Usually, when Haru reaches the end of his prescription, it's not a Thursday—usually, when Haru reaches the end of his prescription, he's prepared for it. Today, despite the odds, proves the anomaly in both cases; today, despite his meticulous planning, his best judgment, his wicked attention to detail, his forethought has failed him.

Ignoring his mistake (what good will that do him now anyway?) Haru turns sharply on his heel and throws open one of his kitchen drawers. His knife of choice is short with a black handle, the edge thick but serrated like shark's teeth. Holding it tightly in his hand, his concentration completely overwhelming all of his senses, he returns to the freezer and begins hacking away at the layer of ice that lined the top, oblivious to the dents that soon ruin his blade and the scratches he leaves on the insulation.

It seems to take forever, but eventually the sheet gives way and a section of the ice crashes out onto the floor. As it hits the ground it shatters even further, the frozen pieces ricocheting everywhere, but luckily Haru's emergency bottle of pills escapes mostly unharmed. He flies to it, more anxious than paranoid, and without flinching just smashes the glass against the door of the fridge, the pills falling neatly into his hand while the broken vial crumbles around his fingers like sand.

He counts them, carefully, while crouching on an awkward square of his floor surrounded by melting ice and disintegrated glass. When he finishes counting them he counts them again, wanting to be sure, needing to be exactly right.

Five days. Haru has five days worth of extra pills.

Collapsing onto his back, Haru lets out a huge sigh of relief. Normally he's better at keeping his cool than this, normally he can handle little problems and not go crazy, but having his sanity threatened by the one and only thing that stood between him and...

And what? Thinking on it now makes Haru realize he doesn't actually have any idea what would happen if he went off his meds. Would he die? Withdrawal was one thing, and that one thing Haru was confident he could learn to live with if he really had to, but was there another side effect he didn't know about? Could there be something worse?

Getting up off the floor does nothing to summon a revelation, so Haru busies himself with cleaning up the mess that litters his kitchen. Turns out that was a smart choice, because not three minutes later someone knocks on his door.

Haru expects a lot of people to come knocking, the Vampire Extermination Squad, religious extremists, maybe even other vampires, but to his relief (and slight disappointment—he could use some excitement in his life sometimes) it's only Makoto, looking just a touch sheepish to be cluttering up the front step.

"Hey Haru," he says, smiling innocently. "You look busy, should I go?"

Haru stares at him with the open expression he's known for, not giving anything away but clearly considering his options. Brandishing the broom aside like he had just pulled the red tape away from an expensive pub, he gestures Makoto into the living room.

His friend hovers there for a while, offering to help Haru sweep but staying put when he shakes his head. Haru is very aware of Makoto's eyes, and in turn he watches the brunette from the reflection off his appliances. Something's up, that much he can tell. But what?

"I'm sorry to just show up like this," Makoto says, finally sitting down. "But, you seemed a little off today. I hope I haven't given you my cold."

Seeing the opening, Haru seizes it. "It'll pass." He shrugs with extra effort, making Makoto frown a little. "How are you feeling? I can make tea."

Despite Makoto's polite refusals, Haru makes them both a cup anyway. The smell of the herbal remedy wafts through his apartment, masking the usual smell of emptiness that seems to have seeped into all the furniture.

They don't talk, exactly, but Haru senses the exchange of a conversation in the way they subtly begin to mimic each other, tilting their heads in time, glancing to the window, reaching for their cups. Makoto's presence is so reassuring Haru almost feels guilty about lying; still, there's nothing else he can do.

Makoto ends up staying until dinner, but when Haru offers to cook something his friend just smiles and admits he really be heading home. In the entryway Makoto's green eyes are skittish, never settling anywhere for long, until finally Haru just saves him the trouble and says what he wants to hear.

"I'm fine," he says. "If anything were wrong, I'd tell you."

At last the tension in his shoulders seemed to ease, the shadow lifting from the contours of his face. His smile is earnest now, genuine, sincere. "Oh, that's good," Makoto says. "Have a good night Haru. Try not to stay up too late."

Haru realizes two seconds too slow that he can't watch Makoto walk away from him again, because something about the distance makes his promise feel true and final.

And it's like he can actually explain that not staying up too late is practically impossible.


Saturday finds Haru on a train out in the middle of nowhere. He knows where he's going, of course, but the people seated around him could never guess; his clothing said boarding school, his age said the mall, but his expression said nowhere at all. That shifts, slightly, as the train nears his destination, but any indication of excitement or relief is swallowed by the thick sunglasses he slides over his yes. It's bright today, he would explained to anyone who asks, it hurts my eyes.

His ruse, if you could it that, amounted to little when he stepped out of his cable car, because the crowds were so thick he could have been kidnapped and no one would know. Trying not to be too obvious (or too elusive, because honestly, wouldn't people notice if he covered his face with a scarf and poked eye holes out of a newspaper?) he sticks to the main roads, stops at a corner store to buy a popcicle, puts on some headphones. Then, before anyone even acknowledges he's walked past them (let alone done something suspicious), he starts on his way back to the train station.

Waiting on the platform feels a little foolish, despite how many times he's done it, but as he stands with his back against a large steel clock he calms to the sound of the loud, omnious ticking. The longer he listens the more it sounds like a heartbeat.

Eventually Haru finds himself approached by the platforms venders, lovely ladies selling candy and dedicated artists asking to draw sketches. He humours a few of them, even buys an elaborate pocketwatch with the solar system mimicking the hours of the day, until finally stumbling into a conversation with a young toy maker.

"Got a miss, good sir?" He asks, gesturing to a collection of stuffed animals. "Maybe I have her favourite? A bunny? A bear? A horse?"

Haru feigns a sense of interest, nodding along with the man's conversation, but in truth he's distracted by the tattoo of a crescent moon sitting just above the juncture of the man's shoulder and neck.

"Where did you get that done?" He asks the man, interrupting his speech about the luxary of some expensive material. "It doesn't suit you at all."

There's no immediate shift in the man's attitude, but whatever he'd been talking about before suddenly seems unimportant as he motions to a second display. "Oh, you know, someplace somewhere," he says. "Could I maybe convince you to take one of these home, if it's more to your taste?"

The compartment of the peddler's wagon that he slides open reveals an array of books, the sign explaining they were all refurbished copies of popular originals. Instead of regular prices though, the books were outrageous, the smallest one asking nearly three hundred dollars.

Haru picks one, closer to five hundred, pays the man and then abruptly leaves. He takes the first train home and sits with his arms crossed, the book pressed against his chest. He doesn't remember most of the trip, but the second he makes it back through his front door the world comes back into amazingly sharp focus.

Pulling back the cover, Haru carefully pries the tiny bottle of pills out of the clever hole cut in the center of the stacks of the paper. Pulling out the cork reveals about two month's supply of drugs, the capsules glinting wonderfully in the fading evening light. Encouraged by the prospect of staying sane, Haru buries the bottle in the back of the freezer and patiently waits through the next two days, every hour that passes one less that he needed to sit and be concerned he was living on borrowed time.


The walk home after school on Monday is longer than usual, Makoto stopping twice to pet stray cats. Haru hates the way they curl around his friend's leg, happy and kind, because the moment he gets close they hiss and run off. By the second time Makoto just laughs and says, "I guess they just don't like you today."

There's something about the way he says that, without meaning anything more than exactly what he's said, that calms the agitation building in Haru's chest. He misses those small things, animals not hating him, the sun not trying so hard to destroy him, that sometimes having someone say it so plainly, saying it in a way that implies that hey, one day it won't be like this—it's nice. Hell, it's more than nice.

Haru isn't sure why, but he laughs. It's a little forced, in the beginning, but when he starts he finds the sound difficult to contain, and soon Makoto's laughing too. Maybe he's just remembered something from their past, something funny from a story they've shared, but regardless they laugh together for a good short while, enjoying the way their mirth mixed together like mountains and snow, birds and wind.

That night, alone again in his room, Haru thinks back on that moment and can't seem to stop himself from smiling. It's a feeling he can't explain or fight, but the looseness of the memory makes him happy. Maybe this was what being normal could be like. Maybe this was just fine after all.


Two a.m. Haru's alarm cries out into the night, shrill but quiet, persistent but meek. Haru flicks on the light and turns off the cloak, slinking back into the kitchen and reaching almost blindly for the freezer. Not that he sleeps, but if he could, he'd know this routine like he knew how to brush his teeth or tie his shoes (and it's be about as exciting too).

Still, bottle in the hand, Haru is hopeful. He decides to take two at once, even, just for the reward, just for the boost. The capsules dance around on his palm, rolling around along the ridges of his skin. Throwing them back and downing them with a glass of water should have given him an instant sense of relief, but instead...

Something's wrong. Something doesn't feel quite right.

Haru chokes on the drugs, his throat suddenly inflamed by a white hot intensity. The tastes fuse together, a mishmash of sweet and sour and bitter and spicy. When the sensation passes Haru feels fine—alarmed, perhaps, distressed—but fine.

Only fine, though. Not better. Not high.

Haru takes another two only to have the same reaction. Then another two. And another two. Eight pills later and Haru still feels 'fine', no rush, no empowerment, just 'fine'.

Finding what remained of his emergency stash, Haru counts the pills again. He only has enough left get him through another two days.

Staring at the new vial in his hand, at the white capsules of...of...of what? What was it? If it wasn't medication, wasn't drugs, then what in the world had he been sold? Had his supplier made a mistake?

Two days. Two days of sanity, maybe four if Haru only took a pill every twelve hours instead of eight. If he was going to fix this, he needed to make it back to Saturday without going crazy.

Four days. He could handle that. Right?