02. Apology
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Step. Step. Up the stairs. Up you go. Up again. Like before. Like the first time you came here.
A headache. What a pain. Otonashi clasped his head—the side, his temples—as he climbed the stairs to the infirmary's lone ward. He wondered if this spike of pain was related to the new person who just arrived. He was sure that they were in here. He had a feeling.
When he reached the end of the long, long hallway, he was faced with shut doors. His fingers wormed their way onto the edges and heaved them to the side, but a stationary rattle was all he received.
Locked.
Again, again, again. No matter how many times he tried, his way forward was blocked.
Bash it. Slam it. Break it. I dare you, Yuzuru.
He stepped back against the windows . . . and then he threw his side against the door, causing it to crack. Again. The cracks turned into splits, and then the splits evolved into rifts.
Whines turned to whimpers that turned to screams and sighs. But Otonashi didn't hear any of that. He just heard himself in his head and the cries that followed him around.
I want to meet them so badly. I want to welcome them here. Like I did with that boy.
He peered through the small holes; his eyes widened when he saw short hair of blond and dark red. They were here. With him.
"Hey, you two!" he called out to them. "I know you're in there! Why have you locked me out?"
Otonashi's burgundy eyes shone at the two of them in the cracks. Crashing his body into the door once more, the frame faltered for the last time and gave way, fracturing into many, many tiny pieces that lay scattered on the ward's glossy floor. He stepped forwards once, only once, and looked up at the new person.
Fire. Spiked hair. Those eyes. No way out. There was no way out.
Green. That green hachimaki. I've seen him before.
Otonashi himself faltered, stumbling down to his knees to the side of the ward, bringing down several chairs with him as the two in front of him watched him in fear. A cold sweat befell him so soon and quickly, getting to his head.
He wanted to be happy. He saw him, and his old friend saw him too. They exchanged glances; he smiled, but the newcomer waived their common ground away the moment he looked at Otonashi in horror and disgust.
"Iga . . . rashi?" he said, his tone the complete opposite of only moments before. "Is it . . . you?"
This was no time to be happy. Here, in this world, there was nothing to be happy for. In this moment, Otonashi realised that the person that helped all those people long ago was no more. Someone else was before him this time.
The boy in front of him calmed his eyes, however they no longer gleamed like their last encounter with each other. There was no instant connection, no instant soul like between friends, no nothing.
"H-Have we . . . met before?"
Otonashi stood back up, his face screaming undisturbed in silence. His mind racing, his heart pounding, he opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out, save from the short peck of saliva from the closure of his sweating lips. Bringing himself back to his feet, Otonoashi responded with three steps—step, step, step—forward to the bed his former friend lay comfortably in.
"Take another step," the blond boy warned, having risen out of his seat to protect his new ally. He had watched enough of this scene unfold without taking action.
Otonashi's gaze switched from the transfixation of Igarashi to hostile daggers he wanted to throw at the blond boy, but he knew better than to start a fight in the infirmary ward. Raising his hands, Otonashi explained with a smirk on his face, "I have no intention of fighting."
His crimson-eyed underclassman gritted his teeth and narrowed his eyes at him. "Bull. Shit. I know about those rumours. About you creating a blade from your hand. You came to kill us."
Igarashi's horrified expression turned into pure terror and fear, feeling the rising tension between the two. "Murder?" he said out loud, his state of mind completely disoriented from what was happening.
Challenging the Student Council President, the underclassman invaded his space. Out of his pockets, he rivalled the power he had with something of his own by pulling it out, ready, with his fingers on the trigger: a Beretta M9A3. He took aim and brought it level to Otonashi's head.
Igarashi looked at both of them with sorrowful tears and a look of disdain, looking back and forth at their vendetta-filled eyes. "Why would you say something like that? And you"—he motioned at Otonashi—"who are you?"
"Don't ask him questions. He's killed me before."
"What?" he said, bewildered, thinking back on what he said earlier. "I thought you said you couldn't die? That it was—"
"Impossible," Otonashi finished, stepping out of the room, almost as if he forgot that his underclassman held a gun to his head. He stared back at Igarashi once more. "If he said that, he'd be lying."
The hand that held the gun shook, but eventually it was lowered and became relaxed. The boy put the pistol away behind his blazer, sighing as he fixed eyes with Otonashi. "I swear I will find out who or what you are, Otonashi."
The Student Council President averted his gaze and became lost in the space around the three of them, looking solemn and empty. "No."
The two companions cocked their heads, puzzled at Otonashi's quick change of words. "No?" they both asked in unison.
"You asked," Otonashi bluntly said, pointing at Igarashi. "It's delayed. But I answered."
"But why Igarashi?" he replied, eager to know why he said that name.
"I thought I knew you from another life, but it seems like we don't know each other, that much is clear," he clarified, giving a deep and sincere bow to the both of them. "I'm sorry. As Student Council President, I shouldn't have barged in, and I should be more mindful of how I act to transfer students to this school. Truly, it won't happen again."
For the first time in years, Otonashi felt something. For the first time, he felt pain, sorrow, and regret. The sound of his footsteps gradually quietened, but they were loud enough to reverberate off of every speck of wall they could find.
I'm sorry, sorry, sorry. Forgive me for not being strong enough. Forgive me for not hanging in there. Forgive me for a tainted future.
And tainted memories.