting. Nice really did think of everything.

But even in the dim of night, Skill can see the texture of the wall. The ins and outs of uneven bricking. Like the foam panels in a soundproof room.

This is it. This is the end of the line. The outside world is just over this wall.

But where is Nice?

Skill swallows the lump in his throat. Shouting and chaos are growing closer to his and Hajime's backs. There isn't much time left. Security will be here soon. What else can they do?

Skill's teeth grit together. He releases Hajime's hand to unwind the rope Nice had tucked away. It has to be 5m long. The wall looms above, looking much taller than it did a second ago.

More shouts come from behind. They're getting closer. Still no sign of Nice and Art.

There's nothing left.

"Wait here," Skill tells Hajime before marching up to the wall. His stomach tightens as he clamps the rope between his teeth and begins to climb, using the uneven bricks as leverage to go higher. The sharp edges bite into his palm. He almost slips as he's halfway up. The only sounds in his ears are his heartbeat the perpetual screaming of alarms.

Nice should be doing this. He's better at this sort of thing. He has the grades to prove it.

But he's not here.

"Skill!" Hajime's voice cuts through all the noise. It's worried. Skill suddenly notices that he's hanging on by a single hand.

The rope is in his mouth, so he can't respond. He can only latch back onto the wall and climb the remaining distance.

He's almost to the top when footsteps clamour through the doors. Skill's heart leaps at the thought of Nice and his brother arriving at last, but when he looks over his shoulder he finds the black-clad security guards are no such friends. Down below, Hajime slowly backs up against the wall.

Skill scrambles to get to the top of the wall. His hand grabs onto the edge and there's a loud bang.

Blood spurts from his hand. It's been pierced through.

His grip fails. Pain flares up into his arm. His other hand slips, and he lets out an instinctive gasp. The rope slithers from his open mouth.

Hajime yells his name. The wall is out of reach.

The sky tilts into view, but none of the stars are visible.

Wind is rippling through his clothes.

The wind abruptly stops and all of the air leaves his body alongside it. White stars burst into the sky. Fuzzy and transient. Hajime is suddenly above him, asking if he's okay. Skill can only gasp for breath.

One of the guards scolds the others: "Careful! You're supposed to scare them, not kill them!"

Hajime looks up at the guards. The fear in her face is enough to fuel Skill. Tears form in her eyes. "We couldn't make it…"

"No," Skill puffs, shakily getting to his feet. He cradles the injured hand against his body. It's full of hot needles. "No, this isn't it. I won't let it be."

"But—"

He puts himself between Hajime and the guards. "There are still options left!"

There's another blast as soon as the words leave him. Skill's face drains as something warm spreads across his stomach. It seeps through his jacket and gives him a chill.

His face is in the grass. The guards are shouting again. They're lost within the sirens. But Hajime's cries stab into him.

Small hands on his arms. The sky is in front of him. The outline of a girl. Hajime is shaking him. Her tears threaten to fall.

What now?

He doesn't see his brother. He doesn't see Nice. There's only Hajime, hysterically calling his name.

The world wavers in and out of focus. His good hand is clutched in Hajime's grip. The pain starts to die away. He holds onto her to keep from following it.

How frustrating. All he wanted to do was go outside—see the outside world.

No, it was more than that. He wanted to help. But even that remains out of his reach.

Hajime's tears land on his face. They're so warm.

A glowing heat burns through his core.

He couldn't help. Not Hajime. Not his brother. Not Nice. He couldn't even help himself. Not anyone.

Maybe next time it'll be different.

Hajime screams. It's cold against his heat.

He couldn't help.

.

"It can't be helped."

Skill's eyes snap open and they're immediately assaulted by the bright lights hanging above him. Everything is covered in white.

He's lying down on something hard. A table? His entire body aches. But inside, he's buzzing.

What happened?

"So he's awake." A silhouette of a man appears before him. A man with long hair tied behind his head.

The man smiles, and Skill recognizes the grin that often lurks behind the tinted glass of Facultas. The hungry eyes that gleam for the strong and stab at the weak. Constantly scrutinizing. Never any sympathy.

There's a terrible gleam in those eyes as he looks down at Skill.

A chill tears through his body, but he can't move. Something chafes at his wrists. He's tied down.

A ghost of pain passes through his hand and he stops squirming. That isn't right.

The man looks away from him and says something with much jubilation. The only word Skill can make out is "wonderful."

When the smiling man returns, Skill finds himself freezing up.

There's a poke on his arm and the buzzing in his body begins to fade.

The man says something else, but Skill can't hold on to it. Something about him—no, something about Nice. It slips away into the recesses of his mind.

He blinks, and the room becomes foggy.

Another blink, and it's a different room altogether.

This one is covered in shadows.

He rolls as he stirs, and falls from something soft onto cold flooring. A groan rumbles in his throat. At least he can move now. He slowly crawls to his feet and stretches some of the aches from his limbs. More ghostly pains flare up and fizzle out.

There isn't much in this room. Just a bed and the necessary washroom amenities. Three stairs leading up to a heavy-looking door.

Wait.

Something throws Skill's pulse into overdrive. But why?

He marches up to the door with an itching in his fingers.

Basic fixtures. A shelf with a covered slot on the wall. A door encased in rivets. It's all very familiar.

A memory flashes of a girl standing just inside a darkened room. The frame around her is adorned with similar rivets.

A girl staring far away.

No, Hajime.

He can hear her crying through a memory he cannot see. What's happened to her? What's happened to him?

He looks up to the ventilation exposed above the door. He knew it would be there. He's not sure what that means. He tunes his ears to the air passing through the vents. Searches for a voice, a sound, anything at all. There's nothing but silence.

Skill sits in the darkness of the room and listens to his heartbeat.

.

The first time a man in a white coat appears in the doorway, Skill can't control himself. Before he knows what he's doing, he's pounced onto the man, making a break for the light.

His heart's never pounded so fast. It's strangling him. Like he's just awoken from a nightmare. How does breathing work again?

Just get out of the dark.

His tiny fingers claw at the man's eyes. The echoes of ravenous snarls sound foreign in Skill's ears. Those sounds did not come from him. He desperately wants to believe that.

The man swears at him, says many words Skill's never heard before. He gets his hands around Skill's arms, small beneath his fully-grown grip, and throws him back into the room. Skill's head slams into the wall and the world bursts with white. More vulgar words spill from the older man's mouth as he staggers away and shuts the door, sealing Skill inside. The doorframe appears crooked through Skill's swimming vision. His hands press into the floor while his head rocks.

There's nothing to hold on to.

The door spins away. Whiteness grows dim and becomes gaping holes.

He slips into one as the air turns cold.

.

Since there are no windows in the room, Skill keeps track of the days by counting the meals he's given through the slot by the door.

It's been almost a week, not counting however long he spent in that white room with the smiling man. Skill can only wonder what that man's planning on doing with him. His memory of the white room is so fuzzy. He can't remember anything the man said to him or his colleagues. There's only the feeling that he'd said something Skill wanted to hold onto, and that it had to do with Nice.

His brain freezes up, dread dropping through him like a stone. It's not just Hajime, he has no idea what happened to Nice after… what happened again? Recollections come in waves. His own voice speaks of promises. When he closes his eyes he can see Nice's back moving away from him. No matter how far Skill reaches or how loudly he shouts, Nice never turns around. He only disappears in a haze of noise.

Skill suddenly realizes that he's standing in front of the door with his hands made into fists. He's not entirely there as he repeatedly throws those fists into the metal. His knuckles find dents the same size as his hands.

It's not unlike the door that once stood between himself and Hajime.

His fist stops short. More images pass over him. Nice opening a heavy door. Hajime crying beneath the open sky.

For a moment, at least. They never made it to the outside world, but at least Hajime got to see the sky. He didn't completely break his promise.

… Right?

Now all he can see is Hajime's crying face, but this one is shut within that dim room with the bolted door.

Skill punches the door one last time. It leaves a smear of blood behind as it slides down. His legs buckle and he sits before the unmoving metal. He turns his back to it. Hugs his knees and clenches his teeth. His eyes start to burn. He tastes salt. His aching throat struggles to move air.

He couldn't figure out how to open Hajime's door without Nice's help. On this side of the door, there isn't even a latch.

Skill tries to imagine Nice being lost behind a door, but the image never forms.

The idea of Nice being trapped like he is doesn't connect in his brain. He can't picture it at all. Nice is impossible to hold on to. Skill is certain of that. He wonders how long it would take Nice to get out of this mess.

That thought jogs something in his brain, and he finally remembers what the smiling man had said about Nice. Something about "saving" him.

Skill laughs once, and it hurts in his throat. He buries his face in his knees. Nice isn't the one that needs saving. He can't imagine a case where someone like Nice would ever need saving. With that determination of his…

When they were younger, Nice was the one that wanted to be a superhero. Skill always thought it suited him, in a way. Nice being the one running around, doing all of the saving.

Skill could definitely use it now. A superhero.

And for the first time, Skill hopes to be the focus of Nice's formidable concentration. To be a goal that Nice will relentlessly chase, and become unstoppable.

.

Skill soon loses count of his meals. How long has he been in this room?

How many times has he been knocked unconscious and awoken on a table, swathed in whiteness and binding straps?

A pinprick. He blinks—shuts his eyes for an instant—and weeks pass. Or maybe not. Or maybe more.

His strength whittles away. The dark room always disappears in a haze before he wakes in white light. He's certain the haze is forced upon him, but there's nothing he can do. He can't shake it off. He always falls into the dark and reappears in the light. It's burning and fluorescent. It threatens to smother him.

Has he always been here?

Has the world always been white and dark, with no in-between? Memories become muddled and unclear. Who else exists in this world besides himself and nameless silhouettes?

The image of a girl's faint smile is still etched behind his eyes. She grows dimmer each time he opens them, but his mind refuses to let her go.

There's a clutching in his chest. The girl bursts with colour. A soft voice. A name. Hajime.

Skill's eyes itch, but his hands are bound. The moisture builds and runs out, crawling down into his hair.

Her voice grows louder in his head. Fiercer. She says words like "please," "success," and "outside." Then she says nothing at all. There's only screaming left. It's such a hollow sound. It cracks against Skill's ribs.

It's only when the silhouettes return and stuff his mouth with cotton that he realizes he was screaming too.

The colours are reeled back in. Skill holds them so close that he no longer notices them. They thrive within him somewhere he cannot see.

He has been detached—adrift from solid ground. There's nothing left to hold his body together. Light and dark cycles have gone haywire. Days in white and days black.

When was the last time he received a meal?

There's no slot by the door in the white room. There's no door to speak of, as far as he can see. He receives no food in the white room.

How long has it been?

The dark room has vanished. He feels as though he hasn't been there in a long while.

He stares up into those artificial lights, lulling in a half-sleep. The only darkness now is the passing silhouettes.

His porcelain flesh is shattered by their needles. Stains of iodine and sticking leftover adhesives blot his skin. He eventually stops fighting against the sedatives.

Did they forget to administer them?

His arms and legs remain limp on the table beneath blinding fluorescent lights. Fingers dance across his body, slicing into it, poking at it, letting red vitality drain away into crystal vials. Layers of powdery latex do nothing to mask the chill on the hands. They pull at his eyes, wielding a sharp yellow light, wait for his reaction.

Does he react?

Cloth and plastic and adhesive. White puffs of cotton are pulled away, smattered with red. He's bundled in cloth strips. Arms bound with plastic tape. A small, flesh coloured bandage is wrapped around his finger. Mended.

They break him apart just to put him back together.

Skill wonders if their glue can hide the fracture lines. If the cracks decorating his body will always be visible. If he will forever look so hastily reconstructed.

The white room tilts. He can barely open his eyes. He's stuffed back into the darkness, but it's different. He can't move. Is he still bound?

The white room doesn't return. There's nothing but dark. It turns solid and holds him in place. He is rearranged into a silhouette. Everything is drenched in black.

Pins and needles.

What was he doing?

His chest is hot.

What's going on?

Screams echo in from far away.

They last for an eternity.

.

"A Minimum."

Everything's muffled. The darkness is dizzying. Which way is up?

"That one is too dangerous."

"Then I'll take responsibility!"

The air is thick like water. No light shimmers on its surface.

"Let's try."

"Let's begin, shall we?"

The screaming doesn't ever go away.

It's all absorbed.

'What do you want?'

I don't want anything.

'What… do you want?'

Please, help me.

'Okay. Help is here.'

An image of the sky.

A wince in his chest.

Voices become mangled. Within the darkness is the roaring of beasts.

'No. Stop.'

"They can't take it, huh."

"There's a lack."

The clap of metal-on-metal.

'Poor things…'

His ears are ringing.

And then a small, pleading voice:

No, please.

He breathes in the darkness. It is like sludge in his lungs.

A push.

'What do you want?'

.

His chest is numb. There's no more buzzing.

The dark crawls into his skin and his edges are blurred.

.

"We're making progress."

.

"What are you doing? You shouldn't—"

Crack

The blackness shifts. A fissure forms in his sight. Something falls away and bright white overpowers the darkness. It stabs at his eyes. A vague memory of a totally white room. There's nothing but light now. His eyes begin to water.

But he squints into that light. Strange noises come from it. Figures move within it. His energy is drained. He can hardly move, but still, he watches the brightness.

There's a flash of blue through the blur of tears. It leaps dangerously away from the white and black.

Skill feels a stirring within himself. Is this energy? But what is the point of fighting if he's bound? Struggling against the straps is just a waste of time. Unused energy is not wasted, but it is still lost.

He is bound, isn't he?

The darkness is fading, but he still cannot move.

His sight is clouded with blue. It carries a certain warmth, and the desperation of chasing after loose ends of thread.

A sound that doesn't bite in his ears. A voice that isn't screaming.

"Skill?"

He blinks, searching above the blue. A silhouette forms that isn't covered in shadow. A face, bandaged and familiar. Eyes wide. Shoulders rising and falling with heavy bursts of breath.

Nice.

Skill's heart rams into his throat. There's a disconnect in his brain somewhere. Images are refusing to line up.

The person before him is most definitely Nice, and yet it isn't.

He's changed.

His shoulders are broader than Skill remembers. They're rounded with muscle. His chest is wider, face more defined. And Skill is certain that he's much taller than he was the last time he saw him—when was that?—running off amidst all the blaring alarms.

How long has it been?

Skill tries to move, and he feels his hair graze the space between his shoulder blades. Since when could it reach? His arms and legs are full of static. "Nice?" His voice is gravel through sand. His entire body shudders like a waking limb.

Nice's mouth is hanging open, quietly forming swears that ring familiar in Skill's ears. "What the hell is this?" His voice sounds lower than it does in Skill's memories. Are they wrong, or has Nice truly changed so much?

How long has it been?

"STOP!" Another, even lower, voice explodes from somewhere Skill cannot see.

Nice clicks his tongue, as if the voice is nothing but a nuisance.

Skill hears something snap, and Nice is gone. Where he once stood is now just empty space.

He didn't just imagine it, did he?

Skill shuts his eyes. The whiteness of the room is painful. He fears the darkness will overtake the light and the blue. Nice may very well dissolve into the black of his memories.

More snapping, followed by sharp and heavy thuds. Skill recognizes the sound of skin hitting skin, the crack of bone against bone—punches.

His eyes open as three men in white coats appear on the ground. Nice once again fills the empty space, the knuckles of his right hand turning a vivid red.

Skill watches him. Something pricks in the back of his mind. "Did you…?"

Nice turns to Skill, his scowl transforming into a grin. "Minimum."

Skill stops. Something about that word knocks the breath out of him. It bores down into his mind, into a reservoir of things he didn't know he remembered. Recollections of overheard conversations wash over him. Passing words and hungry glances. Things his mind had previously shut away click into place at last. Tears are ripped painfully from his chest and fall down his cheeks. "My Minimum. It's why they locked me up," he hiccups. The words pour from his mouth before his brain can register them. "My Minimum… is horrible. What it does to people… and they force me to use it—"

Nice suddenly shakes his head. "We can talk about that later. We're a little pressed for time right now. I've got to get you out of there."

.

Nice has to hoist Skill from the darkness. The shadows have fused to his skin. Nice cuts the tendrils away to pry him loose.

Skill can see his hands as he's separated. They're nothing but skin stretched across bone. He wants to help Nice, but he still cannot move. He's bound, although the darkness is gone. There are no straps. There are only Nice's hands on his arms as he pulls him back into the light.

He's never been so exhausted.

Nice's expression is serious. He doesn't give Skill the choice of standing, instead opting to sling him over his back and shoulders.

Skill doesn't mind. He blinks, and the light grows dim. The room is changing. Moving.

He jostles against Nice's back.

Doors pass quickly across his vision. He remembers similar places and passageways. He remembers sprinting through uneven lights, puffs of panicked breath, and shattering explosions.

His stomach twists, a vague pain making itself real. Warmth is leaking out. Everything is growing cold.

But Nice doesn't notice it.

And then the pain is gone.

Skill is pulled back to his body from somewhere far away.

His head lolls on Nice's shoulder. He can hardly hold it up. Why is he so tired?

Nice doesn't seem bothered about carrying him at all. He continues running down corridors at a breakneck speed despite having Skill draped across his back. As if there's nothing there at all.

His shoes slap loudly onto the tile floor as he runs, but he isn't bothered by that either.

Skill can hear his breathing growing heavy, but it doesn't slow him down.

He remains solid and determined. Sure of every move he makes with nothing wasted. It's incredible.

To Skill, it's practically superhuman.

Skill finds his throat aching at the thought. His friend has changed so much, and yet he hasn't. "Nice, tell me… how long has it been?"

He can feel Nice tense the smallest bit. Minutes pass with nothing but the sound of breathing and Nice's shoes upon the floor. "I'm so sorry, Skill. I'm sorry it took so long for me to get to you." His tone weighs heavily in Skill's chest. Nice has never sounded like this before. So solemn and measured. Dread seeps into his skin. Nice manages a sigh through his panting. "It's been two years since we tried to bust out of here together," he admits. Skill's body turns numb. "Two years since I left you behind to find Art and everything went to hell."

"Two… whole years?" His voice is barely in those words. There's only breath.

"I'm so sorry."

It takes a moment for the rest of Nice's words to process in Skill's brain. "My brother…" Right. His brother. Nice went to get him after the alarms started screaming. That's where he was going when he was nothing but a back sprinting away. "Where is he? Is he okay?"

Nice hums a laugh. "Who do you think is helping me now?" He shakes his head. "If he'd been this cooperative before, we might have made it the first time. We should've gotten him more involved…"

Skill hasn't been listening. "But he's okay?"

"He won't know what to do with himself once I show up with you. … but other than that, yeah. He's okay."

"I was worried… that something happened. After last time."

"The only ones to go missing that night were you and Hajime-chan." As the name reaches his ears, Skill feels a twinge not unlike being punched in the chest. Her faint smile echoes behind his eyes. "I finally found you, but as for Hajime-chan… I don't know. I searched for her too but couldn't find anything."

His skin is crawling. It's difficult to swallow. "You… don't think she's…"

Nice shakes his head again. "I'm not sure. I couldn't find a hint of her in this entire place. Which means there's no sign of a corpse either…" he trails off. Skill waits for him to finish. "I'd say she's outside somewhere."

Skill has to pause at the sudden conclusion. "Out… But how?"

Nice shrugs, and Skill almost slips from his shoulders. "Like I said: I'm not sure. I have nothing to go on."

If that's true, then how can he say it so assuredly? Is he really that confident in a guess, or is he just lessening a blow for Skill's benefit?

But when Skill remembers who he's talking to, he can't help but smile. "But since it's you… I think I'll believe it."

Nice makes a face. Skill can't tell if it's a smile or a grimace. "You put too much trust in me."

"Maybe." The strength in Skill's neck is gone. It can't bear the weight of his head anymore, so that weight is now completely propped on Nice's shoulder. A feeling like acid burns in his throat. "But what choice do I have?" He can no longer hear his own voice. Did those words leave his mouth at all?

Nice doesn't say anything else. Each blink becomes longer and longer. The footsteps grow distant. Lights fall away behind them and darkness creeps in.

These shadows don't cling.

All sounds stop for a moment. Skill is floating in a haze.

"Nice!"

A shaky voice cuts through. The familiar lilt forces Skill's eyes open. Nice is kneeling low to the ground and Skill passes through hands. The sky is above him again, vast and dark. Still no stars.

Shouting bursts from all around.

Skill's own eyes peer back at him. They're trembling.

The sound of snapping. Grunts of pain. Breath heavy with exertion.

No, those eyes are not his. Fingers tighten around his shoulders.

"Skill."

His lips move on their own. "Nii-san…"

The eyes are smiling through a layer of moisture. His brother says his name again. It's nothing but jagged breath.

Nice's voice returns. "Let's go!"

The ground is shoved away.

Skill's eyes close, swaying in a cradle of darkness that doesn't strap him down. He is lifted up until he becomes weightless.

.

The next time Skill opens his eyes, Nice tells him that he's been asleep for three days. Skill's mouth moves without forming words, and one second later Nice is on his feet, shouting for Art.

Skill can feel the warmth of sunlight on his face as it streams in from the window. There's a flutter of electricity in his chest. He's been reattached to his body. His vision is so much clearer.

His brother bursts into the room, at a loss for breath. It's as if Skill's seeing him for the first time. He looks taller. Older. Just as Nice does.

How much time did Nice say had passed? Two years?

Electricity sputters out.

His brother is smiling, tears budding from his eyes. Behind him, Skill can see curtains, strange equipment, and thin sliding doors.

This is a hospital room.

There's an impossibly heavy blanket draped over him. He can hardly move beneath it. He tries to sit up but he can't lift it. It's holding him down on the bed. He can't move.

His pulse suddenly rages in his head. In an instant, Nice and Art are at his side, pulling the blanket off of him. They ask what's wrong. Skill can hear yelling behind his heartbeat. It's his voice. His mouth clamps shut and heat crawls along the bridge of his nose. He can't catch his breath. He's still so tired. Even without the blanket, he can't sit up.

Something's wrong.

Nice is frowning, but Art's face is twisted with something Skill cannot read.

.

Skill can't get out of bed. His brother says that his muscles have atrophied, and it will take time and lots of physical therapy before he's able to get around on his own again. It's something that can't be hurried. Skill chews on his lip as he's propped up in his bed, surrounded by mounds of pillows. His brother's soft and sad smile doesn't make him feel any better. Neither do the officers constantly idling outside the door, supposedly there to keep them "safe."

In the meantime, there's always someone there to keep him company. Art still has two weeks before his classes begin at university, so the daytime hours he would otherwise spend in lectures are spent at Skill's bedside. In the evening he dresses up and goes out for several hours, returning exhausted. Skill doesn't know where he goes, but he assumes. It's probably a part-time job or an internship of some kind.

Nice, on the other hand, goes roaming the streets of Yokohama by day. Exploring. Reveling. Wandering. Skill knots his fingers in his sheets at the idea. But that doesn't stop Nice from traipsing in while Art is getting ready, bursting with life and descriptions of the wonders of the city. He funnels them directly to Skill. The images barely connect in Skill's mind. It's grown so foggy. It refuses to listen to Nice's interpretations. It vehemently rejects a world through a filter.

Nice's words are dropped before they can take root.

Nice often sits at Skill's bedside and talks himself to sleep. He yammers on about the things he's seen, people he's overheard, songs played over loudspeakers at shopping centers, and women in tight-fitting business suits. A seemingly never-ending torrent of words, until his voice trails off, and then Skill will look over and see him leaning to one side with his head against the wall, eyes closed and mouth stuck open mid-word.

Skill seeks the window across the room. There's nothing to see but the ugly sides of nearby buildings. A sliver of sky peeks over near the top. The light pollution smothers any stars that may be out. Nothing to see.

His fists clench in his lap. They're weak and painful.

He slowly lifts his thin arms up to shoulder height and sets them back down. Then again. Just as the physicians explained. They fall asleep after four reps. He covers his face with his sheets and tries to do the same.

.

Skill's physical therapist is a warm, middle-aged woman that smells of lavender. He knows her gentle smiles and murmured words are supposed to encourage him—to make him feel safe. He only wishes he had the strength to make her stop talking. Every time she smiles and congratulates him she reminds him of his brother.

She urges him on as his wobbly arms keep him upright, gripping onto horizontal bars. His legs remain glued and unsteady on the padded floor. Her voice wraps around him like a duvet. It's difficult to breathe.

He hates the phrase "relearning to walk." He hates what it implies. His body knows how to walk. It remembers the sensations of running, jumping, and climbing, but now it refuses to listen to what his brain commands it to do. He tells his legs to move, to walk, but they react weakly and with no urgency.

When Skill finally stands with his own strength, he is elated. The therapist claps her hands together and showers him with praise. His elation is quickly extinguished. She tells him that he's recovering very quickly. It won't be long until he can start to walk.

His brain begs to run away, but his legs will not move any further.

.

Art has left for orientation at university. Skill is alone for a few hours. He sits himself up in bed, enough strength flowing through his limbs to move himself around. It's barely midday.

It takes five minutes for him to swing his legs over the edge of the mattress. Bare feet wait upon the cold tile floor. His hands are shaking. He grips the folds in the sheets. A breath.

Sweat slides along the back of his neck. Even from here, he can see the thinness of his legs, his meager calves and angular knees covered with skin stretched taut over peaks of bone. His touch is dainty on the ground. The bed threatens to drag him beneath its waves of cotton and foam-capped springs. Down where it's safe.

He cranes his head back. Looks at the ceiling tiles looming above. He has to try.

He's barely transferred any weight onto his feet when the door slams open and his heart almost leaps from his body.

Nice is standing in the doorway, leaning on his knees and face shining with sweat. His breath comes out in heavy bursts.

"Nice—?"

"I found her." His voice is hoarse, but Skill can't miss the smile breaking across his face. "I found her!"

Skill only blinks while Nice works to catch his breath. It's another moment before Skill remembers to breathe himself. "Y-you…"

"Yeah!" And Nice is beside him on the edge of the bed, hands animated with leftover energy. Skill notices the muggy smell of sun-soaked pavement. "It's Hajime-chan. Definitely. I finally found her!"

The sound of her name slams Skill into the wall. His insides swirl around until they threaten to tear him in two. "So… so all this time, you were…"

"What did you think I was doing?" Nice looks at him, still panting. "Why else would I take off instead of staying here with you and Art?"

"I… didn't think that you wanted to be cooped up in here. I thought you wanted to see the outside world."

"Yeah, with you, you idiot." Nice mutters. Skill's mouth clicks shut. "You haven't been… yourself. Then I remembered that dumb smile that used to come over your face whenever you talked about Hajime-chan. Yeah, like that!" Skill brings a hand to his lips. Is he really smiling? "So I thought finding her would help. And I did it. I found her, Skill. I finally found her for you."

Skill's throat closes up. It's all he can do to keep his breathing steady.

The grin drops from Nice's face. Light plays funnily around him as he grabs onto one of Skill's shoulders. The room is suddenly so vibrant and unclear. "Hey—what's the matter?"

Skill doesn't notice it until moisture drips between his fingers. He's crying.

"Skill, what's wrong?"

He pulls a breath through collapsing passages. "I don't know."

Nice doesn't say anything else.

Skill is still crying by the time Art returns. Art's second question is asking why Skill is on the edge of his bed.

.

Nice leaves the next day with full intent to bring Hajime back with him. He returns empty-handed. Skill is strangely relieved. His legs twitch beneath layers of sheets.

So Nice tries again the next day. And the next. Before long, a week has gone by, and it's become a routine for him to return with nothing but sighs and grumbles.

"She doesn't remember me—so she won't listen!" he complains. "She threw a hamburger wrapper at me."

Skill pauses. "She… doesn't remember?"

Nice shrugs. "It's hard to say how much she remembers, since she agrees that her name is Hajime… But considering what happened, it might be for the best, you know?"

Another voice erupts from within Skill's memories. It's made of cold, hollow screams. He swallows them back down. "Yeah. You're probably right."

"But don't worry. I'll get her here." Nice's grin is confident. Skill smiles back to humour him. "Maybe I should try a carrot-and-stick strategy… except with hamburgers."

Skill can only blink at him. "What?"

"You know. Tie a carrot to stick and lead her away. Except with hamburgers."

"But why hamburgers?"

"Because she's always eating them! Didn't I tell you?" Skill shakes his head. "She's eating one every time I see her!"

Skill's about to respond when his voice is caught by a memory. He finds the image of a bolted door, hears echoes of crying and the crinkling of wax paper. There's a burst within him that pulls at the corners of his mouth. "So she remembers that, at least."

Nice isn't listening. He's sitting in his usual spot near Skill's bed, muttering to himself. "Tomorrow, for sure."

Skill laughs through his nose. "Whatever you say."

By the time tomorrow comes, Nice once again returns with nothing, and no signs of progress.

.

Another week passes. Skill can walk on his own without support.

He can only walk across the room before his energy is depleted.

His brother lays a hand on his shoulder and tells him not to overdo it.

.

Over a week later and Skill's body regains some of its urgency. It moves when he wants it to—most of the time. He still has to work on his stamina.

But at least it's enough for him to be able to get out of bed and stand by his window. Nearby buildings crowd his view, but he's not being smothered by blankets. He takes solace in that and watches wisps of clouds float across a sliver of visible sky.

His brother is deep into his university studies now, so he's hardly around during the day anymore. Skill doesn't mind too much. He's sure Art would only tell him to take it easy and to get back into his bed. Skill's noticed that it doesn't take much to make his brother worry these days.

By mid-afternoon, the sun is dipping low in the sky. Angled beams of light lay stripes across the room. Skill remains by the window, unsure of just how long he's been standing there.

An authoritative voice is muffled behind the door to his room. Skill turns his head and can hear Nice arguing with one of the officers posted outside. He keeps saying something about "visitors."

Skill pauses as everything stops and snaps into place. There's only one answer.

His heart is twisting around itself. What should he do? Why now?

No. Not now. Not yet. He isn't ready. Is his shirt rumpled? His hands smooth imaginary wrinkles. They rub at his eyes.

Please, just let the door open already.

The arguing dies down and there's a moment of nothing but silence. Skill is holding his breath.

The door slides open to a small girl with glasses and brown hair tied behind her head.

Skill exhales loudly. The girl smiles and turns his back to him. "It's just a boy!"

Nice's voice comes from the hall: "I told you!"

The girl in glasses backs into the room with something in tow. It's another girl with short dark hair and far-away eyes. Skill almost chokes on his breath. He could never forget those eyes. That vivid red and distant stare.

There's a flicker in her face as she sees him, but it's fleeting and impossible for Skill to decipher. Something is crawling up his throat. Her face is different than he remembers. It's calm. It's not twisted with screams. There's no faint smile tugging on her lips.

Her eyes search him all over, but he cannot read her expression. His fist clenches upon the windowsill. "Hajime… chan?"

His voice reaches her ears, and Skill can see everything within her come to a grinding halt. Her lips part, ever-so-slightly, but no words escape her. That distant gaze has turned to a laser focus.

"Do you… remember me?"

There's only the smallest hesitation: "I don't."

Skill expected that answer, but that doesn't stop his shoulders from dropping.

"But I know you," she continues. Her voice is calm, but it's still small. Still like Skill's memories. As if the entire world changed pitch without her. "Your voice… You're important."

And all at once, Skill feels his body ignite. Lightning whirs around his heart, and its heat creeps into his face. He can clearly feel the earth pressing up beneath his feet.

The girl standing behind Hajime wears a concerned frown. "Hajime-chan… are you alright?"

"I am."

"There's that dumb smile again." Nice speaks up from the doorway, and Skill's face flushes with hot. "I was looking for that."

Skill runs a hand down his face. Hajime appears indifferent, but the other girl has started giggling.

"So, now what?" Hajime asks. "What's so important?"

"Huh?"

She points at Nice. "He's been saying that I have to come here and it's really important. So what is it?"

When Skill's eyes find Nice, they're probably a little sharper than he intends. But Nice simply shrugs in silence.

Something important… Yeah, it's important.

"It may not be important to you, but I think it is for me." Skill sighs. "I know you don't remember, but…" he stops and shakes his head. Don't unearth unnecessary things. His eyes go back to the window. "You know the really tall tower? The tallest one, with the four corners that stick out?"

"Yeah."

"You wanna climb to the top?"

Both Hajime and Nice give him similar expressions. "Why?"

"To see the sky!"

She narrows her eyes. "You can see the sky from here."

"I mean really see it, without all of these other buildings in the way. To see everything at once!"

Nice suddenly nods. "Oh, I see."

Hajime's attention becomes unhinged. There's something about what he said that's shaken her. Her gaze shifts around the room. "I… I guess so."

Skill can't stop himself from lurching forward. "Really?" He can see Nice smirk at him from the corner of his eye.

"Why not?" Hajime shrugs before turning towards the door. "Let's go."

"Wait—now?"

She looks back at him, completely unfazed. "Yeah."

His mouth is hanging open. He can't think of a response. His legs are already aching just from standing up so long. He would need a miracle to climb that tower. He swallows nothing but dryness. But looking at that serious expression of hers… What can he say?

But then the bespectacled girl flounces over and lays a hand on Hajime's arm: "But Hajime-chan, we told Master we wouldn't be gone long!"

Hajime pauses. "Tomorrow, then."

Skill's already weak legs threaten to give out at the thought, but his knees remain locked and hold him in place. His gaze meets Hajime's and something within him steels itself. The lightning in his chest shocks some the pain from his legs. His eyes drift over to the door, where at least one officer is constantly lurking on the other side. "Tomorrow, huh… Hey, Nice, can we get out of here by then?"

Nice is grinning. "Of course we can. But what's so special about getting to that tower?"

"I told you," Skill bites down on his laughter. "I have a promise to keep."

.

The tower seems a lot bigger when they're standing at the bottom. There are so many storeys, so many stairs. It looms over the courtyard in silence, slicing the passing wind.

The girl in glasses opted to stay behind, so there are only three of them standing in the shadow of the tower.

It doesn't take much for Skill, Nice, and Hajime to walk into the building and sneak into a rear stairwell. Nice starts by taking the steps two at a time, his laughter echoing high off of the steel structures. Hajime moves at a slower speed, preferring to stay within a few steps of Skill, who is overwhelmed by the work climbing the stairs requires. It would take several more weeks of physical therapy to prepare him for this.

But he's come this far. He promised Hajime he'd show her the sky—the real sky—and that's exactly what he plans to do.

He presses onward with his hands pulling at the rails like a grappling line. Hajime turns her head every few steps. She watches him. She makes sure he's still okay.

Nice suddenly sticks his head out from over the railings, already three flights ahead. "You're still down there?"

Skill is unable to answer through his panting.

Hajime narrows her eyes at the boy above. "We're coming." Nice shrugs and decides to wait.

By the time Skill and Hajime reach him, Skill has to take a rest. He fears he will collapse otherwise.

Nice is frowning. "Are you sure you're okay to do this? We don't have to do it now—"

"No," Skill shakes his head. "I promised." Nice doesn't argue. Skill only notices he's looking at Hajime when he sees the faintest hint of red smear across her cheek. The inside of the stairwell is suddenly stifling.

Skill can only climb two more storeys before he has to rest again. His stops become more frequent as they go higher. Nice offers to carry him, but he flatly refuses. Hajime offers the same service, and Skill can only laugh.

It feels as though he's been climbing those stairs for an eternity.

The air becomes cooler in the upper floors. It scratches in Skill's throat. He can hardly feel his legs anymore, but they've taken up a pattern. They move on their own to hoist him up and up. Feet slamming down on the hollow steps, echoing down below.

By the time Skill reaches the final door—the door to the rooftop—he's drenched in sweat. His knees wobble and threaten to buckle beneath him. Nice and Hajime simultaneously grab his arms to keep him steady.

"Are you ready?" Nice asks.

Skill's grin is only slightly bitter. "For years."

Nice nods and goes to open the door. Hajime remains by Skill's side, just in case. Skill doesn't complain.

The cool wind tries to knock the three of them down as it infiltrates the building. The sweat still sliding down Skill's back gives him a chill. Hajime's hands tighten around his arm. Nice waits for them to step onto the roof before following, and the door slams shut behind them.

Skill's breath flees with the wind. No longer closed in by mortar and glass, the sky is huge.

Hajime seems to falter. Her grip drops from Skill's arm, but he manages to catch one of her hands and holds firmly onto it.

Nice's laughter is almost inaudible over the rushing air.

The top of this tower is the top of the city. Nearly everything is visible from here.

The horizon stretches out before them. An uneven skyline. Skill wants to reel it all in. To drape the horizon across his shoulders. From up here, Yokohama is so small. It is a collection of buildings; a culmination of people; a speck on a globe. The sky falls around him like a glass dome. It meets the ground, sealing in all he can see.

Skill tightens his grip on Hajime's hand. There's a space between the land and sky. A sliver hiding within the horizon. Places beyond that glass dome.

Hajime's grip tightens as well, and he turns. The light is reflected in her eyes. An image of that horizon that's so far away, literally in his grasp.

And Skill smiles.

xx

Author's Notes—Highly experimental fic coming through! A monster of over 14K words, at that. And it's at this point that I'm no longer sure exactly what I wanted to convey here… hm. But! At the very least, this fic transformed somewhere along the line—going from all Hajime/Skill to 30-percent Hajime/Skill and 70-percent Diving into My Characterization of Skill, and I know that's something I wanted to play with. This fic is full of all sorts of things, and hopefully all of these words managed to do something. I've been writing this thing for months…

Oh, and I have to give credit: I totally stole the title of this fic from a song of the same name by Front Porch Step, since the title was what inspired this mess in the first place. Although the actual content of the song ended up having no impact at all. Strange.

And as usual, impressions and whatnot are always appreciated! Now onto other things. Ideas are still lurking…

Hamatora is never going to let me go,
-Destiny