By All Rights
Summary: By all rights, Hinazuki Kayo should be dead. By all rights, Fujinuma Satoru should be dead. But they aren't. Against the odds, they survived. Mostly canon-compliant. Gift fic for Flare on the 'Erased' Discord server.
By all rights, she should have been dead.
By this point, Kayo is well aware of this fact, for it is a statement of a cold, hard fact, rather than an expression of some deep unhappiness, or resentment, or unsettlement. She would've died; should've died, really, in a crueler world, where a boy in her class had looked at Hinazuki Kayo and simply shrugged and allowed her to fade into the dirty grey of the snow underfoot.
Connection was difficult. It took persistence, and effort, and the willingness to make yourself vulnerable, and Kayo had found herself caught off-guard the day Fujinuma Satoru had followed her into the park, the day he'd admitted he was a liar, that he was caught between worlds just as she was and sometimes the only way he'd found to fit in was to act, to perform for the others.
It wasn't as simple as that, Kayo didn't say, but he'd promised to never lie to her, and something about his forthrightness spoke to her.
It was cold; they pressed their bare hands together, lending each other warmth for a time.
Connection: maybe it was simple enough, after all. All you had to do was to reach out and touch somebody. It was the words that got in the way. It was the words that were complicated.
By all rights, she should have been dead.
The doctor had said that, when her grandmother had taken Kayo for a medical check-up, the moment she'd been taken away by Child Protection Service. She felt…strange, she supposed, as if she had gone someplace far, far, away (and wasn't that true, anyway? She thought of the town she had left behind, but this time, there was both an ache and warmth in her heart.)
The doctor spoke gravely to her grandmother. Kayo listened with half a ear as the medical terms, heavy and sombre and polysyllabic flew past her. She knew what some of them meant: they were a catalogue; an inventory of the various injuries her mother had inflicted on her over the relentless years. She sounded them out, quietly. Most of them had a peculiar gravity to them, as if they were like stones, dropping into the river. Fractured ulna. Malnutrition. Trauma.
"She's lucky to be alive," the doctor said, and she thought she read the disapproval in his voice. She looked down at her hands.
She was lucky, Kayo thought, and the thought brought a smile to her face. She was lucky to have had friends.
If it wasn't for Satoru, for Kenya, for Hiromi, for Osamu, she would have been left to the daily beatings, to the cruelty of her mother's indifference. But Satoru had insisted—he'd forced his way into her life, he'd asked questions, he'd brought her into his group of friends, and Kayo'd learned the way laughter sounded, how a parent's touch felt, what it was like to have birthday gifts, and to play, and to be-well, to be a child, to be carefree, to be whoever Hinazuki Kayo was supposed to be.
When she was older, Kayo realised that it had been a near thing; that in those unhappy years with her mother, she had come within a single heartbeat of dying far too many times.
By all rights, she should have been dead.
Kayo had told herself to stop caring, had stopped desiring anything other than to go far, far away from the town that ignored her existence, that overlooked her bruises and her pain and that accepted her mumbled excuses without so much as a moment's hesitation.
Like a caged bird, she dreamed of freedom, and kept that dream close to her heart and choked it down, along with the tears she held back when her mother got into a bad mood and thrashed her. Eventually, Kayo tried to stop dreaming of an end.
It hurt too much, to hope.
Once, their teacher, Yashiro, called her over to his office. She found her fingers tightening about the straps of her backpack and tried not to fidget as he studied her with those kind and knowing dark eyes.
"How are you doing, Kayo?" Yashiro asked.
"I'm doing fine," Kayo whispered. Her voice was hoarse, and she had to repeat herself, even as she tried not to stare at his dark brown wingtips, polished to a soft gleam.
"You're not keeping up well in class," Yashiro said, matter-of-factly. "You're often distracted and late. I'm concerned about you."
"I'm fine," Kayo said, again. If you told yourself that enough times, she thought, you could make it real. Lying, like apathy, all other skills, was perfected through practice. She sought for the apathy now, sought to numb herself to everything, to the way Yashiro seemed to look right through her, as if she was glass, searching for the shameful secret she was never allowed to give voice to.
He looked at her, searchingly, and for a moment, Kayo's heart plummeted right into the pit of her stomach, like one of the lead weights they still used at the post office.
He knew. He knew.
She didn't know what she wanted. For that moment, part of Kayo—the part that had never stopped dreaming of freedom, of an end, of safety—that caged bird awoke and let out a soft trill of song. He knew. The other part of her panicked—no one could know, her mother had snarled, and she'd kill Kayo with her own two hands before allowing someone to take her away.
But in the end, Yashiro was an adult, just like the other adults who had looked away, or simply not seen what had been in front of their eyes all along.
He looked down, frowning, at her report card, and the moment was lost, like a drop of water falling away from a faucet.
"Alright," Yashiro said, sighing heavily. "Please remember you can always come to me if you have difficulties, Kayo." He smiled at her; it was the smile that a number of their classmates had seemed smitten by, crooked and disarming, but Kayo did not feel anything.
It was better this way.
She had almost succeeded in killing hope, in killing desire, in killing any other emotion than an apathetic resignation and a tired, fierce hatred when Satoru had come to the park and firmly insinuated himself into her life.
It was then that Kayo learned that hope; that light and laughter was like a flower. It waited, patiently, even in the killing cold of winter, for the right time to put forth leaves and shoots; for the right time to bloom.
By all rights, he should have been dead.
They had pulled Satoru from the freezing waters of the river, still strapped in. They'd had to cut him free from the seatbelt as well.
In the end, it was the cold that saved him, Kenya wrote. If it had been summer when they had found him, he would not have had a chance of surviving.
Kayo read all of this, in Kenya's letter, and felt something cold and tight clutch at her heart.
Satoru had almost died. She couldn't reconcile the two images: Satoru, laughing; Satoru, eyebrows drawn together in determination as he bent down and adjusted the laces on his ice skates, Satoru alive and mischievous and happy, with the Satoru Kenya had described in his letter, unconscious and in a coma, with no indication if he'd ever wake up.
She frowned down at the letter for several long moments, thinking hard. The decision was absurdly easy enough to make, and she went over, crossing the floor of her room, opening the door and heading out to where her savings jar sat on a side-table.
She wasn't used to having a decent allowance, and her grandmother had approved when Kayo carefully set aside a good chunk of it in a savings jar. Kayo hadn't quite thought about what she'd want to buy with her savings—she was still discovering who Hinazuki Kayo was and what she liked; was still learning that a raised voice did not mean an impending beating, was learning that meals could consist of more than a slice of toast, that she could have friends, that she didn't need to be afraid, any longer, that even hatred could eventually smoulder and die from the lack of fuel—but now she knew.
She undid the savings jar and counted everything out, stacking the money in a neat pile on the kitchen table. It was where her grandmother found her, counting and frowning.
"What are you doing?"
It was the same frown her mother had, and Kayo was still learning not to shrink back from it. "Satoru drowned," she said. "He's in the hospital now. They don't know if he'll wake up. Kenya says…Kenya says his mother is having difficulty paying his fees."
Her grandmother sighed, heavily, and sat down at the wooden table. As always, Kayo's eyes were temporarily drawn to the many scars that mar its smooth finish. There were always scars.
"Were you thinking of paying off his bills with what you have in your savings jar then, hmm?"
Kayo bit at the inside of her cheek. "He's my friend," she said. What an inadequate word, for what Satoru was to her, unless friends could save your life, could change it so drastically in so many ways. Perhaps there was another word. A better word. She did not know what it could be.
"And you want to help."
Kayo nodded.
Her grandmother seemed to think things through for a few long moments, before she nodded decisively and stood up. "Come."
"What are we doing?" Kayo asked, following obediently.
"We're baking cookies to sell," her grandmother said, matter-of-factly. "Every little bit helps, Kayo. And baking…." she smiled, wearily. "Baking is good for the heart, too."
By all rights, he should have been dead.
But Satoru had always been stubborn; Satoru had always been a fighter, and even as year after year passed and Satoru grew gaunt and lanky, it seemed that part of him still clung fiercely to life. His mother echoed that drive; when the doctor floated the possibility of pulling Satoru off life support, Sachiko glared daggers at him, and refused.
Kayo learned all about these through the letters that came—first from Kenya, and then, eventually, from Hiromi and from Osamu.
Just as Satoru was not giving up on life, none of them gave up on Satoru. They continued to organise fundraising drives, helping Satoru's mother pay for his growing medical bills. They visited Satoru; read to him, because Kenya'd read in a medical journal somewhere that sometimes, familiar voices helped patients in a coma.
When she visited, Kayo sat there and just held his cool hand, remembering that distant day when they'd spoken in a park, when they'd pressed their palms against each other's, borrowing a little warmth. It had only lasted a while.
Perhaps that was just how life worked. Friendship was a temporary flare of warmth, something you carried with you for a while, against the bitter cold.
Time never stopped, however. Time marched on relentlessly, and Kayo made a few new friends, and just like the others, graduated. High school came and went in a flash, and then she was studying child psychology at Todai, because she remembered what a boy had done for her once, because no child deserved to hate or to feel unloved, because Kayo had been given a second chance, and now Kayo wanted to give others a second chance too.
By then, Hiromi had gone to medical school.
The letters continued, a fragile chain of paper and ink connecting both past and present; the ones from Kenya continued to be cordial and informative. Kayo could not pinpoint when the the letters from Hiromi crept inexorably towards the personal, but she found it easy to confide both her worries and her struggles to Hiromi. Hiromi, in turn, admitted that he found the pressures of medical school difficult, but he'd always wanted to do something meaningful with his life, and Satoru's situation had only cemented the desire to be a doctor; to save lives with his own hands.
Every year, though, on their shared birthday, Kayo went to visit Satoru—who, by this point, had been relocated to Tokyo. She took his hand and sat with him for a full hour. Sometimes, she told him little things: things she had not felt comfortable talking about to anyone except perhaps Hiromi, in a letter.
Always, Satoru did not respond. She wondered if he ever would. But Sachiko had not given up hope, and Satoru had not given up on her, and for all that Kayo knew she had to move on with her life, she allowed herself this one exception.
By all rights, he should have been dead.
But somehow, fifteen years later, Satoru had beaten the odds, and Satoru had woken up. Kayo looked down at the mobile in her hand. Kenya had already disconnected.
Fifteen years. She'd almost forgotten what it was like to feel hope; to feel it fluttering like a bird, light, and singing, caged by her ribs.
Hiromi came up from behind, and drew her into his arms. "What is it?" he murmured.
"Kenya called," Kayo explained, simply. "Satoru woke up."
"Ah," Hiromi sighed. An entire universe could be contained in a single word. When they'd first started dating, they'd both felt a strange sense of hesitation. The young Kayo had, she supposed, been drawn to Satoru—perhaps because he'd been the first person in the town to stop pretending, to be honest with her. Because he had been her first real friend. Because he'd changed her world. And because there was something in him that spoke to her.
But then there was Hiromi, and over the years, they'd grown closer, and shared each other's secrets and triumphs and innumerable little moments. He'd bought her freshly-baked pastries and hot chocolate on the morning of her exams, and she'd made sure he ate regularly when he was doing his housemanship at the hospital.
If Satoru was the blue of the sky and childhood dreams, then Hiromi was as solid and reassuring as the earth, and Kayo knew bone-deep that she loved him and their child.
You grew up. You lost some dreams, acquired new ones. You changed, desired different things. You moved on. That was life.
"Well, we'll have to visit him then, of course," Hiromi said, matter-of-factly, as if it had never at all been in question. And of course, Kayo thought—why should it have been? Except she still felt a sense of residual guilt about all that had happened since Satoru had fallen into that river that winter and nearly died. Except guilt was often irrational and responded poorly to logic, no matter how much Kenya solemnly reassured them that Satoru would've wanted them to be happy.
She went out to the store, that day, and bought some light wool yarn, in a pale olive green. She remembered those nights as a child, the furious clack of the bamboo needles in her hands as she struggled to finish knitting Satoru's mittens in time.
Yet another slender thread that connected both past and present.
It had been years since Kayo last knitted, and she was rusty, but a scarf was simple enough, and row by row, it took shape beneath her old bamboo needles. She had to unpick the stitches several times, but in the end, the scarf came together, neatly, and she cut the last loose thread and wove it in. Mirai was mercifully silent as Kayo worked, though she'd had to pause several times to check on him.
A scarf, she thought. It was a good gift. Useful, even. It seemed appropriate, though Kayo could not for the life of her explain why.
By all rights, he should have been dead.
Kayo could not explain that strange, light, giddy feeling that swept through her as she walked into the rehabilitation centre, carrying a slumbering Mirai in a sling about her shoulders, and Satoru's present wrapped into a neat bundle and tucked under her arm.
He was looking out, into the bright sunlight that tumbled through the tall trees of the courtyard and through the large windows of the room.
Perhaps it was the soft sound of her footsteps that alerted him. Or perhaps it was when she called his name, hesitantly. It had been a long time, even with her yearly visits. Kayo hadn't been certain; part of her kept wondering if it was merely some kind of dream, had been expecting it to collapse like a soap bubble.
He turned slightly in his wheelchair and he saw her, and he smiled. It was a heartfelt smile; one that filled Kayo with a gentle warmth, like apricity, for she hadn't seen that smile in fifteen years. "Kayo!" Satoru exclaimed, which meant he at least recognised her. Sachiko had talked about the holes in Satoru's memories, and part of Kayo had dreaded the possibility that he no longer recognised her. "Congratulations!"
He was still gaunt, but he had begun to put some weight back onto that emaciated frame, and it gladdened Kayo to see that.
"Is that…?"
"Meet Mirai," she introduced. "I'm Sugita Kayo now."
Satoru had always been sharp, and even now, she saw the cogs working in that head as he made the necessary deductions. His smile broadened, though perhaps it was the light from the window overlooking the hospital gardens that dazzled them, for she thought she saw something glitter in his deep blue eyes.
"Sugita Kayo," Satoru repeated, and she had not expected his voice would sound like this, but then she'd only known Satoru when they were both children, and how that boyish voice had given way to a deeper register. It was, Kayo found herself thinking, not an uncomfortable voice. It was the sort that could tell you stories, that could make you feel safe and comforted. It was the sort of voice you could fall asleep, listening to.
He grinned, then, and Kayo thought she saw the echo of the boy she'd once known. "I thought I recognised him. He has Hiromi's eyebrows, doesn't he?"
Kayo looked, and laughed, and had to agree.
"Mirai," Satoru said, again, and this time, that grin softened, to something gentler and more thoughtful. "It's a great name."
It was as if those comments had broken some wall of ice; some lingering reserve that had previously existed between them, and soon they were exchanging news—more so for Kayo than Satoru—although he spoke lightly of how he was progressing with his physiotherapy sessions.
"Satoru," Kayo said, at last. "Actually…" she swallowed. This admission did not come easily, though once she had begun, she forced herself to continue, doggedly. "I felt uneasy. Guilty, even. There you were, in a coma, and there we were, moving on…everyone was happy, except you."
And here it was, that which she had never told Hiromi, partly because she'd never had to.
"It felt like we were leaving you behind."
Satoru laughed. It was a pleasant laugh, light, and untroubled. "Oh, come on, Kayo," he murmured, and she thought she caught hints of amusement. It was like talking to a stranger, only every few moments, the stranger gave way, and she could catch glimpses of her childhood friend beneath. Gently, carefully, he took her hand in his, and pressed, lightly. "My fate is mine alone. There's no need for you to feel any responsibility. What I am now…it must be the result of having done what I thought was right. And what matters to me most is that you, Hiromi, Kenya, Osamu…" his voice trailed off. He said, again, almost as if repeating it for his own sake, rather than hers, "What matters to me most is that all of you are happy."
"We are," Kayo said, immediately. "We all are."
"Good," Satoru replied. "Then I'm glad."
He let go; she drew back. She almost dropped the wrapped bundle in the process and belatedly remembered. "Oh! I made something for you. Just a small gift, really." She handed it over to him.
Satoru cocked an eyebrow at her. "More mittens?"
Kayo tsk-ed. "That would be telling, Satoru." He had remembered the mittens, though, and that knowledge filled her with that same, gentle warmth as his smile.
They parted on good terms; Kayo promised to visit another time, but Mirai was growing restless, and she needed to feed him. As she left, she turned back, just one last time. Satoru had returned to gazing out of the window, into the hospital garden. She wondered what he was looking at.
Maybe they could have had a chance, if it wasn't for the fifteen years that had been cruelly stolen from him. Maybe, maybe, maybe. But she had Hiromi now, and she had Mirai, and she was happy, and had been, for a long time.
Satoru had woken up. He remembered, at least a little. Holding Mirai in her arms, Kayo could not help but feel hope awaken in her heart.
By all rights, she should have been dead. By all rights, Satoru should have been dead.
But they weren't. They survived. They were living now, against the odds, and haoled in the bright afternoon light, Satoru turned, and caught her eye, and smiled.
Kayo answered with a smile of her own, and waved farewell, and returned to her life.
A/N: Watched Erased the other day with a bunch of people from the 'Erased' Discord. This fic was written as a belated birthday gift for Flare, on that same Discord. It turned out a bit more brine-heavy than I expected, but I hope it's got enough light parts to it. Happy birthday, Flare!
-Ammaren