lawly

by footfungus

lawly

31. Chapter 31

Time is strange. It's as cruel as it is merciful. As benevolent as it is unkind. And with every gift, it demands a price.

A part of Takemichi had always known. He'd always known there would be a cost. Surely, the heavens wouldn't be so kind to give him a second chance without demanding something in return. Whether it be his failed timelines. His blurred memories, or the constant phantom pain that had followed every wound. There was always a price.

This was their happiest timeline of all. Baji, still alive and thriving. Kazutora had started therapy. Kisaka, after getting the living daylights beaten out of him by Hinata, had finally found a reason to hold onto his humanity, and Hanma to join the ride. Draken was still by Mikey's side, and Emma too. Izana, although bitter and angry, had joined their small family. And despite their past ghosts, everyone was alive.

Everyone was happy.

And isn't that all that really mattered? Isn't that the reason he'd travelled back, if not to give a second chance to those who hadn't been given one. To give them a soft epilogue, because in the end, they were children. Naive, a little broken, and holding the world in the palm of their end.

But he fears the cost for this timeline. The price of their happiness. He fears himself not strong enough to pay it.

There is a bitter taste in his mouth. The pencil in his hand feels heavy, a sense of impending doom weighing down on his heart. Today was no different than any normal day. He was in class, sitting where he always sat. Yet, it didn't feel right, and he couldn't quite place his finger on it.

Classes pass by in a blur and he finds himself leaving school in a hurry.

He just had to make sure they were still alive.

'Take care of Mikey–'

To see them breathing and smiling.

'You are my pride, Takemichi…'

That it wasn't a lie.

'Please...put me at rest.'

It wasn't a dream. And Hina...sweet Hina.

'If only I was a boy, if I was, then I'd protect you Hanagaki Takemichi.'

He'd protected her this time. This time...this time, he had won. He had won. He had saved them...he saved them...he saved them?

Takemichi isn't quite sure when he had started running. His lungs burn, and the world turns. It brushes past him in flashes of colour and words he can't quite seem to hear. He sees, but can't seem to comprehend. Hears, but doesn't understand.

A fog fills his head, and all he knows is the taste of blood in his mouth and the echoes of an empty gun shell clattering against the ground.

'Live. Live. Live.' he thinks, his legs on autopilot, running down the same path he's always ran down when he's felt defeated and broken. Lost and crumbled. 'I'll protect you.'

And Takemichi wonders if he's finally repaid her for her kindness, or if it was just a dream.

How he ends up in front of Hinata's apartment, he doesn't know. He didn't quite remember the run here, but his legs ache and his shirt sticks to his chest, damp with sweat and tears.

He rings her bell once.

Twice.

Another to make sure she had heard the first.

'Still a crybaby, huh,' he can almost hear her voice, soft and kind. Even after they had broken up, there was never an ounce of hate. Never a hint of bitterness. Because anger he can handle, but bitter is different. Bitter lasts...bitter hurts . Hina was neither. Not angry, nor bitter. A little disappointed, but satisfied nonetheless. Selfless and understanding.

If he fails her now, then...then does he really even deserve another chance–

The door opens, and Takemichi finds he can't breathe. Her hair was short as it had been yesterday, and she had the same eyes, full of life and bright. She was real. She was still alive.

It wasn't a dream...it wasn't a lie–

"Hello?"

Hina sounds confused, peeping her head out, but otherwise keeping her body hidden behind the door, as though she was vary of him. As thought she didn't quite trust him. As if she didn't know him.

"Who are you?" she speaks again, when Takemichi didn't reply.

"I–" he opens his mouth to speak, but finds himself at a loss for words. His heart feels raw, defeated, and his eyes water.

'I'll protect you-'

"Mister...are you okay?" but Takemichi can't find himself to hear. She sounds worried...but it's not for him. For a stranger.

"I...I..sorry...I have the wro..ng...wrong address," he coughs out, bowing slightly in an unspoken apology, and before he knows, he's running away. He doesn't know where he's walking. Or how long he's been walking.

Somewhere along the way, he thinks he sees Mikey and Draken, bickering as they always do. But as they walk by, they don't see him. They walk past as though he was nothing more than a stranger.

Like Takemichi had never met them.

'I bet 100 000 000 on Takemitchy!'

Like Takemichi didn't exist.

'Don't worry about parting ways...so go back to the future, Takemitchy.'

But Takmichi hadn't gone to the future had he...he hadn't gone to shake Naoto's hand. He had gone back home, wanting to see them once more before he returned into the future. Like a coward, he had refused to leave, so was this his punishment?

Was this time compensating for his selfishness?

To be forgotten. To be completely...and utterly alone. To simply cease to exist.

Takemichi's heart thunders. Feels rage like he's never felt before.

And it burns.

His heart ablaze, burdened under the weight of the sea, sinking and sinking, until it no longer knew up from down. He drifts, lost in the riptide like a leaf floating aimlessly in that ever-so-growing blue. His heart screams, and Takemichi wants to scream. He wants to yell until his throat is scorched, and his tongue as black as the blood that runs through his veins.

He doesn't even know how he got here. Takemichi had only closed his eyes for a moment, and then next moment found himself staring down at the rushing water before him. He's at a bridge, barely hanging onto the ledge. But as he stares down, hypnotized, in that blue, in that ever-so-lonely blue, he finds only silence...his screams smothered and silenced.

As a child, Takemichi used to believe that pain was the worst feeling out there...but how could anything be more deafening than the silence he was submerged in. He'd thought the silence would bring peace.

Instead, it brought a bottomless void.

He feels lonely in a world of too many. Surrounded, and yet so fucking alone. A nightmare of his own creation. The world Takemichi had created for himself...a carousel of melancholy and ecstasy. A merry-go-round going up and down..

...and down…

...down.

He missed the feeling of cold water trickling down his throat into the empty pit he had created in his body. Reminded of the sickening pride he'd felt with being empty. He missed having the calculator in his head tick and tick and tick and tick and-

He missed being empty and having no one else but himself to blame.

He missed being able to take a shower everyday and not be disgusted with the image staring back at him in the mirror. It wasn't him...but then again, Takemichi wasn't sure what part of him was real anymore.

Back when he had still lived with his mother, Takemichi would beg his mother for ten more minutes. Just ten more minutes to sleep. And when she said no, he would walk dazed to the small closet and curl up on the floor, high on the ability to just forget. To close his eyes and simply disappear.

He was tired.

When he was younger, ripe in his boyish years, his mother would ask him what it was he wanted to do with his future. Takemichi never had an answer, but he felt the answer should've been one of importance. He'd never been asked what he wanted...only given. And blinded in his insatiable hunger, he would take it all.

B'I wanted so much,' Takemichi thinks, 'of a thing I did not even know the name of.'

But the answer...he knows now. A word he'd been taught as a small child, but never learned the weight of. He wanted to eat dinner with the table full. Wanted to come home to his mother asking how his day was. Wanted someone to hold him when his dreams were plagued by terror. He just didn't want to be alone. He...he didn't want to be lonely.

Home.

He wanted home. Was that too much to ask for?

"It hurts," he finds himself speaking, with no tears to show the wound and no one to hear his sorrow. ' Everything hurt.'

If time had taken his memories as well, Takemichi didn't think he would have minded as much.

Takemichi wants to unravel time back to when he was nothing...when he knew nothing. No emotions. No feelings. Just an ever consuming oblivion. He wanted to go back to the point before existence. Before he learned the warmth in his mothers' womb. Before he learned what loneliness felt like. Before his ears began ringing in the silence. Perhaps then, he too could find happiness – oblivious and naive.

He didn't want to die, but as he stood staring at water beneath him, he wondered if he should just run away as he has always done. Wondered if this is what Mikey had felt when he stood on that rooftop.

No...Takemichi didn't want to die. His life wasn't his own anymore. It was broken, and tangled with too many others...with people who would no longer know his name. Even so, he had chosen to save them. He had made the choice to live to save them. And he promised Hina. He promised to keep trying. Surely, that meant something.

Takemichi takes a deep breath before climbing back over the railing and steps away from the ledge. Everyone had their happy ending, Takimichi thinks bitterly. Perhaps it was time he'd started working on his own.

He didn't want to die. He just...he just wanted to stop.

'Stop what?' his mother had once asked.

Being.

Sorry is this chapter is a bit choppy...I wrote it in one sitting, but part of it is also to show Takemichi's mental state. Hopefully it makes sense tho? More characters next chapter! This was just more of a prologue.

Chapter 2: A thing about life...

Summary:

Takemichi tries and tries, and finds someone to try with him.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

If there is one thing that Takemichi has learned from all his time skips and leaps into the past, is that life continues to move on. It doesn't stop to mourn. Doesn't wait or slow down for those left behind.

It reminds him of footsteps in a snowstorm. No matter how many steps you take, how deep you dig your feet, the tracks are eventually covered by the coming snow. They disappear as easily as they are made.

Takemichi is stuck in the past, lost and forgotten in that snow storm. His friends – can he really call them his friends anymore – have moved on, they are following the cycle of life, and he tries desperately to follow the tracks they have left behind. And as always, he is a second too late. Their tracks had been long covered by the snow, and while Takemichi had wasted months mourning, life had moved on and left him behind.

Alone and cold in a never-ending expanse of white.

Takemichi takes a deep breath, taking a closer look at his wreck of an apartment. He stands in the center of it, piles of garbage and paper and notebooks and cans and things he doesn't even know the name of cluttering every corner.

It is nothing like the white snow in his mind. It's dark and messy, cluttered and falling apart. While the snow was tranquil even it's loneliness, his home was a pile of chaos and scrambled thoughts.

He's at a loss at where to start, but he has to start somewhere doesn't he? Life won't stop for him, so he'll simply have to try his best to catch up. Choose a direction and move on.

It's the break of dawn when he starts, and by the time the sun has started setting, there are a couple dozen black bags covering the entrance of his door, and he's only barely managed to empty out the living room.

It's hard and he's exhausted. He wished there had been someone by his side to help him clear the mess he's made of his life, but that won't really work, would it? This...this is something he has to do on his own.

Life is asking him to be brave, and he has to be brave. As he's always done. Only this time, for himself.

It was easy being brave for others. Gave him a purpose and reason that felt valid. Made it worth all the blood and sweat he'd shed. Being strong for himself was harder than he had thought.

At times, the task felt hopeless and tiresome. It feels as though he has finally hit rock bottom, and instead of utter devastation, there is a sense of relief. He wants to curl up on that cool ground, and close his eyes like he had done as a child and simply forget.

"Just ten minutes," he whispers, laying down on the living room carpet. He's not sure who he's quite talking to. His mother is no longer here to nag him into waking up, and there is no Hina to scold him for his mess. "Ten more minutes."

And when he closes his eyes, he's met with the same snow storm.

"Please," he whispers, not sure who he is trying to convince. "Please please...just ten more minutes. Let me rest for ten more minutes."

His mind is a lonely, colourless place, but it's quiet and calming. He's laying amidst the snow, and there is a sense of peace.

A stillness of the mind.

Ten minutes turn to hours and when he opens his eyes again, there is a mild breeze coming through the cracked window. His cheek was warm with the morning sunlight and Takemichi finds he doesn't quite mind it.

While his mind was a silent place, it had been cold, the snow chilling him to his core. The sun felt warm, and reminded him a bit of Mikey standing proud and glowing up on the shrine steps.

And he thinks it is reason enough. He'll get back up because the sun is warm, and he wanted it to cover every corner of this dark room. He'll continue to clean because he doesn't want to be cold anymore.

It was reason enough, and Takemichi would cling to it like a moth drawn to flame.

He just wants to be able to feel warm again.

Everyone has their story. A beginning. A middle. An end. While the others were working on their epilogue, Takemichi had found himself back to the beginning. He'll make the sun his reason, the warmth his motive, and carve a happy ending for himself.

It's been a bit over a month, and he has only managed to clean his living room, the bathroom and a small portion of the kitchen. From the outside, it wouldn't seem like a lot, but to Takemichi, it had been more than he had done for himself in a long time.

There are times he lays for hours, mind empty and body numb. Others where his body is on autopilot, scrambling through the mess at a speed he didn't know he was quite capable of. Sometimes, he opens his eyes and finds the mess he has cleaned back before Takemichi even has the time to wonder how it came to be.

Rinse and Repeat.

But he doesn't go to school when he's done. Doesn't know if he can handle seeing Akkun or Chifuyu walk past him without giving a second glance. It's final year, and he knows he won't pass his exams. He'd missed months of school work, and no one had questioned his disappearance.

There are a few anomalies that begin to occur as he's cleaning, however. Almost supernatural. He finds a picture the group had taken together in middle school. Akkun, Takuya, Yamoto, Kazushi and...and Takemichi?

No..not Takemichi, well, almost not. It seemed as though his figure had become translucent in the image, the background beginning to show through his body. He keeps the picture in a frame next to his bed, and in a couple days, Takemichi can no longer find himself in it.

The universe was correcting itself, and it was erasing Takemichi from the past. Would he disappear too then? Would he begin to deteriorate?

Was that even be possible?

He tries not to put too much mind to the thought, as terrifying as it is. But he figures that he can't possibly disappear more than he already has? No one remembers him. No one knows him. And he's like a ghost drifting aimlessly, but god...even ghosts had people to mourn them. Takemichi had no one.

He was a clean slate. Empty, and waiting to be remade.

Was the universe trying to erase him...or was it giving him a second chance? A chance to start over...to right all the wrong he had done to himself. He lets out a half-hearted chuckle.

A punishment or a second chance?

Takemichi hasn't decided yet. Perhaps it was a bit of both.

His landlord almost kicks him out when she finds him exiting the room. It isn't until he shows her the multiple paychecks under his name going to her, and a tenant agreement does she believe he lives there.

She seemed confused...distraught and puzzled at the anomaly that had become Takemichi Hanegaki.

Takemichi wonders if his mother had forgotten him too, and oh how unburdering that would be for her.

It's 7 in the morning and he is making his way to the train station. It's his birthday, and he holds a small chocolate cake with two forks. He finds a seat on a bench covered by a glass ceiling, and waits.

He had worn a new sweater that he had bought several months ago, and a pair of black pants. He'd taken a shower, washed and even managed to brush his hair. There was a sense of pride within him, walking outside in fresh clothes and being put together for once. It was...exhilarating. Made him feel like he was worth something. Like he was beginning his 18th year anew.

But he waits none-the-less, watching trains go by, people exit and enter. Going about their lives, while Takemichi sat there, hopeful and waiting.

His mother was supposed to come today. Despite being away on long trips, she made sure to come back on his birthday. And Takemichi was always grateful.

Takemichi's birth wasn't a planned one. It had been accidental, and his mother hadn't wanted him at the time. She'd never told him such, but he'd heard it from his father who had spouted words filled with venom the day they had divorced.

Takemichi wasn't wanted but his mother had never been unkind. She'd provided him with as much money as he had asked. Showed up to every birthday. And never once told him he was unwanted.

But Takemichi knew. And his mother knew.

She was young when he had her, and had dreams and aspirations. It's not as though he didn't have a parental figure growing up. His grandmother had been there to take care of him after his mother had realized that she could not give Takemichi the childhood he deserved.

She was a bad mother, but she had been a decent person. Perhaps she had realized that Takemichi would have been happier with his grandma, than a mother who could not love him with all her heart. Than a woman who would be more stranger than mother.

Takemichi's relationship with his mother was a complex and strange one. Despite it all, they respected one another. And even if it was one day in a year, Takemichi would cherish it. Perhaps the limited time they had together had made it all the more precious.

So he does what he has done for the past few months and simply waits.

Hours pass. People pass, and he sits on the bench, a smile painted onto his face. And if the sun had started setting, Takemichi made no note of it.

And waits.

Takemichi pretends he doesn't hear the announcement telling them all that the last train is now leaving.

Pretends like it isn't announcing Takemichi's failure for everyone to hear.

And waits.

Pretends he doesn't see the pitiful looks of the last individuals passing by. Pretends he doesn't hear the train operator telling him the station will close in half an hour.

And waits.

Takemichi isn't quite sure what he feels, but the warmth of the sun is gone, and he feels cold all over.

and waits and waits and waits...

"Oi!"

Someone is shaking him, but Takemichi doesn't want to wake up yet. He's tired and sleepy. "Ten more minutes" he mumbles out, circling up and ignoring the intrusion.

"Yah! This isn't your fucking bed."

There is a hand smacking his head and Takemichi gasps, pulling himself up, still dazed and half asleep. A man standing before him, and Takemichi rubs his eyes a little to wipe the grogginess away from them.

"Who–"

"Don't hog the bench asshole," is all the other says, before dropping down and taking a seat next to him. It's dark out, and the man next to him is dressed in all black, a hoodie covering his head and Takemichi thinks he might get mugged here.

But he doesn't have any money on him. Only a small chocolate cake and two forks.

"Stop staring."

Takemichi snaps his head away, embarrassed. "Sorry..I wasn't trying to stare. I was just confused why someone else was here."

The figure finally turns to look at him, and there is a hint of annoyance painting the others face. As though Takemichi had asked something foolish and stupid.

"Why would anyone be here? There is a roof and a fucking bench," the other replies, and Takemitchy can't help but think the voice is familiar. Like he's heard it before. "Isn't that why you're here too? No house? Homeless?"

Takemichi shakes his head softly. "Ah no...I was just waiting for someone."

"Well sorry to break it to you, the last train is long gone."

"Yeah," Takemichi mumbles. "I know."

"Then why are you still fucking here? If you have a place to go, then go. Stop hogging the bench like an asshole and maybe I can even get some sleep tonight." The words are harsh and Takemichi turns to take another look at the man. He's slumped against the backrest, and has his eyes closed, body thin and frail, and Takemichi wonders when the last time was that the other had ate.

"Um..do you want some cake?" he asks nervously. What is he doing? Why is he offering food to a stranger like a madman?

"Cake?"

"It was going to go to waste anyway and we are both here, and there are two forks and I did steal the bench when I didn't need it and I–" Gods he's rambling already. Stop. Stop rambling. "..I.."

The man beside him chuckles, before pulling the hoodie off his head and turning to face Takemichi, grinning. "Sure, asshole."

And Takemichi feels his heart stop for a moment. The man...no..the boy before him has a tiger tattoo on his neck and half bleached hair. Kazutora.

Surely, he's mistaken, because there is no way. There is no way. They had a happy ending. Because Takemichi had given them one, so why...why was Kazutora here at night, alone in a dirty train station. He was supposed to be in therapy. He was supposed to be getting help.

Homeless. Kazutora was homeless.

"Oi" Kazutora cuts his train of thought, snapping his fingers to catch Takemichi's attention. "You there?"

"Huh?" Takemichi blinks. "Oh, yeah..sorry. I was just thinking."

He pulls the small cardboard carton from his side and places it in between them on the bench, passing a fork to Kazutora. And they are eating cake, at 2 in the morning, under a dim mellow station light.

It's perhaps the strangest meeting he's had in the past few months. That being said, Takemichi hasn't really talked to anyone in those few months.

"S' good," Kazutora mumbles, face half stuffed with cake.

"Ah...thank you–"

"You're not the one who made the cake, dummy. Why are you saying thank you?"

This Kazutora is cruel, but then again, Takemichi had never really gotten to know Kazutora in all his timelines. He had always labeled him as Baji's friend. Used Kazutora's life as a means to an end. Because if Kazutora lives, then Baji is happy, and if Baji is alive, then Mikey doesn't lose his humanity.

"I have a name you know," Takemichi says after a while. The silence was always and the sound of munching cake made it no better.

"Oh yeah?"

Yeah. This Kazutora was an asshole. A complete utter jerk. "Yeah. It's Takemichi Hanegaki."

The other pauses, taking a fork still in mouth as though considering something. "Ha-ne-ga-ki.." he tries, as though testing how the name rolls off his tongue. "Cool."

Takemichi has half the mind to smack the man over his head and take his cake back. "This is usually the part where you say your name back."

"Ah...Kazutora."

He ignores the way Kazutora doesn't tell him his last name. They are strangers after all. "So...how's your day been?" Takemichi asks, like a fucking dumbass, because of course it wasn't good. The man was homeless for fucks sake, and here Takemichi was rubbing salt into the wound.

"What are you doing?" There is a hostility painted across Kazutora's face, as though he believes Takemichi capable of hurting him.

"What?" he doesn't quite understand the question. "I was just making small talk. The quiet is kind of awkward."

Kazutora shrugs, looking satisfied with the answer. "I don't mind it."

"Oh...I'll stop talking then..."

It's silent again, but Takemichi had always been a nosy bunch. Always digging his head into problems that didn't concern him, and some things just never change. He's curious. He wants to know how the other got to this point. And to think Takemichi had thought his own life was bad.

"Um..Kazutora, if you don't mind me asking...how did you um.."

"How did I become homeless?" he finishes for him.

Takemichi blinks, surprised.

"Everyone always asks the same fucking question," Kazutora sounds bitter, and Takemichi feels slightly guilty for asking. "Hm...stole some shit as a child, went to juvie for a couple years, came out, had nothing, homeless. That answer your question?"

He sounds cold, almost as though he's trying to scare Takemichi away. But Takemichi has seen worse. Heard much worse.

"Family?"

"Got none." The answers are short and vague.

"What about friends? I'm sure one of them wouldn't mind letting you stay." They would never mind. Baji...chifuyu...ask them. Don't stay like this– Just ask. Ask–

Kazutora laughs at that. "Oh, oh...no no. They wouldn't mind at all. They wouldn't even ask for rent, selfless fuckers."

"Then why..."

"They don't even know me," Kazutora whispers after a moment of silence as though he is telling a secret, and Takimichi feels something in his chest twist. "They think they know me. They've built this fucking image, like I'm the same as I was back then or something. Fuck–juvie isn't all fun and games you know. It changes you."

"You could allow them the chance to know you…" Let them in.

"I can't do that to them. I don't think I could handle it if I snapped at one of them one day. It's not their burden to bear. I don't want to scare them." He sighs, looking over at Takemichi who is smiling at his words. "Laughing at me now?"

Takemichi shakes his head. "I just...I think you're admirable, Kazutora."

"What?"

"You're admirable, Kazutora." Takemichi smiles, feeling warmth spread through his chest. "But it's okay to ask for help. You don't have to be alone."

Kazutora stares, eyes wide and mouth agape, as though he is shocked at the words he has heard. Comforted from the words of a stranger. Takemichi chuckles uncomfortably under the stare, before gathering the half-eaten cake and standing up. It was getting late.

"Do you–" he pauses for a moment, trying to figure out how to word his question. "Do you want to come back home with me?"

Kazutora scoffs. "So you can pity-fuck the homeless kid? I'm not your fucking charity case–"

"–no. No!" Takemichi cuts in, waving his free hand frantically. " No. Gods, never...it's...it's not like that."

"Oh yeah? What is it like then? You heard my sob story, and now you want to feel like a fucking hero?"

Takemichi swallows, feeling his eyes water. Perhaps this was the side of Kazutora that he didn't want his friends to see. Insecure. Full of self-loathing. "No...I'm—it's a bit of a selfish request.."

Kazutora frowns, furrowing his eyebrows. "Selfish?"

Takemichi smiles bitterly, trying to gather and bottle his emotions together. "It's my birthday, and I'm kind of all alone right now. The person I was waiting for, didn't really show up, and I just didn't want to eat dinner alone."

The other doesn't reply and Takemichi chokes back a sob. "Sorry, this might sound a bit pathetic...but you're the first person I've spoken to in months."

He hadn't expected Kazutora to agree, but the man followed, walking quietly behind him. Takemichi opens the door to his apartment and freezes. It was still a mess. The living room was cleaner than the rest, but it still looked like an absolute dump.

He feels tears fill his eyes. He had tried. He had tried, and he had done something. Sure it was a little slow, but he was trying. He was trying–

"Sorry..sorry, it's messy. I kind of didn't realize...uhh we don't have to eat here, we can just go to a small restaurant or someth–" He feels like a fucking mess, apologizing all the time, rambling and rambling without a filter on his mouth. "Sorry."

But Kazutora is already making his way inside, looking and peering around with a frown. He makes his way to the kitchen, the sink full of dishes, and open the fridge, only to find it empty. Perhaps the only habitable place in the apartment was the living room and bathroom.

"You shouldn't...you shouldn't go into that room. I haven't gotten to cleaning it yet. It's been quite a lot of work trying to clean the living room and bathroom. You don't have to stay here."

"I'm sorry," Kazutora whispers, a frown painting his lips. 'I was cruel,' goes unsaid.

"Ah no! No, it's okay!" Takemichi butters out, flustered and a bit embarrassed. He scratches the back of his head awkwardly. "Guess we are both a bit of a charity case, aren't we?"

Kazutora smiles softly, and Takemichi thinks it's the first genuine smile he's seen from the other. Even in the past, when Baji had engulfed the other in a hug, and accepted him wholeheartedly, the boy had never smiled. "I guess we are. C'mon, this mess isn't going to clean itself."

"Ah, you don't have to…" But Kazutora is already moving across the room, grabbing a large garbage bag, and Takemichi isn't quite sure how to feel. It's a strange birthday. To think Takemichi would be spending it cleaning, but at least he wasn't alone .

"We can't eat in this mess."

There are tears streaming down his face, and Takemitchi nods, feeling his throat clench and his heart bloom. "Thank you...thank you. Thank you."

He hears a snort from across the room and a soft mumble.

"Stupid crybaby."

Notes:

I'm a sucker for Kazutora and Takemichi friendship. And I sort of wanted to break Takemichi's vision that everyone was living a "perfect epilogue" and life now...I sort of wanted him to know that he isn't the only one struggling, and this chapter was many him trying. Falling behind. And trying again.

He's been trying to get his apartment cleaned and by making him sort of struggle with it, and have it go back to the beginning was just me trying to show how he's still struggling with his loneliness. And now kazutora is here!

Again, hope it makes sense. I have no beta reader, we die like real men so–

Either way, I know this chapter is much longer than the last, but i hope you guys enjoyed the read! Let me know how you feel in the comments and i appreciate any suggestions for plot and constructive criticism!

Chapter 3: You're somebody else.

Summary:

Trigger warning: Flashbacks of murder, discussion of suicide.

Kazutora sleeps at Takemichi's and dreams of Shinichiro.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

"So...you depressed, huh."

"What?" Hanagaki looks confused, like he doesn't understand. Like he doesn't see what Kazutora saw the moment he stepped into the apartment.

"Depression," he repeats slowly – carefully. "You've got it, right?"

"No! No, of course not!" he laughs a little, trying to make sense of what he is being told to him. Whether it be from his not-so-subtle anxiety or perhaps simply an attempt to convince himself otherwise, Kazutora isn't completely sure.

"No," Hanagaki repeats, eyes bright and Kazutora falls silent.

He sounds so confident that Kazutora had almost believed him. Almost.

'You're admirable,' Hanagaki had said, but Kazutora hadn't done anything to lead to such a conclusion. Only admitted to being a coward and an ex-criminal. And yet, Hanegaki spoken those words with such determination and sincerity, it was comforting. The lie became a break from reality for a moment and Kazutora couldn't tell who Hanagaki was trying to fool.

From the few hours he has known Hanagaki, he learns it was easy to believe him, easy to trust his words. Almost too easy, but Kazutora knew better than to be lulled into such a trap. To be given false hope and told he was worth something, by a stranger no less.

Hanagaki was a good liar, he concludes. He manages to fool both himself and all those around him.

He sleeps at Hanegaki's that night and dreams of Shinichiro.

Death had been the end of Shinichiro's story and become the beginning of Kazutora's.

Baji tells him to forgive himself because he had been capable of feeling guilt and somehow, by that logic, it made him worthy of forgiveness. Guilt had made him worthy of it. It hadn't made sense to him, and though Kazutora would never admit it out loud, he wasn't a good person. He had no qualms about taking life from another person, only felt fear the moment he had realized the life he had taken was Mikey's brother. The moment he learned he had betrayed someone he loved.

Kazutora, born into tragedy, had learned to mimic it. He learns violence, and pain and tears and sorrow. He learns love is devotion.

'Are you on my side?' his mother asks. 'It can't be both. You have to choose one.'

He learns it is easy to betray those you love. He watches his father betray his mother and like a mimic, he betrays Mikey, betrays Baji, betrays Shinichiro, betrays Toman–

In some ways, he thinks he is worse than his father, because although his father loved to hurt, he had never taken a life. Kazutora wonders where he had learned to mimic death.

In his dreams, he holds a chain cutter. It's heavy and despite it, he swings the weapon like a hatchet. He doesn't know if he aims to kill or not, but he supposed the intent doesn't quite matter, because Shinichiro is dead. Dead and lying limp against the concrete floor and Kazutora finds he can't quite breathe.

'He's dead. He's dead. He's dead–' he repeats to himself, not quite registering what has happened. There is blood – so much blood. He wants to cower, to curl up, dig his palms into his ears and squeeze until he can escape the reality he is stuck in, because someone is dead, and he doesn't know who's fault it is.

It's his fault, it's his fault, it's his –it's Mikey's fault...Mikey's fault–

He closes his eyes to blind him from the horrendous sight, and when he opens them again, he finds himself back in Hanagaki's apartment. It's dark and there is a blanket draped over him and Shinichiro–no... Hanagaki was curled up on the floor in the living room next to the sofa. For a moment, it was like his dreams had begun to blend with reality, and Kazutora couldn't shake off just how similar Hanagaki was to Shinichiro.

It was unnerving.

From the back, they looked similar and if it weren't for the slow rise of his chest to indicate his breathing and the fading yellow box dye, Kazutora would have thought he was still lost within his dreams. Dreams in which he kills Shinichiro, over and over again, and he fears that soon, the one lying on the floor would not be Shinichiro, but Hanagaki.

Because there was an undeniable truth. A way of living. A pattern to his life – in which nightmares become reality. Imitation becomes acceptance. And Kazutora, once a mimic, becomes tragedy's maker, once again leaving only sorrow behind in all those he's loved.

Kazutora comes, and then he goes. But he doesn't stay the night again. Doesn't think he can quite handle Shinichiro Hanagaki laying on the ground, limp and curled up looking one step away from death.

He doesn't eat more than is offered, but Hanagaki makes sure to provide him enough for three people. Doesn't talk much either, but he supposes Hanagaki talks enough for both of them, who rambles and rambles and then goes into a series of half-hearted apologies.

Kazutora was content with simply being there, finding some relief in the fact that Hanagaki was alive.

He isn't quite sure why he cares so much for the life of a boy he does not even know. A boy whose first name he refuses to use. Maybe it's the way he looks so much like Shinichiro. Maybe it was the way he stares as though they had known each other from long ago. Or maybe it was his eyes, deep like the sea, holding secrets and mysteries Kazutora may never be able to comprehend.

In all honesty, it's creepy.

Hanagaki is creepy.

He stares, and sometimes it is like he isn't seeing Kazutora at all, but rather a completely different person. Others, he flinches at the mere sight of him, and Kazutora finds himself wondering if Hanagaki was aware of his murderous past.

But Kazutora returns, again and again and again.

They weren't friends, but they weren't strangers either. Perhaps both of them were selfish. Hanagaki ached to not be alone, and Kazutora–well, that was a secret neither of them needed to admit to.

Never-the-less, Takemichi never questions why Kazutora returns, and Kazutora never offers an explanation.

It's sudden. The change in Hanagaki.

Hanagaki is a fragile thing. Easily flustered and so emotional, at times, Kazutora thinks he may be faking it. In all, he is weak. Twig arms, and sunken eyes. Weak and a crybaby.

He cries at the cashier, stuttering when someone tells him to have a good day, like it's the nicest thing someone has said to him in a long time. Cries every time Kazutora comes by to help make his place a little more habitable. Cries when Kazutora shows him a picture of Baji and Chifuyu.

His eyes soften and glaze over, fingers tracing over the phone screen as though he has known them all his life. And it's creepy just how much Hanagaki seems to care for things and people he should not even know. Despite it, Kazutora pushes the red flags aside, blaming the eerie behaviour on Hanagaki's emotional state of mind.

'It's pitiful.' Kazutora thinks, staring at his reflection within the others' tears, not sure if he was talking about himself or Hanagaki.

Today, much like every other day, they sat eating on the living room floor, listening to the rhythm of the rain leaving platters against the window. Except this time, Hanagaki is staring at him. Eyes unforgiving and grim. As though Hanagaki had come to terms with something he had been refusing to accept. The tears are gone as quickly as they come, and suddenly, Hanagaki is like a blank slate. Devoid of all emotion. Kazutora can't decide what he hates more – the tears, or this blank, all-knowing gaze.

"Why do you follow me around?" Hanagaki asks after a moment of silence.

"We are friends?" Kazutora is confused. He hasn't heard the other speak so coldly before. It was always a mixture of rambles or flustered apologies, but not this. Never this. It's unnerving. Like Hanagaki is seeing something he isn't, and it leaves Kazutora with chills running down his back.

Fear. He feels afraid.

Hanagaki throws his head back against the sofa and laughs, and it's just as hollow as his eyes. He rolls his head to look at Kazutora, deep blue eyes, dark and dull, and lacking all the tears that had made them shine not too long ago. "You think I'm going to kill myself."

There is no humor in his voice, but Hanegaki is smiling none-the-less. Kazutora finds he can't say no, because it's true. Fears he will wake up one day to find Hanegaki bleeding away in the bathtub or find his crumpled, twisted body at the foot of a tall building. It didn't take a genius to see that Hanegaki was not okay.

Fuck. Kazutora has nightmares.

"Stop pitying me."

'I don't,' Kazutora wants to say. 'I don't pity you.'

"You're afraid that if I die, my death will be on your conscience. You're afraid you will blame yourself."

'Shut up. That's not true. It's not like that!' Hanagaki smiles, and Kazutora never wants to see it again. 'Stop. Stop smiling at me like that.'

"My life is not your burden to carry."

'Don't...please. Don't. Don't say it. Don't–please..please..'

"I'm not Shinichiro."

And three words is all it takes to break the glass house Kazutora had been building around them. It shatters easily, and crumples like Kazutora who has hunched over his middle, trying to cradle himself into a false sense of security.

He can't quite comprehend how Hanagaki knows about Shinichiro. Doesn't know how he understands Kazutora more than he understands himself. Can't quite wrap his head around how Hanagaki is able to see right through his false smiles and friendly words.

Perhaps it had been because they were both liars. Actors playing the game of life. Perhaps that was why Hanegaki could see through his lies so easily , but Kazutora had yet to scratch the surface of the anomaly that was Hanagaki. So why... why does Hanegaki know so much?

He finds himself staring at the ground, ashamed? Guilty? Disgusted with himself? He isn't quite sure what the heavy weight within his stomach is, but it leaves a sour taste in his mouth and it hurts. It hurts.

"You and Mikey," he hears Hanagaki continue. "You two aren't so different. I look like Shinichiro, don't I? Mikey never failed to remind me every-single-time we met. That's why he calls me Takemitchy and you call me Hanagaki. It's easier to pretend I'm someone else when you don't use my name, isn't it?"

"That's not–"

"You think you can somehow atone for his death by trying to "save" me? Because I look like him?"

There are hands cradling his face gently, wiping away tears Kazutora didn't know he was capable of. "Look at me, Kazutora."

He doesn't want to, but the voice is lulling and gentle and so understanding. Hanagaki isn't crying, yet his eyes remind Kazutora of water, and in their reflection he sees himself–broken and torn. "I'm not Shinichiro. Saving me won't save you. You can't punish yourself through me. You can't forgive yourself through me."

It was at that moment, did Kazutora realize how weak he had become. How vulnerable he had been. His glass house but a child's attempt at being okay. A doll house.

He bites his tongue, feeling his eyes burn and lungs ache. Hanegaki's words were like a punch to the gut...and it hurt. He gasps, welcoming the cold, humid air into his lungs, and he feels...

H e feels so much.

When that first tear breaks through, the rest follow in an unbroken stream and Kazutora cries, a comfort he hasn't allowed himself to indulge in for years. Wails and sobs like a newborn child, all the while Takemichi gathers him in his arms, and holds him close. Hanegaki is a weak thing, but Kazutora is afraid if the other moves away, all of his broken pieces will scatter, forgotten and cast aside.

Hanagaki should hate him. Takemichi should hate him, but the man holds him like he's loved. Like he's wanted.

"'M sorry. I'm sorry," he sobs into Takemichi's shoulder. "Takemichi, 'm sorry– please…'m.."

"Shh..it's okay. It's okay. You'll be okay.."

He doesn't know when they end up falling asleep, but it's amidst pathetic apologies and unspoken guilt. Perhaps this is what Takemichi felt, apologizing all the time, for things Kazutora did not know of.

It's embarrassing, nonetheless. He had promised to never sleep over at Takemichi's again. Not after his dreams of Shinichiro. The ones in which he couldn't quite tell if the body on the ground has been Shinichiro or Takemichi.

Yet here he was, laying cocooned in the embrace of the person he had pretended was another.

Kazutora doesn't dare move, afraid of breaking this fragile state of tranquility around them. For a moment, it felt as though things were okay. He felt a bit lighter, less burdened. A bit warmer.

He wants to ask how Takemichi knows. Wonders if he was a stalker of some sort that had somehow managed to calculate Kazutora would be at the station at the time, but Takemichi can hardly leave his apartment without falling apart. Surely, he wouldn't have the energy to follow Kazutora scrambling around the city in search of another job.

'You and Mikey...you two aren't so different.'

Had Mikey told him? Had the two been close–but Mikey had never spoken of a Takemitchi….and if they were friends, was it really alright for him to leave Takemitchi to wither away in this apartment? Was it really okay for him to never visit or call and Takemichi's phone never rings.

'Who are you?' he wants to ask. He doesn't know anything about Takemichi, yet Takemichi seemed to know everything about him.

Was this an elaborate revenge plan? Was he in cahoots with Mikey to punish him for having killed his brother? No...Takemichi had comforted him last night, and surely that wasn't included in revenge plots. Surely, that wasn't what enemies did.

Yet, somehow, by some means, Takemichi knew about Shinichiro. Knew about Mikey. Knew about Kazutora. Despite it, he wasn't afraid of harboring a murderer in his apartment. Wasn't put off by the thought of feeding a criminal. And Kazutora wonders if Takemichi is merely stupid. Unbelievably forgiving and naive.

He has questions. So many questions.

For now, he lets Takemichi sleep, and indulges in this short-lived peace between them. Because things were okay. They would be okay–

DING

He closes his eyes, pretending not to hear the doorbell. Somewhere, in the back of his mind he wonders if it's Mikey–but then again if it had been Mikey, he would never take the time to ring the bell. The door would've been long broken by this point.

And Kazutora still isn't sure just how Takemichi knows Mikey.

DING. DING. DING. DING–

Fucking hell.

"Get off–" he hears Takemichi mumble, and Kazutora holds onto the hug for a second longer before unwrapping his arms, rolling off the sofa. He follows Takemichi who's already making his way to the door, steps still sluggish and a little dazed.

DING. DING. DING. DING. DING.

"Impatient asshole," he mutters under his breath, trailing behind the other like a lost puppy, because what else was he supposed to do?

He'd been called out on his bullshit and comforted about an incident Takemichi should know nothing about all during the same night. The space between them is awkward, but then again, it has always been awkward between them. Kazutora had only pretended to not notice, adopting the silence over conversation.

He wants answers, but isn't sure if he even has the right to ask. So he follows, allowing Takemichi to set the pace.

Takemichi opens the door, and Kazutora is even more puzzled than before.

Kisaki. In all his bloody glory, stood before them. Fucking Kisaki.

He should be angry. Should already be beating the shit out of the man who had tried to talk him into stabbing Baji, but he is too confused to even think straight. Because why would Kisaki be here? Was he following Kazutora?

Kisaki only spares him a glance before turning towards Takemichi. "We need to talk, Takemitchy."

"Hey, who do yo–" Kazutora starts, ready to drag Kisaki away from this apartment, but he freezes, taking a look at Takemichi who had gone pale, eyes wide, and tears pouring down his cheeks in an unbroken stream. His hand trembles as he reaches out to grab Kisaki as though he wasn't quite sure if he was real.

"You..you know me?" Takemichi sounds small, voice breaking and so quiet Kazutora had almost not heard him.

"Yes," Kisaki breathes out, grimacing as he brushes Takemichi's hand off him. "Manilla, Tanjiku...all of them. Or...at least the ones I had been alive in."

Alive? What the fuck was that supposed to mean–because to say alive meant that Kisaki had been dead at some point. But dead was dead, and as much as Kazutora wished otherwise, Kisaki was very much breathing before him.

There is an awkward silence, the air heavy and suffocating as Kisaki and Takemichi stare at one another, an unspoken conversation taking place between the two, and Kazutora decides he has finally had enough. " Will someone please explain to me what the absolute fuck is going on?"

Notes:

Thank you all for the support that you guys have given in the comments! I read every one of them and they all give me the motivation to keep writing! You all are so kind and the amount of people that said they could relate, ya'll make me cry omg. If you guys ever need to rant or anything, you guys can in the comments!

I hope this chapter makes some sense! I was basically trying to show a bit of Kazutora's perspective and give insight into why he decided to help Takemichi at first. This story is a bit of a slow burn, so bear with me. T-T

Also, I changed the title of the story because it was a song I was listening to and I thought it described what I was trying to write? I usually listen to music when I write, so if you guys want, I can post a playlist of the songs I listen to when I write. Let me know if that is something you all would be interested in!

watch?v=g6ip-LHgsGA
^^ here is a link to the song 'Visions of Gideon.'

watch?v=qVdPh2cBTN0
^^and this is the song I was listening to for this chapter.

Chapter 4: The Sound of Rain.

Summary:

In which, Kisaki is a liar.

Notes:

Sorry for the late update! I was going to update last night but I started watching 'Howl's moving Castle' with my girlfriend, so that came first u know 😭 (blame her not me...jokes jokes don't blame her)

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Kisaki's childhood is not a chapter he reads outloud. It's a quiet, solemn story and begins with the sound of rain and a small piano.

He is quiet as a child. And if he speaks, it's through his fingertips dancing a waltz on the old keyboard in tune with the rain that taps its feet against the window. In it, he is the storm and the summer sky. The crescendo and the crotchet. The conductor and the player.

He feels in control, each note planned and intricate in it's rhythm. He manipulates the strings, the notes, until they play back to his tune. Returns the same effort he gives.

Kisaki grows in solitude, and learns love through the piano, and like the notes on the sheet, he finds it is easy to read others. A little bit like music, people seep emotions, whether it be through how they drink their coffee, how they hold their gaze, the wrinkles on their face. He learns to read it all.

He plays his piano because he knows no other means of communication. Learns the language of music before he learns to speak to his own parents–who despite their wealth were grief stricken and as hollow as the money they consumed.

His father, an alcoholic, although it would never seem as such. Because alcohol is classy when you are rich, and trashy when you are poor. It's the appearances that matter, after all.

And despite the flimsy sheet his parents put up in an attempt to shield him from their arguments, Kisaki sees tragedy all around him. Sees it the day his mother leaves the house for the last time. Sees it when his father returns home the same night, stumbling and blabbering words of guilt and half-hearted apologies.

His father's one drunk night turns into two. And then three–

's my last' drink, Te...tta–don't worry–'

People lie easily.

Lying is an easy trait to learn. And Kisaki, surrounded by grief, and misery finds himself compelled to express the non-tragic. When he plays, the notes are quiet and gentle. His mind is chaos–running itself raw and exhausted, and he finds the need to express the rage in his mind through the piano and the sound of rain.

He plays and plays, channeling his hatred, his anger, his rage in a stream of melodies that makes sense. Tries to fill all the empty places in his home with it's tranquility. The piano sounds peaceful, so he pretends there is peace.

His father drinks, and Kisaki does well to hide it. Makes himself small and hides in his room until his father has passed out. Then spends his night, cleaning the living room floor of the bile, the booze, the cigarettes. He stacks the bottles away in a locked closet, out of sight–out of mind.

Because if he cannot see it, he can pretend it no longer exists.

His piano tutor had once told him that music should reflect one's soul. But Kisaki's soul was an ugly, rotten thing. It screams and twists and turns and eats itself raw. Music is to be aesthetic in its appearance. Music is not valued for its ugliness, it's valued for its beauty, and Kisaki finds, if he plays all that is beautiful, he can ignore all that is not within him.

His heart is empty, and his mind rages. The heart is a difficult thing to understand–a thing he hasn't had the privilege of learning...of creating. He doesn't wish to be a liar forever. Hopes that one day, the beauty he tries to reflect will mold itself and fill the empty space within his heart.

He's learned the human mind, and tries to learn the heart too.

'I love'd yu'r mother, Tetta...I loved her so muc–'

He wonders if the heart is love.

His mother comes home for the last time, to take the last of her things. Kisaki is not one of them.

'You stupid bitch!' his father screams, throwing the bottle in his hands at the wall. 'I loved you!'

Kisaki cleans the glass off the floor that night, ignoring as it nicks his fingertips, and wonders if the heart is violence.

Perhaps it is both.

Violence, Kisaki knows well. Love, he tries to learn.

Hinata sweeps into his life, eyes burning and chest held proud, and tells him he is amazing. The weak, feeble thing in his chest flutters, beating and breathing life for the first time.

'A plant,' Kisaki murmurs, staring at the small succulent laying cocooned in the palm of his hand. He'd asked for a cat and gotten a succulent in return.

'Take care of it well,' his mother whispers. 'If you can take care of this, I promise to get you a cat by the end of the year.'

He waters the poor thing every day, ensures its roots are quenched and makes a promise to never let a day pass where the succulent is left dry. Despite it. Despite all the effort, the planning he pours into his plant, it is dead by the end of the month.

His mother never stayed long enough to fulfil her promise, but he supposes there is no promise left to fulfil. The succulent was dead– crippled and withering away in a pot full of water.

What was it he lacked? Had he not watered it enough? Not cared for it enough? Was it too little–

Was it too much?

Perhaps, if Kisaki had cared for it better, his mother would not have left him behind.

Kisaki loves, to the best of his understanding, with all he has. Obsessively. Excessively. Compulsively. Treats love as an all consuming force.

He pours his mind, his fucking soul into what his heart has deemed is enough. His love rages like thunderstorms, rains, dumping needles. It's harsh and at times, cold– but never half-hearted.

Never shallow (not like Takemichi).

And after the storm and destruction his love creates, a strange silence follows. The sky recollects, the heart calms, overcome with a wash of sadness. A heavy emptiness.

Because Kisaki had given all there had to be given, and there had been no one to recollect and give it back. And in his failure, he develops a sense of self-doubt. Insecurity.

Maybe the problem was not his methodology, but Kisaki himself.

He pretends he is stronger. Smarter than he actually is.

Changes his appearance to mimic that of a delinquent. Multiple piercings, dyed hair, and baggy clothes. He disguises the fear he feels with a mask. Hides the insecurity as he hid his father's alcohol bottles.

The heart, he thinks, is an honest thing and Kisaki was anything but.

Perhaps that is why Kisaki finds himself an outsider in his own body– looking down at the puppet he has become, a mask of his own making. Each word, smile and expression perfected placed, perfected until it were as instinctive as breathing.

Lying came easily to him. It was an art of sorts, as intricate as playing the piano. He was spinning a web, careful to not overlap any lies that did not fit, others left to be discarded, but never forgotten, and as his web grew bigger, Kisaki found himself trapped in the middle of it all.

The web is a delicate creation of his. He hides it well, but builds it to be strong, able to catch any flies that threaten to put an end to it all. And he stands in the center of it all. All threads, all lies, all pathways connected back to him. The master. The creator of this... abomination.

Human hearts, he finds, are not like the piano. They do not play back the rhythm he feeds them. He can tug at the heartstrings, can plan every move, every word...and yet, the heart is not something he is able to predict. Not something he is able to control, and at times he feels powerless.

Felt helpless when Takemichi had managed to save Baji. Managed to stop Draken from being stabbed. Managed to save everyone. Managed to manipulate Hinata to his side.

He feels powerless–to Takemichi, who despite his half-hearted love for Hinata, had managed to master the heart.

"Why?" he finally asks.

"Why what?" Hinata asks, turning around to meet him.

"Why don't you love me? I give it my all. I love you with everything I have, so why is it not enough?" His voice trembles the slightest, because he doesn't understand. "Is it because it's too much? Am I...am I suffocating?"

She pauses, eyes wide and staring. Unlike him, Hinata is an honest person. Holds her heart at the edge of her sleeve. Doesn't hide behind a mask and bares her thoughts in her eyes. "You don't love too much, Kisaki. Your problem is that you love too little."

"What?" he chokes out in disbelief. Because what the fuck was that supposed to mean?

"You can't love and expect it in return. You treat love as if it is something that can be betrayed," she speaks, without mercy. "There are no expectations, and as such it cannot be betrayed. Cannot be forced or made. You don't love me."

"I–I do!" He tries again, finding his resolve weak, but Kisaki's heart has always been weak. "You were...you were kind to me."

"Kindness is not love. That's just being a decent person. The two are not the same."

"Is this...is it because of Hanagaki?" he bites out, feeling his eyes water and chest clench. "Why...Why do you choose him over me?! Why him. What does he have that I don– "

"Uh...who's Hanagaki?" she asks, tilting her head to the side.

Kisaki blinks. Once. Twice. A little taken aback. "Fuck. Are you really making me do this?"

"Sorry?"

"Takemichi?" he tries, feeling the awkwardness settle in once again. "Your...uh boyfriend?"

Hinata lets out a nervous laugh, scratching her head. "I don't have a boyfriend. You know this Kisaki."

"Look, I get you are trying to let me down easy and all, but...

"I think you have the wrong idea, Kisaki. I don't know where you heard it from, but I don't know anyone by the name of Taka...Takemichi?" she speaks the name softly, but not out of fondness nor longing.

And Kisaki finds himself questioning his reality.

"Shuji."

"Hmm.."

Kisaki looks up to look the man in the eye. He finds he can't, because Hanma is slumped back against the chair, eyes closed and already dozing off. He looks tired, and Kisaki isn't sure if he's ever really taken the time to really understand or care for Hanma.

Regardless of it, Hanma followed him without a second thought, without regard. He doesn't question Kisaki's intentions, almost like he already knows them.

Hanma gives and gives, but never asks for anything in return.

Kisaki has half the mind to ask Hanma about Hanagaki. But let the other sleep for now. Why? He's not sure. Maybe it's because Hanma looked more tired than usual. Or maybe it was how at peace he looked. Face devoid of that crazed grin and eyes closed.

Or maybe it was Hinata's words repeating like a record player in his mind.

'You can't love and expect it in return.'

Why doesn't Hanma ask for anything in return?

And still, there is no sign of Hanagaki. At times, Kisaki finds himself questioning his own mind. His mind runs in circles, trying to decipher his thoughts and memories into sections, different timelines.

He feels as though he is playing a game with himself. Trying to outsmart himself in an attempt to figure out what he has done, or atleast make some guesses as to what could have happened. Because all he knows is this timeline, all he knows is the Takemichi from this version, but he tries hard to remember.

Tries to think about his first intentions, his plans, and all the ways they could have gone wrong, all the ways they could have gone right, and there are so many. So many possibilities.

He can't tell which ones were real. Doesn't even know if he had been alive in all of them, but knowing himself, he wouldn't allow himself to die so easily.

Perhaps, he should just go to Hanagaki's house and find out for himself, but even he isn't that desperate, because the two of them were not friends. He doesn't care for Hanagaki. Doesn't care for his heroic antics, but he can't quite get the crybaby out of his mind.

And he doesn't know how to react if he finds Hanagaki was just a figment of his imagination.

Hinata hadn't even remembered Takemichi and still rejected Kisaki, so why was it that Kisaki hated Takemichi. Why did he hate him–

It's unfair. Because he has spent so long hating and hating and trying to remove Hanagaki from the puzzle until he realizes none of it even matters anymore. Because Hinata rejects him every time. Every. Single. Time.

And he wonders just how many timelines Takemichi had fucked up to end up completely forgotten and simple...cease to be.

He considers that perhaps Toman had been hiding Takemichi.

Perhaps they knew about Kisaki. Knew of Takemichi's time leaping, because surely, no one thought it was natural for a boy to jump in front of every knife he sees. And if they didn't know a Takemichi, what reality had they remembered? Who had taken the knife for them this time? Who had been the one to take each bullet?

So, Kisaki does what any sane person would and runs to Toman. It's early in the morning, and in hindsight, he really should've expected the fist from Keisuke. He had just interrupted a gang meeting, fumbling his way up the stairs, breath short and frantic. His heart pounds in his chest, and it feels as though it may just rip out of his ribs.

He isn't quite sure when he started acting on impulsivity and not strategy. Isn't sure why he's started to follow his gut feeling more than his mind.

Maybe it is because he isn't sure if what he remembers is real. Where his memories begin to blend with dreams and he can't quite confirm what has happened. And he finds the only way to keep his mind from ripping itself apart is to simply accept things as they are, and to not second guess their existence.

Takemichi was real.

Kisaki had decided he would not doubt that. Because there was a reason Hinata rejected Kisaki. A reason why Kisaki was still not Toman's leader yet. A reason why Baji was alive. A reason why Kisaki wasn't a murderer yet. He would not forget it so easily.

And if he cannot remember, he will simply work backwards from what he knows now, until he has rewritten the past.

His cheek hurts, and the concrete is rough against his hands. Despite it, he feels alive. His heart feels stronger, less feeble. It doesn't fly away at the sign of danger and he finds himself standing once again on his feet.

"Takemichi," he breathes out, finding his way before Toman's leader. Sano Manjiro. "Where is he?"

Manjiro leans forward curiously, eyes dark and dull, not quite matching the childish grin he had painted on his face.

"The fuck is a Takemitchy?"

The mask he wears, cracks, and Kisaki bolts, rushing past the group, eyes wide and heart beating a rhythm he has never felt before. They didn't remember Takemichi–they didn't know. So who was it? Who's fault was it that Hinate did not love him. Who's fault was it that Kisaki had failed. Who was to blame for all his shortcomings and mistakes–

Kisaki thinks it's the first time he's allowed his puppet-self to feel fear.

Takemichi's fault, of course. Because the crybaby was standing before him (alive and breathing... existing) , the same stupid tears and piss-blonde hair dye. There was no way Kisaki would forget someone so annoying–

"Y-you remember me–" Takemichi whispers, and Kisaki notes his fisted hands. Anger or anxiety? He can't tell. When did it become so hard to read Takemichi?

"Of course," he lies–partially. He didn't remember Takemichi, only knew the version of him in this timeline, or what he presumes is this timeline. The rest, he's deciphered. "You made every single once of my timelines fucking miserable."

And Takemichi is laughing, eyes crinkled shut with tears peeking from their crevices. "God, this is so fucked up."

That might be the first thing the two have ever agreed on.

Kisaki groans, rubbing his temples to rid himself of the headache that had become Kazutora Hanemiya. Takemichi should have kicked him out from the moment Kisaki got there, because now he has to go through the trouble of explaining why Kisaki wasn't here to murder them.

"How many times do I have to fucking explain–"

This would have been an easier conversation had tigerboy not been there. Then neither of them would have to take the effort to explain to Kazutora about the time leaping without looking like madmen.

The problem was, Kazutora was slow, and still struggled to comprehend just how Takemichi was able to travel back. Or how no one seems to remember him.

Never-the-less, this conversation wasn't about convincing Kazutora. It was between Kisaki and Takemichi. Two sides of the same coin. But Kisaki wasn't even sure where to start. Hell, he didn't even know why he was here, or what to ask, or what he should even feel?

Pity? Anger? Hate?

Just how is he supposed to act in this scenario?

He expects these meetings to be as violent as all their interactions. Instead, it's filled with an awkward silence. An inkling feeling like neither really knew the other.

"Why are you here?" Takemichi finally asks, breaking the silence. "You remember me...but so what?"

He doesn't know. He isn't sure why he's here. All he knows is the dark look in Manjiro's eyes, and a rush of adrenaline and fear. Next, he is in front of Takemichi's apartment, the one he's been refusing to enter for months in fear that he was losing his mind. That Takemichi was nothing more than an imagination, but Takemichi was real.

And Kisaki still doesn't have a fucking clue why he's here. God, he must look stupid.

"Are you here to gloat? Because if you are, please go on and get it over with." Takemichi sounds defeated, and Kisaki isn't sure how to respond. "I'm all ears!"

"Just so you know, I'm not fucking happy about this either."

"Ah yes, please tell me how I've once again ruined your life! Tell me once again how it's all my fault."

"I–" Kisaki starts, but finds himself at a loss for words. Why had he come here? Why was he–

"Oh…" Takemichi finishes for him, eyes still bitter but looking more tired. Like he already knows why. "Did Hinata reject you again?"

How the fuck does he know? And again? He's been rejected more than once – gods. He hopes the ground will swallow him whole, and save him from the embarrassment he feels right now.

From the corner of his eyes, he can see Kazutora's pursing his lips and shifting uncomfortably, acting as though he was hearing some secret he shouldn't have. Kisaki wants nothing more than to shoot him on the spot.

Kisaki takes a deep breath, feeling the need, to once again, explain to them he wasn't here to murder anybody. "I'm not here to kill you."

Kazutora scoffs. "Yeah right"

Kisaki can only glare at him, because what the fuck? He was talking to Takemichi, not Kazutora. He turns back to look at Takemichi, who's already his fingers on his temples. "I'm not going to kill Hinata either."

There is no response, and Kisaki feels slightly offended. Did they think he was some mindless homicidal maniac looking for the smallest reason to kill a person?

"You don't believe me," Kisaki bites out.

"I...I really don't," Hanagaki admits, furrowing his eyebrows in disappointment.

"Why?!"

"Gee, I don't know" Hanagaki exclaims, throwing his hands up like its the stupidest question he's heard, and Kisaki is not stupid. "Maybe because you murdered my friends! On multiple occasions!"

"Yeah, well fucking tiger boy over there fucking stabbed that big brute and blamed it on Mikey, but you don't want to talk about that, do you?"

"I did what now?" Kazutora gawked, snapping his head up from his lap.

"That's different!" Hanagaki yells.

"Hold on–" Kazutora pipes in. "...can we go back to the part where I stabbed someone–"

"Shut up Tigerboy!" Kisaki sneeres. "This isn't about you!"

"Don't talk to him like that!"

"Oh fuck you, Hanagaki! I will talk to him however the fuck I want."

"God I hate you!" Hanagaki exasperates, curling his hands into fists. "You're so...infuriating! I can't believe I was happy to see you for a moment!

"And you're a fucking hypocrite, Hanagaki. Wait–" Kisaki pauses, trying to reel in what Hanagaki had just admitted to. "...you were happy to see me?"

"I–"

"That's really weird Hanagaki. I'm going to pretend you didn't say that.." They were enemies for fucks sake. And Kisaki had apparently tried to kill Hanagaki multiple times. "–for both of our sakes."

Notes:

Was I listening to dark piano music while writing this? Maybe–

Either way, hope you guys enjoy the new chapter! Gave Kisaki a back story because they didn't give him one in the manga, and that gave me complete freedom. Hope you all don't mind me making Kisaki a piano player in this...I just idk I thought it was fitting.

And thank you again for all the comments and kudos everyone left in the last chapter! They were all super sweet and I read everyone of them! And next chapter will focus more on Takemichi!

Ignore my poor attempts at humour 🙏

Chapter 5: By and By

Summary:

Takemichi has a habit of drifting away.

Notes:

Title of the song inspired by an indie song called 'By and By' – Native

watch?v=eLThtAGms14
^^link to song

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Trigger warning: Depression, suicidal thoughts, flashbacks, heavy angst–or atleast I tried my best to make it as sad?

"You–you need to see them again!"

Kazutora sounds excited, a little desperate, nothing like the awkward and quiet kid Takemichi has been with for the past few weeks. There is a sparkle filling his eyes and he looks...looks motivated. Takemichi feels his guts turn, an awful taste filling his mouth.

"No."

"Why not?!" Kazutora exasperates, a little confused, a little defeated. Takemichi is almost apologetic.

"I'm tired," is the only explanation he gives before walking out of the small apartment, leaving Kisaki and Kazutora alone. Because it is the only explanation he has to give. Only one he knows to be true.

He wonders if the two he'd left behind will argue, and fight. Probably, but Takemichi can't find it in himself to care. He wants to curl up and sleep. Wants nothing more than to escape and forget.

He thinks he should feel angry. Probably let his fists loose at Kisaki, but everything is a little comedic for him to feel that same drive he once had. Fate was playing a huge joke, creating a satire from his existence. As if being forgotten wasn't enough, Kisaki... Kisaki was the only one to remember.

How does that even work? Was he so pitiful, the universe decided to give him comfort in the form of an enemy. From same man he's watched murder all he's loved, destroy all he's known, and strip him bare of all dignity and hope.

He doesn't want to meet Mikey, or Chifuyu, or anyone. He doesn't want to remember, because there had been some honesty behind Kisaki's words.

What had made Kisaki any different from Kazutora? What made him different from Mikey–who, blinded in his grief, had killed all he loved? Was Kisaki suffering? Was he burdened by a history that Takemichi was not aware of?

And Wasn't Kisaki just a child too?

What made any of them better or worse–perhaps it was Takemichi, biased in his opinion and heart. Opening his mind for those he's loved, and closed it to those he despises–or rather despised. He feels a bit too drained or tired to hate another person.

He feels like a shell of his former-self.

The opposite of loneliness, he finds, was not happiness. It was vitality, and it is vitality that slips past his fingertips. He tries his best to gather as much of it back, tries to fill his heart with what he is able to scavenge, and on some rarer days, he finds himself looking deeper into life.

A term he hadn't quite considered in his first life–where he lay, aloof and simply passing by. Somedays, he wishes to return to such a state, unaware and naive to loneliness. Where he didn't have these soul-crushing moments, where he considers perhaps it is easier to simply let go. Where he lacks the power that gives continuous to all life. Missed the days he could easily cling to the thought of death. Because it was easy, and Takemichi was tired.

Nowadays, he struggles, and perhaps it is the struggle that has led him to find joy in the rarer things in life. Everyday, he chooses to be alive, chooses to make it to the next day.

Perhaps it is the bravest thing Takemichi has done.

And Takemichi has been trying. Been talking to Kazutora, despite the half-hearted responses back and awkward silence. Been cleaning his apartment little by little, and when it fell apart, he would try again, but Kisaki's return made him feel as though his soul had been flipped inside out, skin exposed–heart bare. And to hear Kazutora encourage him to meet Toman once again.

He could meet them, but with what face? With what dignity and what heart? With what vitality? And wasn't it the vitality that had drawn them to him in the first place?

It hurts, and a part of him wonders how long he can stay brave. How long until the choice is no longer a choice, but merely a means of survival. A means to an end.

He feels a bit like he should cry, but he finds no tears, his cheeks dry. Why does it hurt when there is nothing left in his heart? When it's empty and crumbling and forgotten–

And despite his struggle, he wonders if he should've just let himself fall into that river, then at least he wouldn't feel so empty. The water, even in it's violence, could bury itself deep within him, until he's chilled to the core–his heart, blood, viens–all smothered and surrounded.

Could allow him to drift away into a state of oblivion.

Takemichi does this often. More than he allows himself to be aware of. He goes on long walks, not sure where he's quite going, but his legs move on autopilot, mind numbed and vision blurry.

Sometimes, it is for hours, others as short as a minute–where the bustling life outside becomes too much for him to comprehend and he finds himself scrambling back inside his apartment. Hands shaking and breath frantic. Curls up for hours under his blanket, trying to hide from all that is outside.

Tries to hide from life, because if there is life, then there must be death.

Today, however, he walks a little more confidently, aware and conscious within his body. A strange stillness and peace within. He finds himself back in that snowstorm. Walking, but leaving no footsteps behind. No trace of his existence.

There is a certain bliss that comes in being forgotten. Somedays, he is like a leaf in the wind, drifting aimlessly across the horizon. Others, he is a single drop in a storm so large it brings destruction in its wake. But every now and then...he is nothing. There is no wind to blow him across the world. No rain to drag him down. No river to sweep him away under its currents. No fire to set his heart ablaze and watch as its ashes wither and turn to dust.

Somedays, he just is.

Today, he just is.

A little hurting, a little broken, but alive none-the-less. Exists for the sole reason of existing. Breathes because he can. And surely, surely that was worthy of appraisal.

Takemichi finds himself laying down amidst a field of green–dandelions scattered across in swirls of orange and yellow.

There is a courtyard just across the field, and it's peaceful. Quiet and calming, with only the wind to keep him company, whistling softly in his ears. He feels like a child once again, closing his eyes and allowing himself to forget. To close his eyes and drift–floating away like a leaf caught in the wind.

There is silence, and then there is a distant scream–a yell, perhaps?

Nothing more than another figment of his mind, he muses, trying his best to focus on the warmth of the setting sun. To will his mind into a state of emptiness, no thoughts, only a blissful ignorance.

Except there is another yell, perhaps multiple–a thud somewhere in the background, and roars of excitement, filled with the adrenaline that comes before a brawl. It's familiar, and Takemichi keeps his eyes shut, wondering if he is once again lost within his memories again.

A thud, and Takemichi finally opens his eyes, taking a good look at the sight before him. There were dandelions and then there was chaos just before it. A flurry of fists and blood–broken bones and crumpled bodies littering the field. It hadn't been his mind, afterall.

Ah– of all places.

He has half the mind to close his eyes again. It would be easy to walk away. But Takemichi is a curious bunch–eyeing and staring. Trying to make sense of the scene before him.

A brawl.

A violent brawl. Tears. Blood. Violent guttural snarls of hate and the familiar scent of iron filling the air.

Takemichi doesn't care. He promised himself he wouldn't, and yet, he found himself standing, swaying his way amidst the brawl. Perhaps it's the way the rhythm of metal clanking and bones cracking lured him in like a fish caught in a hook. He was a bit like a fish, swimming around in a fishbowl, where the bowl warps the outside view, everything larger, bigger, more daunting than it should be.

Despite it, his feet continue, sturdy and more confident in their walk. He feels a bit rejuvenated, if not back to the boy he was within Toman. But that boy...that boy no longer existed, did he? Then why was Takemichi walking into the heart of a brawl he has no business being involved in.

No uniform, no ribbon, only a boy in a green hoodie wandering aimlessly within the chaos, trying to find a place where he belonged. Where he is needed.

He finds none, but others find it for him, a large pair of hands grabbing him by the collar demanding to know who he was. Demanded to know which side he belonged to, and wasn't that a cruel question to ask, when Takemichi didn't even know if he belonged in this world.

He finds he doesn't quite have the energy to reply, and wonders how he'd even made his way here if he couldn't muster a single word.

Takemichi registers the tangy taste in his mouth before the pain, or the awful sting. Strangely, it's not as bad as he had expected it to be compared to the size of the fists.

'Ah,' he thinks, giving a toothy grin (the universe was being merciful), teeth stained red and eyes rolling back the slightest. 'This one is weak.'

The man, perhaps a child – looking far older than he should – throws him to the side, disgust painted over his lips. "Fucker," the man grunts, before stomping his foot on Takemichi's thigh. Maybe it is the spiked heel or the shearing pain–hot and scolding–running down to the depth of his bone, but it leaves Takemich breathless, eyes wide, and mouth agape in a voiceless scream. He can't move...he can't move–

'Why have you been acting like you are not connected to this at all?'

Takemichi smells the gunpowder, before he feels the scolding touch of the bullet, ripping through his leg without remorse, without mercy.

It burns.

He thinks this is what death must feel like, and he's felt death before.

There is a tightness in his chest, a knot clenching onto his lung, holding them shut so they couldn't expand. Couldn't drag in that next drag of breath.

There is so much pain ...and Takemichi doesn't know how to stop it.

He lifts his hands, fingertips trembling, as he cowers like he's done so much as a child, and pressed the palms of his hands to his ears, trying to tune out the world.

He doesn't quite register the third hit, but his head is reeling to the side and there is a strange ringing in his ears.

Stop. Stop. Stop–

Stop.

'Takemichi, listen. I'm leaving Toman to you.'

No. He doesn't want to. He doesn't want Toman. He doesn't care enough. Doesn't want the burden that came with the name. Stop talking. Stop talking! Just stop..please..stop saying goodbye–

'I'm counting on you, Partner.'

Stop, he begs, and like the cruel thing it is, Time continues.

BANG–

Kisaki walks out the door, not too long after Takemichi, and Kazutora finds himself alone in Takemichi's apartment, not sure if he should leave or wait for the other to come back.

Hell, he isn't even sure when the crybaby would be coming back.

It was hard to reel in what Kisaki and Takemichi seemed to have simply dumped onto him. He can't quite comprehend how or why Takemichi had come back to the future. A part of him doesn't quite want to believe it, feels bitter that if Takemichi had been able to go back, why he hadn't gone back to a time before Shinichiro had died.

It's a selfish thought and Kazutora hasn't been anything but selfish towards Takemichi. Taking and seeing what he wanted, and not what was there.

Apparently, Kazutora had also killed someone (Takemichi refused to tell him who) and he's not quite sure how to feel about the news.

He's close to dozing off, when his phone rings, a terrible, spine-chilling bell sound, repeating and repeating. He wonders if it is Baji, wanting to meet–perhaps Draken calling him for a meeting on Mikey's behalf. He flips open the small device and freezes at name. Crybaby.

He accepts the call, fingers trembling the slightest, because Takemichi never called. Hadn't wanted to be an inconvenience to him, despite how many times Kazutora had told him he was not, and he feels nervous.

It's quiet for a moment, strange sounds of metal and mumbles yell in the background. A scuffle.

'It's my fault, isn't it?'

Takemichi's voice comes through as a whisper–fragile and breaking, and Kazutora takes in a sharp breath.

"Takemichi?"

'I killed Chifuyu, didn't I?'

"What?!" Kazutora blutters, climbing to his feet in a panic. Did Takemichi– No . Chifuyu was alive. He was alive, he had seen him just yesterday morning. "No..no no Takemichi–"

'I can't stop thinking about it. He died trying to protect me...I-I was too weak, so I guess I killed him?'

"Hey, no Takemichi, listen to me," Kazutora whispers, afraid he might startle him into turning the call off. He's already made his way to the door, putting on his shoes. "Tell me where you are, I'll come find you."

'–I tried not to think about it...I really did, but he just keeps dying over and over again–and I just watch...'

"Just listen to me, okay? Take a deep breath...it'll be alright, I promise," he hushed. There is a distinct sound of fists and snarls in the background. Was Takemichi in a fight? "Where are you–"

'Kazutora..'

Kazutora freezes at the sound of his name.

'What if...what if I'm the problem–'

The call cuts off, and Kazutora finds himself running out the apartment, not bothering to consider that it would be left unlocked and unguarded.

He redials the number.

'The number you have dialled is currently unavailable.'

Again.

'The number you have dialled is currently unavailable.'

Again and again and again.

Somewhere along the way, he calls Chifuyu (not because he doubts Takemichi), and almost cries in relief when he hears his voice from across the cell phone.

Kazutora finds Takemichi passed out in a field near an abandoned warehouse–a broken phone laying not too far from the crumpled form. There are splatters of blood litterating the concrete floor and bruises covering Takemichi from all over.

A brawl must've taken place here, he thinks, gathering the other boy up onto his back.

He feels bitter, a strange hatred in seeing Takemichi beaten up and bruised. Looking as though he was threading the line between life and death. He wants to find the ones who had beaten this...this defenseless kid. Wants nothing more than to cave then heads in, but he pushes the thought aside.

Takemichi had already seen enough violence, and Kazutora doesn't want to be selfish anymore.

Takemichi awakens to the same white ceiling he has seen many times before, cocooned in the same white blankets Takemichi sleeps in every night. Hidden away in a field of snow, he thinks.

There is a thin, lanky figure sitting on the sofa beside him, and Takemichi wonders if the other had carried him here. Probably.

"Hey.." he hears Kazutora whisper, soft and leaning slightly towards the scolding side.

"Hey," he mumbles back, struggling to keep his eyes open, distinctly aware of the layers gauge and bandaids littering his face and arms.

"You got into a fight," Kazutora muses– definitely scolding.

Takemichi doesn't mother correcting Kazuto that it wasn't so much as a fight than a one-sided match with a punching bag. Said punching bag being Takemichi. "I got into a fight," he repeats, not quite sure what else to say.

This is the first time Kazutora seemed to be making an attempt at conversation and the air around them is awkward. Takemichi is awkward, and he wants nothing more than to have the ground swallow him whole. Was this what Kazutora had felt?

"Let's talk, kay?"

Takemichi only hums in response, wincing as he turns to his side, back facing Kazutora, and burrows his arms deeper within the blanket.

"So.."

"So," he mumbles back.

"Are you really just going to repeat everything I say?" The words should be bitter, but he finds no venom in them, no bite. Kazutora's voice is just as calm and sweet as the field of dandelions that he had been in earlier, swaying and dancing in the wind – bright.

Takemichi doesn't reply. Only covers his head with the sheet, trying to hide his body in the flimsy thing as though it could somehow protect him. Could keep his heart guarded and shielded because he wasn't sure what else to do.

"I don't want to..I really really don't want to," he starts after a while, not sure why he's even bothering to talk. Or trying to explain himself, because he doesn't owe Kazutora anything. Yet, he finds himself continuing, words dripping like honey, fluent and strong in their resolve. Everything, Takemichi was not. "Everytime I woke up and found that calendar 12 years back, I'd think 'Again, really? I have to do this again?' I don't...I–"

"You don't what?"

"I don't care," he finds himself confessing, a bitter taste filling his mouth. "Maybe for you there is a tomorrow...for me, all I have is today. Because I don't know when it will be my last. Today is all I know."

He doesn't know when he's started crying, but then again, Takemichi is never aware, until someone is there to point them out, to mock them and call him a crybaby.

He cried easily when it came to others.

Today, he cries for himself. Mourns the man he used to be, the man he is not, and the one who sits sobbing, uncertain of a future he didn't even know he had the right to live.

"I'm so tired and I don't..I don't even know what I'm supposed to do? I tell myself to live, but does living any longer even have a why... or a how?" he lets out a chuckle, laughing at his own misery. Just how pathetic he must be sounding right now. "I don't even know how to live properly, and you want me to go and...and meet everyone again? Like...like it's some walk in the park and god, even that shit is hard!"

"I'm sorry.."

Takemichi shakes his head, biting his lip. "No...no you aren't. No one is, because they don't know . And if you did know you wouldn't be apologizing, you'd be cursing me."

"I would never.."

"You would!" he yells.

"Takemichi, you don't know that."

"I do," he swallows a sob, trying not to be more of a mess than he already is. "I do. God I do..."

Neither of them mention the phone call. Perhaps there was no need to – Kazutora's presence providing all the comfort needed and Takemichi's tears answering all his unspoken questions.

Takemichi, does in fact, go for a walk in the park.

Except he isn't alone this time, Kazutora tagging along like a lost puppy. It feels easier, less burdensome, and for a moment Takemichi feels as though he would be okay.

They buy dorayaki from a street vendor (he hates the taste) and Takemichi thinks he can learn to live again.

"You aren't going to ask?"

"Ask what?"

"For me to meet Toman again, you aren't going to ask?" he repeats, trying to be clearer with his words. Takemichi isn't sure why Kazutora had adopted silence. It goes against everything Kazutora is.

He simply follows Takemichi around, trying to take up as much of his life as possible, not once asking about his timelines, or the worlds he's seen. All the happy endings, all the tragedies. Kazutora never asks, and Takemichi wonders if the other is just afraid.

"I've decided I'll let you set the pace," Kazutora smiles, and Takemichi blinks, dazed.

"What's that even supposed to mean?"

"You'll tell me when you're ready. Even if it takes months, or years–I'm patient. So don't worry, I'll still be here waiting."

"And if it's never?"

"Then I guess I'll have to stick around forever."

Kazutora speaks kinder and softer than Takemichi is used to. He wonders if Kazutora sees Shinichiro again.

Kisaki returns not a week after.

It's strange to see his enemy – maybe ex-enemy was the more appropriate term – waltz in and out of his apartment like it belonged to him. Rambles through his fridge, taking what he pleases and finding a spot in his living room. Though, Takemichi is not sure what else he had expected. It is Kisaki after all.

"This place is a shithole," Kisaki remarks, as nonchalantly as if he is talking about the weather.

"Thanks."

It's awkward, and Takemichi wonders how the hell he had managed to talk to everyone before. Just what is he supposed to do in this situation? His ex-enemy walks in like they've known each other all their lives, but then again, Kisaki knows more about Takemichi than any of them.

"Where did your lamp go?" Kisaki speaks after a while, staring off in the corner with a slight frown, like he's trying to figure something out.

"Huh?" Takemichi looks over to the empty corner. Had there been a lamp there?

"It was there last week," Kisaki replies, as though he was reading Takemichi's mind.

But Takemichi doesn't quite have an answer. He doesn't think Kazutora is the type to steal a lamp, and even if he had, he didn't really have a place to put it. His lamp was missing, and for a moment, that felt like the strangest occurrence that had taken place within his apartment.

"I...I sold it," he lies, not quite sure what else to say, because his lamp was missing, and he didn't quite know how or where it had gone. "Low on money."

He hears a snort, and for a moment Takemichi thinks Kisaki is mocking him. Or perhaps, he has caught onto his lie. Kisaki is smart after all.

Not two days later, Kisaki is standing at his front door once again, holding a lamp in his right hand.

"So your living room looks less like shit." Takemichi doesn't even have time to reply, before Kisaki is making his way through his living room, placing the stupidly tall thing in the corner.

He wonders if this is Kisaki's way of apologizing.

It's a bit tiring, but he doesn't mind it as much.

The days Kazutora is gone, he finds Kisaki barging into his daily life, like he's somehow always belonged there. A strange, but not unwanted occurrence.

But Kisaki is more observant and perhaps more nosy than Kazutora, and Takemichi finds himself lying more than he is used to.

"Your painting is gone," Kisaki points out to the now bare wall.

"I took it off," Takemichi smiles, trying to convince himself, more than Kisaki. "It was getting old."

"You're missing a chair around your dining table."

"It had a broken leg, so I threw it in the trash."

"Last night?"

"Yeah, Kazutora sat on it, and it collapsed."

Kisaki checks the trash on the way back home, walking around the dump in search of a brown chair. He finds none, and wonders why Takemichi would lie about such a thing.

"Your coffee table–" Kisaki starts, but Takemichi beats him to it.

"Oh-haha...it broke too!" Takemichi says nervously, scratching his head. "Turns out I have a termite infestation."

Kisaki begins to notice a pattern, where things would begin to disappear from Takemcihi's apartment. And when asked, Takemichi would reply back with a 'I sold it,' or the occasional favorite, 'it broke.' And apparently, there had been a termite infestation–with no termites in sight.

They were obvious lies, but Kisaki doesn't quite understand why Takemichi feels the need to lie about them.

Was he getting robbed? Was Tigerboy taking advantage of his naivety and stealing his shit?

Kisaki made himself a cup of coffee (he had to bring his own because of course Takemichi wouldn't be bothered to get any) before making himself comfortable on Takemichi's couch. Or well–as comfortable as he could be on the shitty furniture.

"Why do you keep coming here," Takemichi eventually asks, having not moved from his spot on the floor. It's pathetic. To be grovelling and crying, wasting his life away cooped up in this shit of an apartment. Even on his worst days, Kisaki had seen better living conditions.

"Just to remind myself how unfair life is whenever I see you."

"Why do you have to be such an asshole all the time?!" Takemichi grits out. Kisaki thinks it's better than the apathetic look he's adopted for the past few days. "Why can't we just have a normal conversation for once?!"

"We do," Kisaki muses. "I ask questions, and you lie in return."

"I–" Takemichi hesitates, eyes wavering.

Kisaki lifts the mug to his lips, only for it to never reach. The hand clutching the handle closes on itself, the mug disappearing and scalding hot coffee dripping down onto his pants. He hisses, feeling the coffee seep through his pants.

What. The. Fuck?

Did Takemichi's mug just... disappear?

He stares down at his palm, a little too startled to register that he probably has a large burn running down his thigh this very second, and Takemichi's panicked yelling was making it a little too hard to focus. Is he going insane, because he's pretty fucking sure, he just watched the entire coffee mug dematerialize infront of him.

What the actual living fuck?!

He snaps his head up to look at Takemichi, who looks just as shocked as he is, his fingers trembling and fear. Kisaki sees fear.

"Are you going to tell me you sold the mug too?"

Notes:

Hello! Sorry again for the late update, but I was trying to figure out how to write this, and what I wanted to include. I also made this chapter a bit longer than the last few chapters because imma just dip for like 2 weeks (exam season).

Either way, I hope you guys enjoy the chapter! Hope it's not too confusing, especially the end? If it helps, basically things that belong to Takemichi are beginning to disappear, and Kisaki begins to take notice. Why they are disappearing? I can't say yet.

And thank you so much to everyone who takes the time to read this story and leave a comment! They are like my sustenance and motivation to keep writing, and I promise I read each and every one.

Enjoy!

I will be updating new chapter after Dec 12. So like probably on Dec 13 or 14.

Chapter 6: Mercy

Summary:

If Takemichi won't go meet Toman himself, then Kisaki will simply have to bring Toman to him.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Takemichi has lived many lives. Been a friend and an enemy. Today, he is a stranger. Today, and perhaps forevermore, he will be a ghost, back to the man he was in his first life. Filled with half-lived fantasies and fallen promises.

In his first life, Takemichi had begged time for mercy. He found mercy in the form of a girl named Hinata Tachibana. In his second life, mercy came to him as a boy who called himself Mikey, gleaming and glowing like the summer sun.

The same boy would then grow to teach him cruelty.

In this life, there is no mercy. No saviour. No destroyer. Only an eternal silence to fill the void.

"Are you going to fucking answer?!"

He doesn't quite have an answer to Kisaki's question. Finds himself lacking the vitality to even bother to find one. Time won't grant him peace, so Takemichi had thought to create some for himself. It is a harder task than he had thought and he thinks he understands why time had forsaken him this time round.

It's tiring.

As a child, Takemichi had always wondered if life was eternal. He never learned the weight of death – not truly. Not until hours after Hinata's death, where he found himself scrambling to remember their last conversation. Their last hug, and he wasn't quite given the time to remember nor dwell, because what was supposed to be their last became eternal.

Time played tricks, and sent Takemichi spiraling backwards, where he was able to create another goodbye. A different timeline.

Death became fleeting and life eternal. He found himself running away from death, as feeble as it had been. Feared it. Perhaps not for himself, but those around him. Those capable of saying goodbye. The ones who were not given a second chance to life, because he had learned death is inevitable.

But life…life is just as fleeting! Just as inevitable.

For one day, there will be a last hug. A final goodbye. A final laughter – and Takemcihi learned it the day life decided to remove him from the equation.

He had been so focused on escaping death, he forgot to live. Spent so long trying to preserve, he forgot to cherish. Forgot to seize the smaller moments. The sprinkles of joy and laughter… he forgot–

He forgot life. And life forgot him in return.

"Are you even listening?!"

He feels drained, unable to reply to Kisaki's question. Instead, he drags his feet back to his bedroom, locking the door behind him and curling underneath his covers. Somewhere in the distance, he can hear Kisaki yelling, and finds he doesn't quite care. Too busy wondering if he should mourn his funeral. If he should curse his own pitiful existence.

Instead, he finds himself laughing, giggling softly to himself. He rolls on his back, arms spread wide and stares at the white ceiling before him. A field of snow. He was not the one creating the footsteps, he was the trail left behind, and like any trail amidst a snow-storm, he too will disappear. Not a step, nor a trace left behind.

His life was no tragedy. A comedy perhaps. A satire in the making, but not a tragedy–no…far from.

Takemichi had always believed that the universe had deemed itself as Takemichi's enemy, holding out a personal vendetta against him. But that wasn't the case, was it?

In those final moments before death–two steps away from the train track–Takemichi had made a prayer, and the universe had answered. He made a similar prayer on the edge of the bridge that night. The night he wished not to die, but to stop.

To stop being.

And like always, the universe answered.

Kisaki doesn't know what to do.

His hands tremble, and there is a bitter taste on his tongue. He wants answers, but Takemichi (like the fucking coward he is) had shut himself in that stupid room of his.

He knocks once. Twice. A third fucking time.

And still no answer.

Just what is he supposed to do in this situation? Does he call tiger boy? Break the door down (he could blame it on the termite infestation) – that behind said, he isn't sure he even has the physical strength of pulling a door from its hinges.

"Fuck," he breathes out, placing his palms to his face, trying to take a moment to make sense of what had just happened. Because he had just watched Takemcihi's mug dematerialize in front of him, and without a clue as to why or how.

He allows himself to slide down the wall, taking a seat beside Takemichi's bedroom door. "Takemichi, please, we need to talk about this–"

Kisaki doesn't beg. Hasn't begged anyone other than Hinata, who had shut him down without a moment's worth of hesitation. Today, he begs his enemy. For answers–fear hidden behind a thin veil of curiosity and desperation.

It isn't like Kisaki to be surprised by supernatural occurrences. Hell, Takemcihi was a time-traveler and he doubts any event could top such an anomaly. Yet, there had been fear in Taemichi's eyes. Tears so bright, Kisaki could see his own reflection with them, but nothing behind them. No desperation. No fight, nor drive. A look of utter defeat – an act of letting go.

Since when has Takemichi been one to give up? And fuck, Kisaki isn't even sure what exactly Takemichi has given up on.

He presses his head back against a wall and closes his eyes, trying to ignore the burning sensation running up his thigh. He can't find himself to care to treat it, afraid the moment he leaves, Takemichi will have opened the door and Kisaki would miss his chance to interrogate him.

"Takemichi," he tries again, knocking on the door softly. "Please."

Kisaki isn't sure what he had expected. Perhaps a response to his begging, maybe a laugh at his desperation, but there is no answer. Not so much as a whisper. Takemichi is cruel, he finds. Selfish and a coward.

Nothing like the hero he once knew.

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

There is a foot nudging him, and Kisaki groans slightly, opening his eyes to meet the bane of his existence. Tiger-fucking-boy.

"Fuck off."

"In case you haven't realized, I live here."

Kisaki scoffs. "Yeah right."

There is no reply. There was no way…surely, Takemichi wouldn't be as foolish as to harbour an ex-criminal in his house.

"You're serious?" Kisaki final questions.

"Yeah?"

"Jesus, can't believe you are leaching sympathy off some poor, depressed kid. And you have no idea what the fuck is going on?!" Fuck. Maybe he has given Tigerboy more credit than he deserved. The bastard lived here, and still had not noticed literal objects evaporating into thin air. Was Kisaki the only one with an actual brain here?

He ignores the way Kazutora takes a step back at his words, and scrambles to his feet, slamming a fist against Takemcihi's door. He has tried begging, been polite, and perhaps the only language Takemichi has truly understood is violence. "Open the fucking door, Hanagaki!"

As quick as the words leave his mouth, there are hands grabbing and shoving him backwards. Had Kisaki been a stronger man, he might have swung his fists. Instead, he is sneering and glaring at Kazutora, who is now standing between him and the door.

"What the fuck are you doing?!" Kazutora exasperates, trying to keep Kisaki from getting back to the door. "Stop!"

"Don't tell me what the fuck to do! He's the fucking asshole who's locked himself in his room like a god-damn coward! Like…like–"

Me, he wants to say. Kisaki isn't sure why he feels so angry, for the sake of a man he had once sworn to destroy. Maybe it's the way he sees himself in Takemichi, cowering away in a bedroom, hoping to shield himself from all that is outside.

It's cowardly and pathetic. The groveling. The tears. The fucking self-pity.

"Tell him to get the fuck out and face me," Kisaki bites out, clenching his fists by his side.

"No! What–did something happen between you two?!" Kazutora steps in front of him once again, raising his hands as though trying to convey he has no harmful intentions. Kisaki couldn't give a flying fuck.

All he wants is for Takemichi to come out of that room and talk. All he wants is a fucking talk!

He has questions, and perhaps Takemichi's silence is answer enough, confirming what he fears to be the worst. Still, he wants to know. Wants to hold onto the slightest possibility that what he fears is a lie. That there is another explanation.

"Nothing happened. We just need to talk," he swallows down the insults awaiting at the top of his tongue.

"Yeah no, you need to calm the fuck down."

"Funny you, of all people, are saying that." He doesn't miss the way Kazutora flinches at the implications of his words. Kisaki won't apologize. They were meant to hurt.

"Listen," Kazutora pauses, taking a deep breath before continuing, and Kisaki thinks it's ironic how good Kazutora is at pacifying when his past is full of so much violence. "He gets like that sometimes…you can't just barge your way in. Give him some time."

"How long?"

"I–I don't know…it can take hours or days. You just have to be patient."

Patience? Kisaki lets out a chuckle, grabbing his face with his hands again. "Shit.." he whispers, bending down onto the floor once again, ignoring Kazutora who is flailing his arms in concern, uncertain of what to do and just standing there like a lost puppy.

Tigerboy wants him to be patient, but it doesn't quite matter what the fuck Kazutora wants though, does it. Kisaki doesn't have time to be patient.

And he fears Takemichi doesn't either.

Kisaki walks home in the rain, defeated by Takemichi once again, and wonders for a moment if failure is all he is capable of. Defeated even when he is no longer the villain.

His clothes stick to his body, chilling him to the core, fingers trembling and breath wavering. Kisaki isn't sure why he cares. Why he feels afraid (not for himself), but for Takemichi. The same person he had failed lifetimes trying to destroy.

So why isn't he glad? Why was there this…rotting taste, a sense of loss within him?

He doesn't care for Takemichi. He knows this–doesn't even like the kid. Yet, something in his chest aches and he doesn't understand why.

Hadn't Takemichi gone back in time to cleanse them of all their sins. To give them another chance. Erase their past and forgive them for all their mistakes, so why is it that Kisaki is able to remember all he has done wrong. Why does he feel so...pathetic–

Was this guilt? A dance of greed in the theatrics of indifference. Eating away at his insides, rotting and twisting, but Kisaki's soul has always been a rotten thing. Why is it only now that he feels the decay?

Objects disappearing, people forgetting his existence, and the unmistakable look of fear in Takemichi's eyes. It wasn't hard to put the pieces of the puzzle together. Takemichi was disappearing, and Kisaki didn't know what to do.

Doesn't even know if he should do anything.

Hell, does he even have the right? Is he even worthy of–

He freezes, feeling a warm hand brushes through the back of his head, tugging at the thin strands of his hair. "What got you looking so down?" Hanma.

He moves his head away from the intruding hand, taking a step away from the overly tall bean post. "Fuck off."

Hanma only laughs in response, returning his hands back to his pockets. He doesn't leave though. Despite all of Kisaki's cruel words, the man waltzes around him without a care in the world, sticking to him like a moth. Had they always been this close?

"Where've you been? I haven't seen you around in a while~"

"None of your fucking business."

"Gee, who hurt you today?"

Kisaki stops in his tracks at the question. Who had hurt him today? Was he even hurt? He looks down at the pavement, watching as the rain platters around them, covering the sounds of his frantic breath with it's hushed whispers.

Hanma is quiet, almost a bit taken aback by how stumped Kisaki looks. Kisaki was many things. Uncertain and confused was not one of them. "Are you okay–"

"No one…" Kisaki cuts him off, voice a little soft and a little shaky. "No one! I'm perfectly fucking fine!"

He wasn't.

Hanma shows up to his house unannounced the same night. He holds a cup of coffee in his hand, and a small pastry box in the other. How the other had found his house, Kisaki doesn't know, but decides not to question it.

"It's not my birthday," Kisaki says, feeling a little flustered.

"No, but you don't need a birthday to eat sweets, do you?"

No…he didn't. But people didn't necessarily bring him things until it was socially appropriate or required of them to do so. This…this was new. Different.

He mumbles a thanks, and if Hanma heard it, he makes no knowledge of it. Only waves his hand in an awkward goodbye as he is walking back down the block he came from, leaving Kisaki holding a cup of coffee in the middle of the night. Bastard didn't even ask to come inside the house.

He takes a tentative sip of the coffee, the drink warm but not scalding and wonders if Hanma realizes that coffee at midnight is probably not the best idea. It is a little too sweet for his tastes, but he finds he doesn't mind. The warmth is welcoming.

And perhaps coffee was needed.

He stays up that night and plans his next move. Scribbles in his notebooks like a madman, writing theories upon theories. There had to be a trigger. To be forgotten so suddenly, and be erased without so much as a reason, something must've happened in the past of this lifetime.

Just what could Takemichi have done…or rather, Takemichi's past self. That being said, who's to say it was Takemichi at fault. Could it be someone else? Another person's mistakes or actions which had determined Takemichi's fate today?

Kisaki returns the next day, to see Takemichi up and about, no tigerboy in sight.

He invites Kisaki in, offering a cup of coffee, acting as though nothing has happened since the last time they had met. The coffee iced this time, and Kisaki wonders if Takemichi feels guilty for the burn Kisaki had received from their last coffee incident.

"Well, are you going to fucking explain?"

"I'm…I'm tired, Kisaki."

"What the fuck is that even supposed to mean?" That wasn't what he asked.

"Things like hating you…it's just too tiring. So let's be friends."

"No. Fuck you. Just answer my bloody question."

Takemichi only laughs. It's a tired, hollow kind of sound. Bitter but sweet in it's vocals. It's an ugly noise, and Kisaki thinks, if Takemichi were to ever play music, he'd be terrible at it. The broken key of the piano. The one that refuses to fit the melody and is silent in it's demise.

A broken piano key. That is what Takemichi is, Kisaki figures. It's fine though. He knows the piano well. Knows all it's strings and notes, and has spent his childhood playing with broken keys. Keys he pulls and break apart until they play their note once again.

He'll just have to fix Takemichi. To reconnect that string to the piano. To connect Takemichi to Toman once again.

Shouldn't be too hard. Toman wasn't a particularly bright group.

"Sorry, he's not home at the moment–"

"I'm not here to talk to that coward," Kisaki cuts him off. "I'm here for you."

"Eh?" Kazutora perks up, looking a little dumbfounded. He points at himself. "Me?"

"Can you get me into Toman?" Kisaki asks bluntly.

Kazutora only laughs, rubbing a few tears out of his eyes like he's just heard the funniest thing. He pauses for a moment, waiting for Kisaki to join in on the laughter, except Kisaki looks serious. Eye bags covering his eyes, and a strange determination in his eyes. "I...you're serious?"

"Can you get me in?"

"Kisaki I don't think–"

He doesn't wait for Tigerboy to complete his sentence, before turning on his heel and heading back down the way he came from. He wasn't asking Kazutora for permission. This was just a warning. Kisaki isn't that cruel after all.

He doesn't stalk Kazutora. No. Of course not.

Sure, he may or may not have known when Toman meetings took place, and what time Kazutora was likely to leave Takemichi's apartment to get there, or which path he was most likely to take.

But it was merely coincidence that he happened to be walking down that same path at three in the morning, both with the same destination on their mind.

"Why are you following me?" Kazutora asks, looking not-so-amused at his sudden appearance.

"I want to meet your leader."

"Do you have a death wish? You don't think Baji wouldn't have told him about what you tried to pull off back then?"

"Back then?"

"Bloody halloween."

Ah, right…Kisaki had tried to break Toman apart back then, working behind the scenes of the Valhalla gang, with the sole goal of making Mikey the leader. Takemichi had stopped Mikey back then, hadn't he? But if…if Mikey didn't remember them, who had stopped Mikey back then. What reality did they remember?

He has half the mind to ask Kazutora what happened, but decides against it, opting for an awkward silence. It's quiet between them, no common denominator. But then again, Kisaki wasn't looking for a conversation. He just wanted to make what was wrong, right again. And he'd be damned if he lets something as stupid as time destroy Takemichi when he, himself, had failed in doing so every time.

"Turn back here," Kazutora says one last time as they near the shrine steps, frowning and eyes drooping the slightest as though they were pitying him. "You aren't welcome, you know this."

"I have a proposition for Mikey," Kisaki lies. "One I think he won't refuse."

If Takemichi won't go meet Toman himself, then Kisaki will simply have to bring Toman to him.

Notes:

SORRY FOR THE WAIT! I was busy studying for finals, but I will be updating weekly from now onwards! Every tuesday or wednesday.

This chapter is a little small, it's a bit of a filler chapter. I had more written, but I don't think it's up to the quality I want before I update, but I wanted to update some of the work since I had been away for so long. So I will include that in the next chapter. More Takemichi POV in the next chapter!

Also, I named the chapter 'mercy,' because I talked about how Mercy was "Hinata" and "Mikey" in his previous timelines...in this chapter I was trying to imply the idea that Mercy is in the form of "Kisaki." Idk if that makes sense.

Either way, I hope you guys enjoy! Let me know what you guys think in the comments or bookmarks. I love reading every single one of them!

Chapter 7: Liars

Summary:

Kazutora finds home within Takemichi, and Takemichi...Takemichi is still searching.

or In which, everyone is a liar, and Takemichi is honest for the first time.

Notes:

Warnings: talks of depression and suicide...nothing too extreme tho.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Kisaki showing up unannounced in a Toman meeting started off with an odd wash of silence. A strange calm before the storm. For a moment, Kazutora wondered if they had simply not recognized Kisaki, frightened by the sudden appearance of a stranger. Except, Kisaki wasn't exactly a stranger, was he?

Neither of them had the privilege of such a relationship. Where it was merely two strangers crossing each others' path. Instead it was Kazutora (the puppet) and Kisaki (the puppet master).

It isn't easy to forget how close Kazutora has been to killing Baji. How he had almost allowed himself into being deluded into betraying his friend. The one who has been willing to take every fall with him. And Kazutora has been ready to kill him, deluded behind the allure of a few sweet lies.

"It's toman, or me. It can't be both," he repeats his mothers words to Baji. "It can't be both."

It isn't easy to forget. So when Baji screams, demanding why Kisaki was here, Kazutora wasn't quite sure how to respond. The anger was justified. Perhaps the more sane response between the two of them.

"What the fuck is he doing here!? Just because we forgave that pest by his side, does not mean he is allowed here," Baji yells, making his way to the front, and pauses taken aback when Kazutora steps in between them. "Tora!"

Kazutora flushes, feeling a little embarrassed, distantly aware of Mikey who was sitting on top of those shrine steps, staring and judging like he always does. There is a smile framing his lips, and at first sight, Kazutora might have believed Mikey was glad to meet him.

But Mikey wasn't a good liar, not like Takemichi. His eyes always betrayed him. They are dark, and dull, full of a rage Kazutora knows all too well.

'Kazutora, you belong to me,' Mikey says, holding a hand out.

There is a deep hatred behind them, a bitter resentment. Towards Kazutora. Towards his brother's killer. Kisaki stands tall beside him, and yet, Mikey only sees Kazutora, and Kazutora wonders if Mikey hates him more than Kisaki.

If the real enemy was Kazutora.

And perhaps Mikey was right. Kazutora was the one to take hold of the knife that day, to grip it's handle tight with resolve, and if it hadn't been for–

Kazutora takes in a sharp breath, trying to pull himself out of his thoughts and lowers his gaze slightly as though it could somehow keep Mikey from peering right through him. Baji had patted his back once, stating how Kazutora didn't need to be so respectful. He was too cowardly to tell Baji it wasn't respect, but rather fear, masked with a hint of guilt. Of shame.

"Tora!" Baji's voice bellows towards him again, and Kazutora closes his eyes, trying to figure out how to de-escalate this situation before either Kisaki or himself get hurt. He doubts Mikey would have any mercy for either of them. Kazutora even less.

He nudges Kisaki with his foot. "Listen, I don't know what preposition you have but nobody wants you here, you need to leave–"

Kisaki only gives a toothy, rather sinister looking grin before opening his mouth. The words loud and clear for everyone to hear. "Go suck a dick before you end up homeless again."

There is a moment of silence, stunned eyes and head whipping towards Kazutora at the implications behind Kisaki's words, and Kazutora finds he can't quite breathe. There is a ringing in his ears, Kisaki's words repeating in a loop.

"Homeless? What–"

Kazutora has never been a peaceful person. His hands, stained with blood, and his heart rotting with a hate he sees only in Mikey. He's tried…to be kinder. Quieter. More gentle. Perhaps if he tries hard enough, he can hope to become a kinder person some day.

Kazutora had never had any qualms about letting the rage take over, to hurt those who hurt him with fists twice as heavy. And then he met Takemichi, a boy with glassy eyes and sees all the ways a soul can break. He finds, violence doesn't work against people like Takemichi. Who have had pain worse than a simple fist or broken teeth. Pain that drives them to commit violence to themself.

Violence has always been a part of his life, but Kazutora had promised to be less selfish. If not for himself, but for Takemichi. Or maybe for Baji, a silent apology for his cruelty.

Yet…yet, he sees Kisaki staring at him, expectedly, waiting–as thought he could see right through Kazutora. Sees all his insecurities, and pulls at them to make Kazutora play to his whims. The puppet and the puppet master. And Kazutora plays his role well.

Didn't Kisaki have a proposition for Mikey? So why was Kazutora being dragged into this? Why–

His body moves before he has time to think over his actions, fist flying and landing a satisfying crunch against Kisaki's cheek.

"Why…" Kazutora asks, grabbing Kisaki by the collar. Kisaki only slumps against his hands, looking seconds away from passing out, and it all feels a little unfair. "Why the fuck would you say that?!"

There is no response as Kisaki finally falls limp to the ground. He doesn't quite understand why. Weren't they getting closer? To some place between enemy and friend, but they weren't enemies, were they? Not anymore…so why was Kisaki being cruel? Tearing open his chest and tugging at all his hidden insecurities, bare for everyone to see. To judge.

Chifuyu is pulling Kazutora away from Kisaki as quickly as he had jumped on him. "What does he mean? Tora–"

"Stop! Don't...stop looking at me like that!"

"Tora–"

"I'm not your fucking pity-party!"

"That's not–"

He shoves aside the hands crowding over him. They are staring, eyebrows furrowed, eyes glazed in a look of pity, and Kazutora hates it. He wants them to look away, but they stare. And judge.

They look at him as though they understand, by some degree or factor. Knowing he had nothing. No right to food and water. No home to return to.

"Tora…why didn't you tell me?" Baji's voice wavers the slightest, and Kazutora swallows down the tears threatening to spill. His eyes burn, and he can't quite find himself to face his best friend.

What does he see? Judgement? Pity? A boy too helpless and incompetent to pull himself back on his own feet?

But it wasn't the case anymore. He had found a home in the form of a boy named Takemichi–warm, safe and alive.

"I'm not..I have a home now."

'Can't believe you are leaching off some poor, depressed kid.'

Was he?

Was he taking advantage of Takemichi's crippled state in an attempt to hold himself together again. Takemichi had told him he enjoyed the company, but Takemichi has always been a liar, and Kazutora can't help but fear the worst.

"I…have a home.." he tries again, feeling his words lacking the confidence they needed to sound convincing. He isn't quite sure who he is trying to convince. Perhaps Baji…or Kisaki, who is lying limp on the pavement below.

Perhaps the sweetest lies he told were the ones he told himself.

"So you're living with some random kid you met in a train station at 3am?" Chifuyu asks, pursuing his lips, trying to understand what Kazutora was telling him.

Kazutora nods. "...yeah–"

"Are you…are you stupid?!" he screeches, and Kazutora winces slightly at the noise. "What if the person you went home with was a creep?! They could have hurt you!"

Ah–Takemichi was creepy, but he wasn't one capable of hurting another. Kazutora has seen him beaten up, crumpled, broken down–but never angry. Never…hateful.

Not even to Kisaki. Rather, it's this deep look of tiredness. Where his eyes glaze over, dull and quiet, not quite seeing what is before him. As though he wasn't here, rather lost in a world that Kazutora wasn't a part of. A place where he couldn't quite follow. This feeling that perhaps, Takemichi is older than he lets on. More mature. Lived and seen things that Kazutora could only dream of in his worst days.

"He's not," he finishes, voice weak and quiet. "He's a crybaby if anything."

"A pushover then?" Baji scoffs, sounding bitter.

"No." Atleast, not from what he has seen. "Never."

"How old is he? I swear to god, if you are staying with some creepy fifty year old–"

"Will you stop interrogating me!" he finally cuts in, feeling a little overwhelmed with all the questions. It felt wrong to be revealing all this information about Takemichi without him even being here.

'I don't want to..I really really don't want to.'

And Kazutora had promised. He had promised to be patient. To wait, even if it meant months or years. Even if it meant Takemichi never wanted to meet Toman again. And perhaps, it was better for the two to remain apart from one another.

After multiple lifetimes of death and violence, surely, he deserved one with peace. In which he can work on healing himself…rather than those around him. Takemichi had the right to be selfish this time round.

"He's right." The voice is firm and louder than the rest, and Kazutora whips his head up, looking at Mikey who has made his way down those steps.

"I– uh.."

"We shouldn't be interrogating you when we can go meet the man himself."

Meet…meet Takemichi?

'Everytime I woke up and found that calendar 12 years back, I'd think 'Again, really? I have to do this again?' I don't...I–'

They..they can't. Takemichi wasn't ready, and Kazutora had promised to wait.

"No," he blutters out, eyes wide, and heart thundering within his chest. Mikey stares at him, again, that same dark gloomy look. The one that seemed to peer straight into the darkest part of him, and Kazutora wonders if somehow, Mikey is able to hear his heartbeat. Senses the fear he feels.

"No?" Mikey repeats, tilting his head with a slight frown on his face.

"I–I mean…he..he doesn't like visitors!" Kazutora tries, feeling the words fumble on his tongue. "He's…shy."

"I'm sure he can handle one visit from his roommate's friends," Mikey grins, voice cheerful, yet Kazutora can't help but feel his stomach knot.

"He has crippling social anxiety."

"That's okay, we have Mitsuya here for that."

Except Mitsuya wasn't a therapist, and Kazutora doubts what works on Mitsuya's younger siblings, will work on a suicidal time traveler with what Kazutora can only assume is PTSD. "He has to go to work."

"We can wait for him to return."

"He works through the night"

"A sleepover then!"

"What do we do with him?" Baji points at Kisaki still, face down on the pavement, and Kazutora can't help but feel a little bad. He doesn't quite understand what Kisaki is planning. Was this the goal? To somehow get Toman and Takemichi to meet again?

But he can't quite understand what for. From what he knew, the two were enemies in their previous timelines, and wasn't it for Kisaki's best interest that Takemichi stay away. So why this? Surely, he wasn't stupid enough to walk in here simply to get beat up. There had to be an underlying goal.

Something had happened that day. The day where Takemichi had shut Kisaki out. He has never seen Kisaki break down, but he swore there were tears in his eyes then. Glazed over with a shine all too similar to Takemichi's.

'Did you guys have a fight?' Kazutora asks when Takemichi finally opens the bedroom door.

'A…a misunderstanding,' is all Takemichi gives him.

Kazutora doesn't quite believe him. Takemichi has always been a good liar, but he doesn't question it, and they never speak of the fight again.

What happened…what were they not telling him–

"Leave him there," Kazutora says after a while. He doesn't think he quite hates Kisaki anymore, but there is a bitter aftertaste, and perhaps, just this once, he can be a little cruel.

"You can't go today," he says, as they try to follow him down to the apartment.

"Eh? Why?" Mikey asks, chewing on a piece of dorayaki that Mitsuya had bought from a nearby convenience store. Kazutora wonders if they are more lackeys than actual gang members. Lackeys serving a child with the strength of a god.

"It's almost 5 in the morning. He's sleeping…and you can't show up unannounced. Like I said, he has anxiety and...stuff."

"We'll just show up in the evening then!"

"Work…he has work then."

"Tomorrow–"

"–sorry…tomorrow is his grandma's death anniversary. He needs time to mourn." Kazutora furrows his eyebrows and closes his eyes to show his sympathy, hoping his acting would be enough to let this pass.

Unlike Takemichi, Kazutora is a bad liar, and perhaps his fear and nervousness was clear for everyone to see. It was a poor lie, but then again, the least Kazutora could do was to buy Takemichi some time.

"We'll come next week then," the cheerfulness in Mikey's voice is gone, and Kazutora can tell this was no longer a request.

"What?"

"I'm sorry," Kazutora whispers, head hanging, and eyes down to the floor.

"It's…it's not your fault," Takemichi finally says, letting out a deep sigh.

Kazutora can't quite tell if he's lying. Takemichi doesn't speak again, only returns to the cocoon of blankets in his room.

He thinks he can understand a little bit of the frustration Kisaki had felt that day. He's starting to hate that stupid blanket.

Kisaki returns on a day when Kazutora is not home. His cheek is swollen with a small patch covering the worst of the injury. Takemichi hadn't bothered to lock the door after Kazutora left, finding himself too tired to get up.

He wants to curl up on the ground and close his eyes, but Mikey would be here in a few days and he doesn't have time to allow himself to rest. To drift.

Takemichi finds it a little creepy that the man knows when Kazutora is gone, and when he is home. It's strangely eerie, but then again, it wouldn't be Kisaki otherwise.

"Go away," Takemichi says, quietly. He feels weak, a little lost, much like the day on the bridge, except there is no reply.

"Go away," he tries again, a little more firmly, when Kisaki doesn't leave and instead opts for a place on the floor of the living room, next to Takemichi.

He isn't sure what he is supposed to say. Wonders if he should feel devastated, or sad...maybe anguish. Instead, he finds himself at a loss for words, confused and without answers.

"Are you..okay?" Kisaki sounds vary, a little uncertain and awkward, and Takemichi wonders what sort of face he must have been making to be questioned about his health by his ex-enemy…enemy, by his enemy.

He scoffs, and thinks how ironic it is for Kisaki to be asking him if he is okay, after being the same person to put him in this position.

"Go away," he repeats.

"No."

And they sit there for a while, like every other day. It had become a routine at this point. To have Kisaki sit in his home, keep him company, but having no words to exchange. Today felt a little different.

As though there was a wall between them, Takemichi doesn't think he would have the courage to cross it this time.

"Why did you do it?" he finally asks.

"Why did I do what?"

"Don't bullshit me. You knew this would happen."

"You wouldn't tell me what happened." Kisaki says, as though it was the simplest reason in the world, and Takemichi feels his blood boil.

"You already knew…" he mutters, not quite understanding why. Because Kisaki knew, so why did Takemichi have to speak what was obvious for him to understand? Did he simply want to see him grovel?

Did he want to see him admit his defeat? A final act of humiliation. An act of revenge.

"I don't understand."

"You're disappearing is what is happening. You're dying. What about that do you not fucking understand?" Kisaki sounds angry, and it all feels a little unfair. Wasn't it Takemichi who was supposed to be angry? So why was Kisaki acting as though he was the one who had been wronged?

And yet, he can't find himself to make his voice louder than it is. Finds himself whispering his insecurities and questions. "Has it ever occurred to you, that maybe I don't care."

"Huh?"

"Kisaki I…I don't care."

"That you're fucking dying?!" Kisaki whips his head around, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"I'm done," he whispers, taking in a sharp breath. "I've…I've spent a long time running away from death, but I don't think I mind it now. It's not scary anymore."

Kisaki lets out a chuckle of disbelief, throwing his hands into the air in frustration. "So you're suicidal?!"

"It's not like that!"

"You're telling me, you are okay with dying without even giving a flying fuck to do something about it! What else would you call it?"

"It's not like that!" he repeats. Takemichi has a habit of repeating things. As if saying it might make him believe it some day. "I'm done. With you. With Mikey. Hell, isn't this what you fucking wanted anyways?!"

"What are you talking about?!"

Perhaps the only thing the two of them did was to fight.

"You wanted me to give up, didn't you? You wanted me to say I'm done, well I'm fucking done! I give up, okay?! You win. You fucking win..so please," he begs, pressing his forehead to his knees in a silent plea. His vision blurs and there is a strange heaviness within his chest. It hurts, and he feels so much. "..please just stop...let me stop–"

"I'm just supposed to let you die?!"

"You've done it before." The words spill before he is able to think twice about them. What's stopping you this time, goes unsaid.

Takemichi has only seen Kisaki afraid once in his many lifetimes. He wonders if he's said something irreparable, because Kisaki is coiling back, his fingertips trembling the slightest and eyes wide. Ah. He'd forgotten Kisaki was just a child then too.

"That's not–" Kisaki starts, voice a little shaky. "This isn't…this isn't about that!"

"When I am desperate to stay alive, you try to kill me. And now when I am okay with dying, you try to keep me alive. It's a little contradictory, no?"

"Fuck off, I'm just trying to keep you alive."

"No! No, you are not!" Takemichi exasperates, feeling his eyes burn with anger or frustration, he cannot quite tell which yet. Probably both. "Just how is making me meet Toman supposed to keep me alive?!"

Kisaki doesn't respond.

"Do you know how many times I have died for them?" Takemichi sits a little straighter, feeling his lip tremble at the confession. He pats his chest three times. "Three times…three times he shot me."

"He?"

"Mikey," Takemichi smiles grimley. "I asked him to come to my wedding. I was going to…to marry Hina…but I thought, how could I possibly move on knowing I've left someone behind suffering? Knowing I've failed–"

"But you…you won this time round," Kisaki mutters, a hint of bitterness in his voice. "They are all alive."

"They are…so there is no need for me there anymore. That's why…that's why the universe is erasing me. I don't belong here, don't you understand?"

"You seriously think I'm going to buy all this bullshit?"

"I'm not asking you to!" he yells. "All I'm asking is for you to stay out of my life. You don't get to decide what course my life is going to take."

"It's not like you have much of a life remaining–"

He does. He has a life. Even if it was shorter than most, perhaps it would be the first life he has tried to live. Surviving, he knows well.

Living, he is trying to learn.

"Just..leave me alone."

"You're a coward!" Kisaki is on his feet, fists clenched and for a moment Takemichi wonders if he too, will beat him like all others have.

"I didn't ask for any of this! Not the time travel. Not your judgement. Fuck, when do I get to have a goddamn life?!"

"Well you sure as hell won't be getting one now!" Kisaki exasperates.

"You don't even know for sure if anything will happen! And if it does, what can you do? What can you possibly do that would change that outcome?"

"I don't know yet–"

"–You don't know?" Takemichi mocks. He lets his head fall back against the sofa, feeling his vision blur with tears he's grown too accustomed to. "You don't know, and you decide the best possible route is to bring them here. Why?! What are you trying to prove? You do realize that you are not a good person because you took pity on the depressed kid?"

He's tired. He's so fucking tired.

"I hate you…" Takemichi confesses at last, the words slipping past his tongue like a secret. Hushed and slow.

'This is like hating you…it's just too tiring. So let's be friends.' Takemichi had once asked.

'No, fuck you.'

Kisaki doesn't react to the cruel words. Perhaps Kisaki had known all along. Seen through Takemichi's lies and half-hearted attempts at being okay.

"I really fucking hate you," he repeats.

Kisaki smiles bitterly and Takemichi wonders for a moment if he is mocking him again. He wonders if it's for his tears, or his confession – broken and as weak as the rest of him.

"I think that's the first honest thing you've said to me."

With that, Kisaki is gone, walking out the same door he came from. The door slams shut behind him, and Takemichi finally allows himself to curl up, trying to reel in what is happening around him.

His mouth opens in a voiceless scream and when that first tear breaks through, the rest follow in an unbroken stream and he feels so alone.

He feels as though he is standing amidst a crowded room, screaming and begging, yet not a single person raises their head. He's…alone. Completely. Utterly.

He told himself he would try, but he's lost, doesn't quite know how to not hurt. Loneliness had become an aching void for his pain, hollow like his resolve to be better.

Wasn't this supposed to be an easy fix? Find a friend–a person who understands. And yet, despite having Kazutora stumble within his life, and being dragged into Kisaki's, he isn't quite able to reach out. Recoils when they reach a hand out. Lies and lies and lies, like the pathetic fool he is.

And he's cruel. He's so cruel to them.

He bangs his head against the back of the sofa in frustration, because Kisaki is gone. The one person to remember had walked out, and he doesn't think it would be long before Kazutora leaves too.

He has once considered Kazutora to be insecure. But Takemichi was a coward, and somehow that felt worse. To lie in an attempt to forget. To tell himself he is trying, when all he has managed is a walk in the park.

He wasn't really trying at all, was he?

Nothing has even happened, and yet, here he is, struggling to breathe, panicking over the thought of a small meeting. Stupid…gods, it was so stupid.

"Stop crying," he whispers, wrapping his arms around his shoulder, trying his best to control his breathing. His lungs expand only to collapse on themselves and hold, finding they can't quite take in the next breath without hurting. "Stop crying–"

The chain on his neck feels heavy, weighing him down, and he struggles to pull it off, clutching the small thing in the flesh of his palm.

Takemichi closes his eyes and dreams. His mind scrambles through the memories, and he wonders if this is what his final moments would feel like. A final dream to cease all there is of him. Like a movie reel.

Pain. Sorrow. Happiness. No awareness of who he was, as all has returned to what it was before him. And everything would just…stop.

All he would know is oblivion. Where all that is him, is recycled, dispersed throughout the universe–parts of him within the stars, some floating amidst the spring streams, the tiniest lost in the atoms of the air.

A smile grazes his lips and he thinks it wouldn't be a bad way to go.

Takemichi falls asleep clutching the small clover necklace Hina had given him so long ago. When he awakens, his palm is empty, the weight of the necklace long gone.

Notes:

New chapter! I was supposed to upload last week, but I thought it'd make more sense to include what i have written in one chapter rather than two separate ones. To make up for it, this chapter is longer than the rest.

As always, I hope it made sense! Let me know what you guys think in the comments! And toman/takemichi meeting coming up next chapter!

Chapter 8: A morphine toast

Summary:

Takemichi wants to try harder.

Notes:

I recently developed tendonitis on my right hand, and it is painful to type for long periods of time, as such this chapter may not be the best? I was trying to type as much as possible so I could update considering it has been two weeks, and I haven't had time to edit this chapter. Think of it like reading one of my drafts.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

TRIGGER WARNING: suicide (brief), fixation on food, dissociation, PTSD (at-least i tried to convey it in my way?)

The world is a…lonely place.

In it, lives is a boy. Perhaps, older than most, a soul who has known many lives. Many worlds. Has known sorrow and pain. Known joy and laughter. Dreamt worlds of happiness for those who had never experienced it's joy

The boy, old in mind, stayed a child at heart. Dreamt of home, only to find his heart empty. Sees life for the first time, and feels fear. For how can a child, surrounded by death and blind to life, not be afraid of seeing it's vivid bursts of wonderment? How can a child, with his heart forever in solitude, not fear home?

Yet, the home which he craves so much, is the same one he fears. Grown comfortable to the colourless, because it is all he knows. All he has ever known.

But somehow, today…hurts more than usual. Feel emptier. Lonelier. The room he locks himself in, an empty and colourless place. The sheets he tries to hide within, a field of snow–dull, white, cold…

He knows this room by heart, has made that blizzard a piece of calm within his soul but it's cold. Had felt a glimpse of warmth and found himself aching for its loss. Why? Why can't happiness last forever?

Why does it come, only to leave? Why is there life, only for it to die?

It's a cruel gift. The universe leaves them with fleeting moments of euphoria, only for it to be stripped away in the snap of a finger. To slip past your fingers without so much a second thought.

He doesn't quite understand, as he lies in the small colourless world he has created for himself, lamenting the loss of yellow and its warmth.

Takemichi closes his eyes, feeling his chest turn and twist with the chaos in his heart. Because there is pain, and he doesn't quite understand how to not feel it. Time had allowed for his bruised self to become a mere aching pain, and in an instant, with a moment's worth of relief, it became fractured. Broken, and he wonders how long it would take for this wound to repair.

It hurts. A glimpse of warmth makes him feel shattered, he wonders how much agony it would be to allow his skin to be enveloped in the sun's warmth. To allow his world to fill with colour, enraptured in it's beauty.

He doesn't want to meet anyone. It's safer. It's easier. He's used to the void, the colourless and the cold.

But it's lonely and it never stops.

He hurts.

There is a knock on his door. It's three quiet thuds. Three quiet bullets. "Hey Takemichi?"

"Yeah?" Takemichi replies after a while, sitting up as Kazutora walks in through the door. So he hadn't left. Perhaps he would stay…a part of him wonders how long. Or for who. Did he look more like Shinichiro now? Dark hair, dull eyes, weak body.

"Do you…do you want to go outside today? We can go get dorayaki again from the park or something. I think it will be good to get some fresh air."

"Yeah." Not really.

Kazutora brightens up slightly, eyes glistening the slightest. "Really?" he whispers, almost as though he is a little shocked with what he's hearing. He sounds hopeful.

Takemichi scratches his head, letting out a sheepish grin. "I've actually been craving dorayaki for a while." He hates it.

The dorayaki tastes like ash.

The soft biscuit is dry and crumbles on his tongue, the sweet bean paste inside still hot and scalding. He takes a large swallow, the warmth scalding and painful. It hurts, but it's warm, and Takemichi fears if he waits too long, the desert will become cold.

What does he fear? The warmth or it's absence…he can't quite be sure anymore. Perhaps both. Perhaps neither.

"Is it good?" Kazutora asks, seated on the bench, a hand over his own. His fingertips are warm, the palm slightly sweaty, and Takemichi prefers it's warmth over the scalding bean paste.

Takemichi swallows another bite of the biscuit, before letting out a wide grin. "Tastes like shit."

"You want to know a secret?"

"Sure."

Kazutora frowns, furrowing his eyebrows. "I don't like dorayaki either."

Takemichi pauses, looking up from the fresh batch of laundry he was folding. "You…don't?"

Kazutora snorts, his mouth breaking out into a wide, goofish grin. "No. I always thought you liked it, considering you ate like five the first time we went there. But you told me it tastes like shit."

"It really does," Takemichi nods in agreement, feeling his heart bloom, and finds himself giggling along. "I ate it because you did. I don't understand how Mikey can eat that shit 24/7."

"God don't ever say that to his face. He wouldn't let you live it down."

"Annoying motherfucker, isn't he?" Takemichi mutters.

"Hah–since when did you use such shitty language?"

"I think…" Takemichi pauses for a moment, trying to figure out how to quite say what he is feeling. This is a foreign feeling. Being honest. But Kazutora looks at him with warm eyes, and a gentle smile, and he feels… welcome. Feels like they're learning each other anew, not burdened by their pasts or insecurities. "I think I'm allowed to cuss him out. I've earned that right."

Kazutora blinks, a little confused, and Takemichi feels the weight of Mikey's hatred lift off his chest the slightest. Because this Kazutora did not know the Mikey that Takemichi had known. This world did not know such hate. Did not know such darkness and it's comforting.

This world's Mikey is new. Someone…someone he doesn't…

Ah.

A breath of fresh air fills his lungs, and his eyes widen in realization. "They…they don't know me," he mumbles, feeling his heart tremble and flutter.

A flash of guilt, no..fear…flashes across Kazutora's eyes, and Takemichi finds himself repeating himself. "They don't know me!" he laughs out, crawling over the clean batch over clothes to grip Kazutora's shoulders.

"I…I'm sorry..they don't–"

Takemichi shakes his head, his lips stretched out into a wide smile. "No, you don't understand! They don't know me..and I… I don't know them!"

"What?" Kazutora furrows his eyebrows, and Takemichi thinks he can agree with Kisaki's comment on 'tigerboy' being slow.

"I know Mikey …but not…not this Mikey. I don't know any of them! Do you understand?" he whispers the last words, cupping Kazutora's face with his hands as though he is telling a secret.

Because they didn't know him, and he didn't know them. Not in this world. Not in this timeline.

They could be a person he had never known. Mikey could be a kind and warm leader. Mitsuya could hate being a fashion designer. Hell, he doesn't even know if this Emma liked Draken, for Draken could be someone he had never imagined.

He doesn't know this world…the same way it doesn't know him, so wasn't this meeting the same as meeting a stranger?

Wouldn't that…give them all a blank slate to start from. To create new memories of one another, to rewrite what was known and forgotten.

"Oh," Kazutora breathes out, eyes staring deeply into his own, finally understanding what Takemichi was feeling…was trying to convey.

He moves forward, removing his hands from his face and envelopes his arms around the other, pulling Kazutora in for a hug. Kazutora falters the slightest, hands flaying awkwardly behind Takemichi's back before finally melting into the hug himself.

Meeting as strangers.

"What are you wearing?!"

"What–" Kazutora stumbles, face beat red "What is wrong with what I'm wearing?!"

Takemichi fell into a fit of giggles, hunched over an arm taking in the sight of a very flustered Kazutora. He stood holding a broom, wearing a frilly apron with an iconic picture of Pete J stamped in the middle.

"Please tell me that is Chifuyu's…"

"I–" Kazutora pauses, glaring slightly. "It was a gift."

"Ahhh that's so cute! Does Baji have a matching one?"

"Fuck off, just do your work."

Their small quest to clean the tiny apartment Takemichi lives in, was surprisingly, not as difficult as Takemichi had imagined it to be. It was filled with small talk, light bickering and a sense of familiarity.

Has it always been this easy?

Time passed quickly (as it always has), yet there was this feeling of content within his chest. Time, as much of a burden it had been, felt…fleeting. Light. As though Takemichi could capture it's mystery in the palm of his hand and it would not be overwhelming.

It felt…warm.

"Where is he anyways?" Kazutora asks.

"Who?" Takemichi questions, a little confused.

"The bane of our fucking existence, Kisaki."

Takemichi blinks, freezing at the mention of his name. Kisaki. He hadn't seen Kisaki since their argument, and he doesn't think he would be seeing Kisaki anytime soon. Not with the confession of his hatred and Kisaki's indifference.

"Why do you care?" he blutters, voice bitter, betraying him. "Didn't he pull you under the rug?"

"Yes, but–wait…" Kazutora pauses, frowning slightly. "Did you guys have an argument again?"

"A misunderstanding–"

"Stop," Kazutora cuts in, face blank with a rather deep frown painting his lips. There is no humor in his voice, and Takemichi's heart sinks at the sight.

"Huh?" Had he messed up? Did Kazutora have enough..would he be leaving like Kisaki–

"Stop lying to me," the other exasperated, voice rather calm, but stern nonetheless. "Stop lying–"

"–I'm not!" Takemichi yells, face burning with the shame of being caught. "I'm not lying."

He was. All he did was lie. But he had told Kazutora he hated Dorayaki, didn't he? He had been honest.

"You do! You think I don't notice, but I do!" Kazutora insists, curling his fists slightly and Takemichi flinches inwardly. "I–"

"I'm…I'm not…I–" Takemichi tries, only to find his argument fall weak, leaving him staring at the floor before them.

There is a moment of silence between the two before Kazutora takes in a breath he didn't know he was holding. "Okay."

"Okay?" Takemichi raises his head to look up, a little surprised that Kazutora was giving up so easily.

Kazutora smiles, letting out a deep sigh. It sounds a little tired, a little defeated, and Takemichi wonders if he is the cause of it. " Okay. I'll trust you."

Takemichi stares, a little dazed, a heavy feeling settling within his chest, a strange realization washing over him. Because Kazutora is willing to trust him, despite his lies and half-hearted truths, and yet…yet Takemichi wasn't able to do the same. Wasn't able to give back what he was given.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, when Kazutora has gone to throw the trash outside, too cowardly to admit his weakness in front of him.

He would try harder. He would.

"We got into a fight," Takemichi whispers, when the night has long settled in, and Kazutora is dead asleep beside him. The living room is dark, and Takemichi thinks it's good they vacuumed the carpet before deciding to collapse there and then.

There is no response from Kazutora, and Takemichi bites his lip.

It was tiring work, and had it been Takemichi alone, he may have never gotten it done. But he's done a lot. A lot more than he had ever done before.

And still, he felt it was not enough. So merged with his own selfishness, he couldn't even recognise it anymore. He'd called Kazutora selfish once, for using Takemichi's as a replacement for Shinichiro, but he learned. Kazutora learned.

Takemichi doesn't.

"Kisaki–I told him I hated him and I meant every word."

He repeats his mistakes over and over again.

"I think I hate Mikey too, and I try to tell myself I don't. That he's not the same person...but I…I don't think I'm that strong."

He never learns.

Kisaki doesn't return, and Takemichi tells himself he doesn't care.

DING–

DING. DING. DING. DING–

A part of him, a small selfish part, wonders if it is Kisaki, the doorbell urgent and continuous without break conveying a hint of impatience.

But Kisaki had already found another way into his house, not wanting to go through the same humiliation of waiting for a door that may never open. For Takemichi had a habit of ignoring things around him, of curling up and shutting everyone out. Kisaki knew that…this was not Kisaki.

"Ah! That…that should be them," Kazutora says, scratching his head in an aloof manner. He looks nervous. A little guilty. "I should go…get the door!"

Takemichi follows, steps short and hesitant. Everything was into place. The apartment was decent. They looked somewhat put together, and things appeared…for all parts, okay.

DING. DING. DING. DING–

There are a few muffled shouts from beyond the door, partly what sounded like a smack before the doorbells came to a halt. He wonders if it was Draken, trying to get Mikey to stop acting like a child.

Takemichi thinks he was prepared, for the most part. Had practiced his posture, and voice. Spent hours trying to fix his hair, crafting an appearance of normality . Yet…his heart clenches, eyes widening, as the door opens. He sucks in a sharp breath.

Mikey.

Glowing and standing tall in all his glory. All his misfortune.

And he looks… happy. Beautiful in the way he smiles, a casual radiance from within. The way he appears at ease, surrounded by all those he had once lost. All those he had pushed away, destroyed, killed, murdered–

It's unfair.

"Sorry for the abrupt intrusion, you are?" Takemichi blinks, looking up to meet Mitsuya. His hair is longer than he remembered, similar to the way it was back when… when Draken–

"I'm..uh..Kazutora's friend!" Takemichi stutters, bowing slightly.

"What's your name?"

"Take...Takemichi Hanegaki."

"Ah, the kid Kisaki was talking about. Takemitchy!" Mikey pipes in, grinning. He's nothing like the Mikey Takemichi has spent hours spiralling over. No…this one was brighter. Softer. Kinder. Yet…yet he can't shake off this bitter taste in his mouth.

It's foul.

Takemichi shakes his head. "No. It's Takemichi. Not mitchy." Because he's not Mitchy anymore. That was a man lost and the part of him that had been buried and left behind.

"Oi!" The voice is deep, and with a light hint of anger. But it's Draken. The man is always irritated, even in this timeline. "If Mikey says it's Takemitchy, then it's Takemitchy."

Takemichi feels the corner of his lips lift the slightest, unable to keep himself from smiling. It seemed some things, although long forgotten, never changed.

It's strange. The way everyone barges into his life – uninvited, unwanted– like they somehow belong.

They don't, and Takemichi's apartment was a rather small place, and quite frankly, so many individuals within his house felt…crowded. Overwhelming.

He recognised them. Baji, with his hair wild and looking one step away from punching the living daylights out of him. However, there was no Chifuyu in sight. Apparently–he wasn't able to take a day off from his pet shop and Takemichi feels a little relieved.

It is one thing to see Baji, a man he had failed, but never truly known. And another to meet his partner, the one who has promised to remain by his side forever.

Baji, Mikey, Mitsuyu, and Draken…and of course Kazutora, who had taken to sitting on the seat next to him. Four people is too many. Had there been another, Takemichi doesn't think he would've had enough seats to accommodate them all seeing that the dining table was one chair too short.

He can only hope another doesn't disappear before them. That would be a low blow, even for the universe.

They had brought food from a small restaurant just down the road. Takemichi had been there a couple times, himself, back when he would go out with Hina and the Mizo gang. Six large boxes of take out, one in front of all of them.

The conversation starts off simple enough, mainly with Baji demanding to know when and how Kazutora had met.

"How did you meet each other?" Baji sneers, eyelids low, and voice deep with an unhidden rage.

"It was his birthday!" Kazutora chimes in, before receiving a small smack to the head by Draken, scolding him that he wasn't the one being asked. That was a question for Takemichi to answer.

"I…I was waiting for my mom at the train station. She got held up at work," he starts, words filled with half-lies and truths. "I fell asleep while I was waiting and when I woke up, I saw…kazutora sitting next to..me…and I guess…I guess we just ate cake together."

The whole story itself is pretty uneventful, perhaps slightly cliche. A romcom in the making. Two broken souls meeting under a dim street light only to share cake.

Mikey…Mikey doesn't talk to him. Not much. Rather, he stares, a puppy-eyed look, trying to make sense of what Takemichi was. A threat. A friend. Perhaps a stranger.

Somewhere along the way, Mikey must've found him boring, having taken to forcing Draken into place a flag on top of their food before they begin. It's childish, but Takemichi should know better than to fall for such a facade again.

It's an imitation.

The whole situation itself is unnerving, because they don't belong, or rather… Takemichi doesn't belong, and Takemichi wonders if he is the only one capable of seeing it. To feel this air of awkwardness, this distance between them. Takemichi knew them. He's seen their worst self. The part that gnaws at itself, corrupts and aches. Seeing the part of them that hurts, wails out like a child begging for help (sometimes he forgets they were children). He's seen it all, they haven't.

Yet, they eat without care, passing nonchalant chatter that Takemichi can't seem to find himself listening to. Laughing at jokes he was no longer part of.

This is what he had wanted, hadn't he? To be sitting at the table, with not a seat empty.

This is what he had wanted, craved for–so why did it not feel real? His vision passing by like a video. A rancid old film playing on repeat.

Takemichi looks down at his own plate. It was overflowing with food, full and turning cold with every passing moment. He poked a small piece of meat, pressing the tender thing up against his tongue. It was salty, small bursts of lemon spreading across his taste buds.

He chews slowly, trying to savor the taste. Perhaps, if he focuses on the food, he could ignore all that is around him, The food tastes good.

And it made Takemichi want more.

It feels wrong, rather he knows it's wrong. To be sitting quietly around his table, now polished and clean, endless piles of snacks, drinks and foot littering the top. All the seats were full, their owners laughing away without a care in the world. Naive. Aloof.

He looks back down at his plate, avoiding eye contact and trying his best to make himself as small as possible. To hide and disappear.

He twirls his fork around, debating on whether he should take the next bite. Whether he deserved it's warmth.

'Don't ruin the mood. Don't ruin it.' He forces another piece into his mouth. The flavor is no different than before, but this time, it makes Takemichi gag, feeling the need to spit the repulsive thing from his mouth. It was disgusting and Takemichi was so fucking selfish.

He is distinctly aware of Kazutora fussing over him, passing him a glass of water than he downs without so much a second thought.

He smiles, swallowing another bite, feeling the flesh slide down his throat and into his stomach. It scrapes against his throat, feeling heavy and leaving marks. He swallows another gulp of water, hoping to wash away the oil, and smiles once again. Laughing at a joke he didn't quite hear. Trying his best to play along with the conversation, someone patting him in the back, and he feels his stomach knot. A heavy weight in his stomach.

He feels invisible.

Sitting on the chair, just watching...and watching and…and he was eating. Chifuyu's quiet sobs ringing in his ears as the boy cradled Baji's bleeding body .

A bite.

A blood-curdling scream echoes in the hallway. He wonders who it is. How many he has heard with the same fear. The same desperation to live, to be free of pain. He feels his fingers tremble, as he slices through the meat once again, trying his best to ignore the chaos within his head.

A bite.

Takemichi chews slowly, feeling the food slide down his throat. Slipping past his tongue, falling into the pit of his stomach. It's vulgar.

A bite.

He wants to throw up, instead he washes the food down with another gulp of water. Mikey and Draken are eating without care and he's…he's eating too. He doesn't want to, but Takemichi forces his hand either way, stuffing another spoonful into his mouth. He's trying. He's trying. He's trying–

A bite.

Takemichi closes his eyes, trying to calm the feeble thing in his chest. It betrays him. Thunders and aches, threatening to rip out from his chest for everyone to see. For everyone to glower at.

He wonders if they can hear it–the rhythm of his heart, drumming like the engine of the bike he knows all too well. If they can hear the painted screeches and silent whimpers playing like a loop within his head. Screams of betrayal. Of loss. Of death.

A bite.

From the corner of his eye, he can see them getting up one by one, plates empty and the cutlery clattering. Takemichi wants to follow, but his plate isn't empty yet. He needs to catch up. Needs to hurry. Needs to be finished or they would leave him behind.

'Don't leave me. Wait..don't leave. Don't…please. Please–'

A bite.

He doesn't dare look up. He hadn't finished, and he's eating again. The meat tastes like Emma's screams. The water, salty as the tears of children (Mikey), he's seen break down, as their sisters and brothers are torn away from them.

He's failed them.

A bite.

He swipes a tongue over his lips, licking away the saltiness of his own tears. He's started crying again. How pathetic.

A bite, and another and another and another–

Takemichi feels a sense of pride, looking down at the empty plate before, reflecting his soul like a mirror. White, and empty. His stomach feels horribly stuffed, threatening to spill, turning itself inside out. He shifts his eyes to the side, just across the window balcony, a figure standing by the edge. It's Mikey. White, pale hair. Bones protruding through his thin clothing. A wide, broken grin spreads across his face and words forming to hear words.

'C'mon everybody, let's do this!'

The figure spreads its arms wide, and tips.

Takemichi gasps, shutting his eyes, and looking away from the balcony. 'It's not real. It's not real,' he reminds himself, clenching his hands tight under the table, nails digging. 'Mikey is alive. They are all alive.'

When he opens his eyes again, the blaring white of his plate staring back at him. His lips tug up the slightest, proud at having completed his meal and Takemichi looks up at to meet the rest of the table.

Empty.

There is no one before him. The chairs are pushed back, each empty, with the sink full of used dishes. In the distance, Takemichi can hear them shuffling to put their shoes back on. They are leaving.

He starts to cry.

Notes:

New chapter! I tried to do something new with this chapter, using a simple activity as eating and mingling it with his trauma and flashbacks in order to show his PTSD, and I really hope it worked!

Either way I hope you guys enjoyed the chapter! I understand if this chapter is confusing, so don't hesitate to ask me any questions. I will try to clarify to the best of my ability.

Thank you for everyone reading this story! I really appreciate it! Let me know what you guys think in the comments!

Chapter 9: The weight of us.

Summary:

Takemichi finds home, and it is not in the form of a Dorayaki stand.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

He can hear the sound of his heartbeat.

It's a small, fleeting thing, yet it thunders and flaps its wings with a vigor he has only seen in Hina. Desperate and aching.

He needs it to stop. To allow him a moment of stillness in the chaos that was within his mind. He can't recognise the strangers he had just shared a meal with. Can't seem to find what he had once known within them, and if he does…he thinks it's better to not recognise it.

Death is a quiet thing. Takemichi knows this well…has died too many times to count, seen death be bloody, gorey, but it always ends in silence. Perhaps that is why he knows he is not dying, rather in a constant misery. Stuck in the loop of memories his mind had created for him.

The door shuts, and Takemichi finally lets out a sob, pulling his knees up to his chest as he tries to muffle his cries with his hand.

His soul bleeds through his eyes, words choked behind the flesh of his palm, lungs struggling to take in their next breath. He isn't quite aware of what is happening, but there are hands on his cheeks, pulling his hands away from his face.

"Breathe," he hears, the voice low and soothing, and all Takemichi can manage is another muffled cry.

It hurts, he wants to say. It hurts so much.

He wraps his hands tight around the figure, digging his nails into the jacket behind his back and trying to hide into their shoulder. "Please," Takemichi begs, words jumbled and mixed together in a string of incoherent phrases. "Don't l..leave…don't leave. Please, please."

"It's okay, I'm right here. I'm right here."

"I'm sorry," Takemichi whispers into his neck, when all is finally quiet and calm. An air of stillness around them. He feels drained.

"For what?"

"Everything really…but I…I was a mess in front of your friends."

Kazutora scoffs, arms still tight around him, relentless in their grip and not letting go. "You say it like they aren't your friends."

"They aren't though," he mutters into Kazutora's shoulder, a bitter taste on his tongue. "I don't know them, well…not completely, but they…they look so similar. And I can't…I can't stop thinking about it. There was a distance between us, and I didn't know how to not notice it."

"Was it the same with me?" Kazutora asks. "Being similar and all–"

"I..." he pauses, not quite sure how to phrase his words. "We never really got to know each other."

"Well, that's a shame."

Takemichi looks up, a little confused. "Huh?"

Kazutora only smiles at him, and it's warm in a way Mikey's never was. Genuine and real. "It's a shame I never got to meet you earlier. In our last time-lines. This might sound a little selfish, but I wish we could've gone to that dorayaki stand together in those timelines too, tragic or not–I think…I think it would've been a nice memory."

Takemichi pulls back, a little taken aback at Kazutora's words. "But…but you wouldn't remember them now even if we had."

"You would though," Kazutora counters, a sheepish grin painting his lips and he looks…embarrassed. "I wish I could've left you with some kind memories too. I'm sure the others have…I guess I'm just a little jealous really–"

"No," he exasperated.

Kazutora takes a step back, looking down, a look of hurt flashing over his eyes. "Oh…sorry, I assumed–"

"–no!" Takemichi cuts in, waving his hands in a frenzy, feeling the need to explain himself. "It's not that I don't like going to get dorayaki with you, as shitty as it tastes…I just…those memories would hurt if I was the only one carrying them. It gets lonely."

He whispers the last words, as though they were some secret he had been hiding. But he thinks Kazutora understands – alienated from his friend group, carrying shame and guilt of an unintentional murder. Loneliness…is not an individual thing, it's universal–yet, they suffer through it alone. An understanding over their own pain that no one else could have.

"Every time I look at Mikey, all I see is the blood on his hands–mine, yours…his own." Takemichi continues, wondering how much he is allowed to say. How much he can trust Kazutora with. "I see Baji, and all I know is my failure. I see Draken, and see all the ways I let him down. Those memories, they are nothing to be jealous about."

Kazutora is quiet for a moment, eyes softening .

"I think..life is like that. A bundle of good and bad things. You can't have one without the other. It works full circle, don't you see?" Kazutora asks, his voice calm and confident, like he is sure of himself. "The good things don't soften the bad things…but the bad things don't cancel out the good either. They don't make them not count."

Takemichi isn't quite sure how to reply.

"Yes, you have suffered, as we all have–but…you can't wallow away in that misery. You can't let it consume you. They may have forgotten you, but you have forgotten what makes them them. You remember the hurt, but you can't remember the reason why you wanted to save them in the first place. You've spent so long trying to understand your pain, you have forgotten what had once brought you joy."

"I–I don't know how…"

"If you can't find a new memory to cherish yet, let that dorayaki stand in the park be your new reason to continue. Until you can find another."

"I hate Dorayaki."

"I guess we both have something in common then."

"I didn't take you for such a sap."

"I am not!"

"Life is like…a bundle of good and bad things–" Takemichi repeats, exaggerated with his words, exaggerating the vowels as though he was presenting a great speech.

"Stop–"

"Don't worry, I think it's cute!" Takemichi grins.

"I really fucking hate you–"

"Love you too!"

Despite what Kazutora had told him – all about life being a mixture of good and bad. The way it doesn't discredit the other, but rather work are two separate entities.

It is wistful thinking, and even though the perception of it changes, there is a truth about the past – it can never truly be changed. It lingers, like the smoke of a burnt out candle. The memories never truly fade, not like Takemichi. Well…Takemichi wasn't exactly a memory, was he? Rather he was more of a record book, a storage of lives never remembered. A collection of horrors and beauty all folded and filed away inside his mind.

He is…a quiet life–a silent memory. Solemn in its tranquility.

"Uhm…Mikey and Draken–we are all going to hang out later. Do you want to come with me?" Kazutora looks nervous, fidgeting with his words, and Takemichi can't quite understand why.

He asks, unlike Kisaki ever had thought to. Don't pressure him like Mikey. He asks, and perhaps that was a low fucking standard to have, Takemichi was grateful for it.

'The good things don't soften the bad things…'

"Yeah, I'll join you."

'..but the bad things don't cancel out the good either. They don't make them not count.'

And Kazutora smiles, a small sincere thing–and it lights up the room–warm like the summer sun. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," he repeats.

'I wish I could've left you with some kind memories too.'

He had called it selfish, to leave behind memories for another to bear. The weight of it–it's suffocating. Is it hypocritical of him to want to leave some of that behind for Kazutora as well?

If Takemichi was disappearing, then…perhaps he could leave a part of him within Kazutora. A piece of his memory–kind and warm to be remembered with.

To let him know that Takemichi was more than his trauma. That Takemichi knew joy, knew love, knew happiness. He could leave Kazutora with kind memories, to be cherished–not mourned.

And Takemichi could live (if not with his body) as a memory.

Mikey refusing to acknowledge his presence is to be expected. It's simply the way Mikey has always worked – only speaking to those who have piqued his interest, and for now, Takemichi is nothing but a nervous wreck of a boy that had taken Kazutora in.

Takemichi handles it better this time, the weight of what they once were but a mere ache–a bitter reminder of sorts.

Takemichi and Mikey. They have been many things. Friends. Brothers. Enemies. Perhaps it is time to be strangers.

And there is nothing wrong with that. Not really...it was like returning back to the beginning, to his first life, when he had known no one except for himself and his self-pity.

"Yo! Takemichy!" Draken pats his back, casually–carefree. Draken, as intimidating as he is, has always been a kind man. "You joining us?"

He nods. "Kazutora invited me."

The man simply ruffles his hair before moving on to meet up with Mikey, who is simply leaning back against the arcade machines, munching on a familiar fish-shaped snack.

It feels a little odd to be 18 and playing in an arcade with people who were once dead. All of it, is a little surreal.

Kazutora drags him by his hand to different machines and games, clinging and sticking to his side. For a moment, Takemichi wonders if Kazutora is simply trying to keep him company, to help him avoid any awkward interactions, but he takes a step back, straightens and lowers his gaze whenever Mikey comes into view. He's avoiding Mikey, and Takemichi doesn't know why.

Mikey, for the most part, looks happy. Grinning and whining wherever 'Kenchin' doesn't let him win. Eyes gleaming with every prize he wins.

Why Kazutora looks afraid – Takemichi doesn't know. Maybe it's guilt eating away, Mikey's face a reminder of what Kazutora had done.

"Man, Takemichi, you suck," Kazutora slumps back against the seat, the toy gun hanging simply by his side.

It's a simple game really, shoot the zombies and gain the point. Yet, as he holds the gun forward, his hands tremble, the trigger heavy against his finger.

"I don't suck," he grumbles, when the screen turns back to show that once again, Takemichi has lost. "You're just cheating."

"Nah, he's just good at these things." Takemichi gasps as the toy-gun is pulled out from his grasp. Mikey. And as if on cue, Kazutora flinches. "Killing and all – Kazutora has always been good at it, ever since he was a child."

"What?" Takemichi asks, staring wide-eyed at Mikey before him, shocked at the implications of those words.

The words – they are deliberate in their making and cruel. So cruel.

"Ah–we are childhood friends," Mikey continues, a cruel smile grazing his lips. "Kazutora has just always been good at arcade games."

He turns to look at Kazutora who is looking down at his hands–afraid, guilty, hurt. Takemichi doesn't understand the cruelty. The need to dig deep into his trauma and pull it out to judge and sneer at.

"Can't be better than you," Takemichi retorts, a little shocked at his own anger and confidence. Mikey had always been good with a gun. "I saw you playing with Draken earlier."

Mikey doesn't reply back. Takemichi doesn't expect him to.

"Does he always treat you like that?" Takemichi asks once they are alone.

Kazutora only shrugs. He looks tired, but not angry. Not bitter. Despite Mikey's cruel words–a constant reminder of the crime Kazutora has committed.

"He has every right to."

He doesn't.

Takemichi has never really had an inkling for violence, yet he feels his hands curl into tight fists. He wonders if he punches Mikey now, just how bad its repercussions would be.

They don't talk–Mikey and Takemichi. Despite sitting at the table alone, waiting for Kazutora and Draken to order, there is not a word spoken between them.

The blond simply opts for scrolling through his phone back hunched over lazily as though waiting is a chore, and Takemichi stares – trying to understand, to make sense of the hatred that Mikey seems to cling onto in every timeline.

The anger he refuses to let go of. Anger is destructive and Mikey…Mikey has always been a bit like a ticking bomb, hasn't he? Wearing a childish mask while his heart rots and burns with rage.

Takemichi thinks he should've noticed it earlier. Perhaps at the first dinner they had together, the same one he was too busy self-pitying over to notice the bitterness around him.

Takemichi is a good liar, the same way Mikey has always been–fooling all those around them, but it's the eyes. His eyes always give him away, the dark gloomy stare. Takemichi would know, he had once died staring into them.

"You're starin g–if you have something to say, spit it out. You've been gawking at me all evening," Mikey drawls, hand flailing around dramatically, looking a little annoyed.

"Even after everything." Takemichi finds himself whispering. He should stay quiet, probably keep his mouth shut, but he finds the words leaving his mouth before he is able to think twice about them. "You're still just as bitter."

"Huh?" Mikey blinks, confused.

"You're so full of hate. You...you tear your sadness, your grief," Takemichi continues. "You treat it with pure violence. But violence only destroys. When will you realize you are only creating your own tragedy?"

Mikey frowns, eyebrows furrowed together. "I haven't said a single word–"

"Isn't silence an act of violence too?"

He doesn't know why Mikey feigns ignorance. It was clear who Takemichi was talking about. Kazutora. The same boy Mikey had taken to ignoring, only to spit backhanded comments at, words laced with venom.

"Shut up–" Mikey slams his fist against the table, and really...it's not as scary as he had thought it would be. This… this was tame. Takemichi had seen worse, feared worse.

"If you hate him so much, why did you take him in?" Takemichi asks, because this was nothing more than bullying. Toman…no– Mikey, was supposed to be above all that. To build a new era of delinquents–free of hate.

"He's my responsibility."

"And yet you treat him as if he is your shame."

"You know what he is?" Mikey sneers, eyes ablaze. "What he has done?"

"No more a killer than you are." He should probably stop now–he's forgetting…this Mikey isn't a killer. Not yet.

"What?"

"He was a child," Takemichi smiles, ignoring Mikey's previous question. "Just as you were. He is not who he was a decade ago, the same way you are not who you will be a decade in the future."

"You know. You know and you still let him into your house– a murder ."

"A child," he corrects.

"You have no right to lecture me."

Takemichi scoffs, chuckling slightly at the irony of Mikey's words. "You'd be surprised."

There is no response, and this would probably be a good time to stop. Mikey doesn't know Takemichi (not like Takemichi knows him).

"Let me clear," Takemichi continues. He supposed the time to stop had already long passed. "I'm not saying you should forgive him. All I am asking is that you not treat him as your enemy. He is hurting himself more than you ever could…you don't think that is punishment enough?"

"Don't speak to me as if we are friends." It's a warning, but Takemichi has never really been good with warnings.

"Don't you get tired of being so angry? Being a delinquent and still clinging onto petty things like hate…it's all a bit lame, don't you think?"

Mikey frowns, eyes as dull and dark as they have always been. He doesn't respond to Takemichi's question before turning to leave the table and Takemichi wonders if this conversation will turn them into enemies in this timeline.

He supposes it doesn't quite matter. Hatred takes time to fester–to develop. Takemichi would be long gone before then.

"What did you say to him?!" Kazutora exasperates once he returns–two trays in hand and no Draken by his side. Mikey must've dragged him away.

Takemichi winces. "We just had a conversation, he's just being a big baby because he knows I'm right."

"I–"

"–don't worry," he interrupts. "It wasn't about you."

Takemichi was getting a little too comfortable with lying.

"You want to get Dorayaki on the way home? From the park?"

Kazutora scoffs. "You mean the same thing we both hate."

"Let's get the worst fucking flavour this time."

"Why?" he exasperated.

Takemichi grins. "Aren't you the one who was getting all sappy and wanted to make nice memories together?"

Kazutora only throws his hands into the air and rolls his eyes. "We can do that without Mikey's obsession in every single one of them."

They never quite end up getting that dorayaki.

The park is quiet in the evening and today, there is no stall in sight–apparently the vendor had shut it down, moving to another place that was busier for revenue.

'..let that dorayaki stand in the park be your new reason..'

Now, there was no doriyaki stand for him to hold onto and strangely enough, Takemichi doesn't feel as disappointed as he had thought. It's as though, the stand had never truly mattered.

He thinks he should feel upset, just something at the loss of his reason to go outside and try. Yet, he feels nothing and he finds he doesn't really care.

"Eh–we'll just get something else. I heard there is a really good ramen shop open just around the corner…" Kazutora rambles. He grabs Takemichi's hand, pulling him forward to walk alongside him.

Kazutora is talking and Takemichi finds himself not quite listening to his words.

He feels dazed, at awe in the way the park light reflects off his eyes–warm and alive like molten gold–painted with the most beautiful of pallets, and suddenly…suddenly life feels precious. Magical.

'He's beautiful.'

If any moment had anchored to his soul, Takemichi thinks this might be it. A dump of emotions–slowly and all of once–his neurons firing like a firework display of memories, all coming together to tether to reality in this single moment. Long and short-term.

Everything slows, time collapses into a tiny speck and bursts into infinity.

The world stops, and if there is a home, Takemichi thinks this might be it.

Notes:

weruhfhiw I'm back! I'm sorry if this chapter is short, I just...I wanted to give Takemichi a few happy moments. The last scene was more Takemichi realizing his 'reason to continue' is not that doriyaki stand, but rather Kazutora who had been next to him the entire time.

Also...it's a bit of like a realization of love, I guess?

Either way, I hope you guys enjoyed it!

Also, for anyone who has watched Arcane, I'm also writing an arcane fic! This is shameless self promo but give it a read if you want?

/works/36648562/chapters/91415671

Summary:
"True Power," Mel tells him – whispers as though she is telling a secret. "True power is pure. It is creation. To hold the ability to envision, the desire to create. I can see your heart in the edges of your eyes and you…you were made for this."

And Jayce, blinded by his naivety, believes her. He knows to exist, only when he is wanted.

(Or where, Jayce, in the pursuit for power, finds himself rejecting it and Viktor...Viktor craves it.)

Chapter 10: Regret

Summary:

Kisaki grows a heart.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

There is something strange growing within him. It trembles and shakes, pulling him to places he had never thought twice about going to. Creating emotions he did not know he was capable of – guilt, pain… regret. Twisting his soul and pulling it apart at its seams until it is bare and open, the mask chipping away.

He wonders if it is a heart that he is growing.

'I hate you. I really fucking hate you.'

But Kisaki already knew that.

It was not a secret. He had seen a rage and anger in Takemichi's tears, a fire that reflected his own. His words carried a bitterness to all the hurt Kisaki had caused. All the people he had killed. All the friends and families he had torn apart, taken away–selfish and longing.

Being hated is easy.

'It's you,' his father snarls. 'It's always been you.'

Heavy hands wrap around his neck, and his father seethes, his eyes ablaze. Kisaki sees himself in the flames and burns.

Kisaki's life was never a wanted one, so he learns to cherish it himself. Consoles his misfortune with his own narcissism. He learns it doesn't take long to break a human heart, and Kisaki, whose chest was a hollow and empty thing – thought himself to be unbreakable – for what did not exist, could not be broken.

Today however, he aches.

His chest hurts, and there is a pounding in his head–fingers trembling as he makes his way away from Takemichi's apartment, his feet on pilot, wandering aimlessly.

Is this how Takemichi had felt? Lost and alone – forgotten by those who had swore to remember him forever.

Betrayed by the one who had promised to protect him.

Kisaki and Takemichi. They weren't the same, and yet, Kisaki finds himself standing in his shoes, bitter and angry. At his own actions, at Mikey's, Hina for forgetting Takemichi after all the promises. All the sweet words. All the rejection.

It wasn't fair. And meanwhile Takemichi lay cooped away in that stupid apartment of his, withering away, accepting the fate he had been bound to without so much of a fight. This…this wasn't Takemichi. This wasn't the same man he was fighting, wasn't the one he hated (he thinks he hates this one more, if that was even possible.)

He hates this feeling of helplessness, because he doesn't understand.

The lack of care for one's life. Kisaki can't comprehend such a concept, because dead is dead, but living is still something.

He had tried this time. Truly. Wanted for Takemichi to live, to exist for the sole reason of existing. To thrive as he has done before. To fight, scream in vigor, ache in desperation. Kisaki wants to see that fire burning in his heart again. Wanted to feel its burn.

Instead, he was met with a look of apathy, a soul so bruised, the hurt seeped through his eyes and had made its way into his own chest.

To feel the pain of another–empathy. Kisaki hadn't felt capable of such an emotion. He feels like a mimic, a mirror, a reflection of Takemichi's soul, cracking and crumbling.

Kisaki regrets – and it leaves him feeling bitter inside.

Kisaki thinks to apologize. He buys another lamp to match the previous one he had given Takemichi–but the act in itself feels shallow.

He feels angry. At himself. At Takemichi. Everyone really, but then again, Kisaki has always been angry. Anger was a part of him, keeping him blind to the suffering of others, aware of his own hurt more than he could understand that of another.

He wished…he wished he wasn't so angry all the time.

'I hate you.'

Kisaki stares at his reflection in the mirror and wonders what there is to love.

"Why do you hang out with me?" he asks Hanma, who loiters around him, even when he is not wanted nor needed. There is no war around them, no fight to be planned, no lives to ruin…really–there is no reason for them to be meeting.

"We are friends," Hanma says, as if it is the simplest question in the world.

"Friends," he repeats dumbly. A little shell-shocked.

Kisaki doesn't quite believe him. His 'self' is not a good person–not someone he'd feel proud to call a friend. He wonders if Hanma has any sense of self-preservation, or if Hanma is simply lying.

He hates liars. Perhaps that's why he hates himself so much.

His anger begins to dissaspertate – slowly, but surely, and a flood of sadness fills its absence. He can't tell how long he has spent wallowing in it, or how long it has been since he had been avoiding everyone. He says everyone, but really there aren't many people waiting for him.

Hanma, perhaps–an adrenaline junkie looking for his next high. He calls…texts him everyday with stupid texts and stupid images. Sending him pictures of random clouds in the sky he thought was shaped funny. Another of a man he had beat up the other day – for what reason, Kisaki never questions it.

Hanma had called them friends, but really their relationship is no different than an addict's obsession with his escape. It's false, built upon the basis of an indescribable need. An itch of sorts.

Hanma doesn't want Kisaki–it's just a matter of need. Give and take. A transaction.

Kisaki feels pathetic.

It isn't long before Kisaki finds himself back at that damned doorstep. The worn out welcome doormat in front of the door is no longer there, and Kisaki wonders if Takemichi had simply gotten rid of it, or if it had disappeared like all the other things in his apartment.

He waits, the seconds feeling like minutes. His heart pounds in his ears, his palms sweaty and aching at the weight of the plant in his hand.

The door opens with a soft click, and he is greeted with Takemichi. He looks… better. There is a light in his eyes again, and Kisaki feels a weight lift off his chest. 'He's alive.'

"Kisa–"

Kisaki doesn't quite let him finish, shoving the poor thing in his hand into Takemichi's arms.

"A plant," Takemichi mumbles dumbly, holding the small thing with a strange carefulness.

"It's a gift," Kisaki blutters out, voice rushed and panicked.

"Kisaki, I don't–" Takemichi starts, before pausing for a moment, taking a second to reel in the sight before him. Kisaki must look like a mess for Takemichi of all people to be looking at him with softened eyes and pity. "Do you want to come in? You're more than welco–"

"Fuck, will you…will you ever stop lying," Kisaki breathes out, because he is not welcome. He feels drained, tired of trying to decipher the true meaning behind a liar's words. Either way, this…this wasn't the time…he had come to apologize not belittle. It's not a difficult task and already, Kisaki is failing.

And perhaps failing is all he is good at. All he knows. In this lifetime and all those before. He's become the very creator of his own tragedy.

"I'm sorr–"

"Just…just accept the fucking plant."

Takemichi lets out a small chuckle. It's awkward and strange, their interactions have never been so…so empty. "I'll be honest with you, I'm terrible at taking care of plants."

"Then learn," he retorts, his words carrying a hint of bitterness within them. "If you don't know how to keep something alive, then learn. You tried for Tachibana, what makes this life any less worthy?"

Takemichi doesn't reply, staring and suddenly, Kisaki feels small.

"The succulent," he continues, feeling the need to fill in the silence with something. "It's name is Mitchy. Don't let it die."

"You named him after me?" the other frowns.

"You said you didn't care about your own life. I thought…I thought perhaps, if you started small, learned to value the life of a small cacti, you could learn to care for your own as well." His words feel foreign, not used to hearing such softness from his own voice. But he's tired of being so bitter all the time, and now…all he finds is an endless hurt. A deep sorrow. "Have you ever considered that perhaps what is happening is simply your own will."

Takemichi scoffs, scratching his head sheepishly. "I think you have the wrong idea, Kisaki. I don't want to die."

"But you don't want to live either."

Takemichi falls silent, a frown painting his lips. They stand there for a while, facing one another with a vulnerability neither knew they were capable of. Two souls staring at the darkest, deepest, ugliest parts of each other.

"I–" Takemichi's voice fills the emptiness again, and as ugly as it is, Kisaki is grateful for it. Kisaki hates the quiet. Born into silence, he had begun to hate it, feeling the need to fill in the emptiness of the walls with words, notes, piano–anything that would put an end to the ringing. "I'll try."

It's all the consolidation Kisaki needs.

He gives the lamp to Hanma, who clings onto it as though it is his lifeline. It's an apology–an unspoken one.

Kisaki doesn't think Hanma knows…but he supposes it doesn't quite matter. This would suffice. And if he sees the lamp in the background of one of those stupid selfies Hanma always sends him, he makes no indication of it.

"Why do you still let me into your house?" Kisaki asks after a while, taking a sip of coffee. He'd brought his own mug this time.

"It's true I don't really like you."

"No shit."

"...but…you were just a child, and you were hurt too."

"What the hell are you on about–"

"–I was the same. I was also your age once too," Takemich cuts in. "Kids who get hurt at home, have the tendency to self-harm."

Kisaki scoffs. "I never–"

"They commit crimes they normally won't do. Even though they know it's wrong. Join the wrong crowd. They hope that if they hurt themselves, it will somehow hurt their family."

"Bullshit."

"When my mom first left, I made my grandma's life a living hell. I cried…all the time. I thought if I cried enough, my mom would come back after seeing how hurt I was. I wanted to be heard. Noticed. Seen." Takemichi turns towards him, and his gaze is soft, as though he is seeing right through him. There are tears in his eyes. "You just wanted to be seen, Kisaki. There is nothing wrong with that. Your feelings weren't wrong, but a crime is still a crime. You have a chance to redo it all. Don't waste it."'

"Does she remember you?"

"Who?"

"Your mother."

Takemichi smiles. "No."

"Mine neither."

"Yo," Mikey waves at his mouth puffed like a chipmunk as stuffs a mouthful of dorayaki. "How have ya been, Saki?"

It's a shitty nickname and Kisaki doesn't quite know why Mikey had called him here. It's odd, and he wonders vaguely in the back of his mind if this is all a trap. "Drop the act. What do you need?"

The smile drops instantaneously, like his words had triggered a switch – a complete change in personality. It leaves him feeling cold all over, because Mikey…Mikey was creepy. In a way, Takemichi could never be.

Mikey was dangerous, meanwhile, Takemichi acted more as a mirror than a weapon.

"You mentioned a Takemichy–"

"Don't recall." Kisaki has done a lot of terrible things, perhaps this once…this once he can respect Takemichi's wishes. Afterall, Takemichi had done the same with him. Had accepted the small Cacti and promised to try. If Takemichi was capable of trying, then Kisaki could keep his mouth shut.

And if it makes Mikey angry, well…Kisaki is no stranger to a good beating.

The blonde only smiles in return, its cold and quite frankly, down right terrifying. "Is that so?"

"Yes."

"I can clearly recall you scrambling, half lucid out of your mind, asking about the whereabouts about Takemichi…Takemichi Hanagaki."

"Hm, strange," Kisaki muses, taking a tentative step backwards. "I can't seem to recall anything."

"Do you think I'm stupid?"

"No." Very much.

Mikey takes a step forwards and Kisaki scrambles backwards twice as much. He knows men like Mikey. They are cruel–play the fool only to use their fists instead of their words.

"You want to ask me about Takemichi. You can beat it out of me if you like," Kisaki raises his chin just the slightest. "But it won't make you remember him. If you've forgotten, you've forgotten…it's not a difficult equation."

"I knew him?" Mikey asks, furrowing his eyebrows as he tries to make sense of what is being told to him.

Three times.' Takemichi says, patting his chest. 'Three times he shot me.'

"You?" Kisaki scoffs, shaking his head. "No…I don't think you ever really tried to get to know him. You didn't really care."

"What do you mean?" Mikey frowns.

"It doesn't quite matter now, does it? What is forgotten, is forgotten." Kisaki pauses for a moment, thinking back to Takemichi's words. "But if you are given another chance to get to know someone. You shouldn't waste it."

It is a miracle that Kisaki walks out of that conversation unscathed.

"Shuji.."

"Yeah?"

"Do you hate me?"

"You? Never."

"I've only ever used you," he confesses.

"You made my life an interesting one," Hanma muses, a solemn look in his eyes–longing. "There is no tragedy in that."

'I'm sorry,' he wants to say. Instead all that comes out is a silent plea. A broken, weak cry. The mask he wears, breaks, piece by piece…and suddenly he feels like a child once again, searching for comfort as his father seethed and his mother cried

The human heart, he concluded, is a painful thing. A source of misery he had always tried to run away from. This time, he won't push away all he is given anymore. He won't hide. He will be honest. He will live, and laugh. He will cry, despite how pathetic it is. Despite how much it reminds him of Takemichi.

This time, he will be better. Less angry. Less bitter.

'You have another chance,' Takemichi had told him. 'Don't waste it.'

The choices he makes. The path he chooses. Kisaki had always believed it would take a lifetime to understand the human heart. In the end, all it took was a single day.

Kisaki doesn't quite know how to love, but he sees Hanma, despite all his failures, standing tall beside him and thinks he can learn.

Notes:

I'm sorry if my writing has been going downhill lately. I'm unable to spend a lot of time infront of the screen due to extreme headaches I have been getting this past month. It limits the amount of time I have been able to spend writing and as such my chapters are shorter and not as well polished.

Either way, I hope you guys enjoyed the chapter! It was basically Kisaki growing a little, and finally feeling regret.

Chapter 11: To live.

Summary:

They start over. Or me writing sappy scenes because I was listening to nostalgic music.

And a lot of this chapter is dialogue 😭😭 pls bare with me

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

"Do you believe in reincarnation?"

"Reincarnation?"

"Yeah," Takemichi continues. The two of them lay side by side in the grass, staring at the night sky above them. The stars glistened in the dark, twinkling as though they had a life of their own. Perhaps it was a sign, a promise of life even when allis shorowned in darkness..A reminder of the warmth in home that can't be found in this endless expanse. "You know…the idea that after we die, we are born again."

"More than once?" Kazutora scoffs. "In this shitty world?"

"I don't know if it is real, but it's not a bad thought. To come back in any form and give continuous to all life. To start all over again." Takemichi muses, whispering. "In a way, it's a bit like time travel, except this time–you start again without all your memories. A second chance to live. To recorrect all your mistakes. To learn and…and love again and I think…I think that's beautiful."

"If you were…to be reincarnated, what would you want to be reborn as?"

Takemichi is quiet for a moment, staring at the night sky, before lifting his hand to point at the brightest star above them. Brighter than all the rest. The one that would inevitably lead them all to daylight. "See that one? The really really bright one. I want to be reborn as that."

"A star?"

"The brightest one," he corrects and he knows it may sound cliche. A simple answer to every romance novel he has ever read, but it wasn't just any star. It was the brightest of them. The one filled with life and wonderment. And he never wants to be forgotten again. Doesn't wish to be smothered away in the dark. "What about you?"

"The star right next to it. That small one right there."

"It's dull," Takemichi says, a little confused, taking note of the tiny speck in the sky. It flickers, fading away for the tiniest moment before returning. Fighting and struggling to stay alive. "And tiny."

"I don't mind. If I am to be reborn, in every lifetime, I hope it is with you by my side."

"Let's go out," Takemichi declares, a wide grin on his face.

"I-uh…yeah," Kazutora stammers, not used to Takemichi being the one to want to go out "Yeah sure…um where do you want to go?"

"Chifuyu."

Kazutora is on his feet in an instant. "You...want to?" he stutters, a little stumped by the sudden request.

Takemichi only nods, finding himself unable to drop the smile on his face. He feels…different. More confident. More certain in his actions. He wouldn't call it bravery–it's only bravery if he was afraid.

And Takemichi wasn't afraid.

He isn't sure why he feels so…so alive. Happiness is fleeting, and Takemichi knows it will be gone as soon as it comes, but it's okay. Happiness may be fleeting, but it is not extinct. And Takemichi will cling to these bursts of euphoria, and crave it into his memories.

"Only if you are completely certain." Kazutora looks serious, eyebrows furrowed in concern. "You don't have to do this because of me. You don't need to feel pressured in an way–"

Takemichi cuts him off. "I'm not doing this for you."

Well, not exactly, but Takemichi thought about their conversation under the starry night, the one where Kazutora had wished to be by his side.

There is no telling if reincarnation is real, and although the thought of it is nice–to be able to do everything again without past burdens and memories–he doesn't want to take the risk that this might be their last life together.

And if it is their last, then Takemichi hopes to be able to make the most of it. To cherish their time together, even if it hurts.

He doesn't want to wait until he is reborn to love again. He doesn't quite think he has the patience for it.

"Don't worry," he reassures. "I just want to see my partner again."

Kazutora's face drops instantaneously. "Your what?" He looks distraught.

"Um…my partner?"

Kazutora takes in a sharp breath, raising a hand to cover his mouth in shock. "You and Chifuyu–"

"Me and Chifuyu," Takemichi repeats dumbly, confused as to why Kazutora looks so betrayed.

"You two were dating?"

"WHAT–" Takemichi bluttered, still trying to reel in what he had just heard. "NO! WHY–WHY WOULD YOU THINK THAT?!"

"You called him your partner."

It sounds like an accusation. Why does it sound like an accusation?

"I'm not dating Chifuyu."

"..."

"I'm not!"

"Chifuyu knew," Takemichi explains on their way to the pet shop.

"The time leaps?"

"Yeah, he was like…my partner through it all. We were there, always, for one another–even when…even when I failed him."

'Draken, because of you–' Chifuyu never finishes the sentence but Takemichi doesn't need him to. Because of him…Draken is dead.

"Even when he was angry, he never…he never left my side. That's why he's my partner, I guess."

"You just found yourself another one," Kazutora reaches over to grab his hand, fingers interlocked as they walk down the sidewalk.

And Takemichi feels dazed all over again, thinking about how warm his hand feels. How their hand seems to perfectly mold into one another, scars and calluses brushing up against his fingertips.

"Huh?"

"I can be your partner too," Kazutora exclaims, his words loud and open for all to hear. He doesn't seem content, confident in his claim. "Wherever you are, whenever you need, just call me. I'll definitely come find you."

'Why are you like this?! Always and always!'

Mikey stares, cold dead eyes, wrists so thin, Takemichi is afraid he will crush them under his hold. His hand slips and Takemichi feels his heart drop.

'Oi Manjiro, just say it once–' he begs, a final plea for the life of a man he can no longer recognise. A man long dead. 'And I will definitely come save you!'

Takemichi stares for a while, finding his reflection in Kazutora's eyes and like flowers under the summer sun, happiness begins to bloom in his chest.

Takemichi has always thought of this timeline as a blank slate, uncertain if it was a second chance or a punishment. Today, he finds it is a gift. An apology from the universe for all the hurt it has caused–for Takemichi has never felt this warm. Never felt so at home.

He tightens his hold on Kazutora's hand.

"Okay," he smiles, "Partner."

They aren't friends.

Even when Chifuyu smiles kindly, warm wrinkles at the edges of his eyes. Even when he waves his hand towards them, as though they have known each other for years, Takemichi knows. He knows they aren't friends.

Yet, he doesn't feel the need to hide nor run away, rather a curiosity to learn. A flutter in his chest compelling him to reach out, to talk and…and start over.

They weren't friends, but he doesn't see why they can't try again.

"Hey uhh…Takemitchy right?" Chifuyu brushes his hands on his apron before leaving over for a handshake.

It's formal, but Takemichi grabs the hand nonetheless. He sucks in a sharp breath, fearing for a moment that the touch will trigger another jump. He waits for that familiar shot of electricity to run up his arm, but there is nothing.

No spark. No magical flash of light. Only this moment in time.

"Takemichi," he corrects him.

This is the last time. This will be their final timeline.

"It's great to finally see you, Takemichi!"

They will never introduce themselves like this again–with disastrous first impressions or awkward small talk. This timeline will hold their final hello's and their final goodbyes.

They may not be partners anymore, but he supposed this memory alone is enough for him to cherish. The one where Chifuyu let out a bright grin–with eyes that knew no loss, no heartbreak and no pain. And Takemichi thinks he would take Chifuyu's happiness over their partnership any day.

Besides—he looks over to see Kazutora trying to wrestle a cat—he is not short of a partner.

Takemichi learns that the cacti Kisaki had given him did not need to be watered every day. He had been confused as to why the tiny thing had begun to wither in less than a week, before Kisaki had to teach him.

'It's dying.'

'It's only been a week!' he hears Kisaki exasperate over the phone.

'It's not my fault! I've been watering it every day.'

'Every–why are you watering it everyday?! It's a cactus you dumb fuck.'

Taking care of a plant is harder than he had thought. It requires precise care–not too much, not too little, and sometimes Takemichi found himself sitting down for hours at night, staring at the poor thing and contemplating such a complicated existence.

He found it was easy to become attached to it, easy to project himself in its life–however small and fragile.

"Is it just me, for does the apartment look emptier than usual?"

Takemichi shrugs. "I've been doing some refurnishing."

From the corner of his eye, he sees Kazutora cringe at the sight of their living room. It was not that the room was messy, rather there seemed to be no structure. No underlying theme to unite all the scattered furniture and make the room feel whole.

"Can we get rid of that tacky lamp?" Kazutora points to the corner of the room, to where he had put Kisaki's stupidly tall lamp.

"I don't know, I kinda like it."

"It looks like some prop from a 90s vampire movie."

"Speaking of tacky vampire movies, you want to watch Twilight?"

"Fuck yeah–"

"I'm team Edward by the way."

Takemichi didn't think he would see Mikey again. Not after their last interaction. Nevertheless, Mikey finds him either way–catching a glimpse of him buying dorayaki at the park near the apartment complex. He found him in every timeline, Takemichi wasn't sure why he thought this one would be any different.

"You know me," the blond states, without wasting time for formalities and small talk. He tilts his had the slightest, stepping closer as though he were trying to figure out what Takemichi was from his looks alone.

To uncover the enigma that he was–the boy who knew of their dark pasts, all the while, they had not even known his name.

Takemichi wonders if it makes Mikey feel defensiveness. Vulnerable. Afterall, information was a form of power, and against Takemichi, he had none. Against Takemichi, he couldn't be invincible.

"I do," Takemichi replies. Mikey hadn't asked a question, so Takemich doesn't quite feel the need to lie. "I did."

"Are you a stalker?"

"I…If I was, I don't think I'd be very good at it."

Mikey nods in response, pursing his lips as though he was understanding where Takemichi was coming from, and the scene is almost comical, child-like…a hint of innocence. "You do look quite weak and I heard you cry like a baby too."

He wonders if Mikey ever really had the chance to grow up–a child at heart despite all the violence. All the bloodshed. Perhaps, he was simply trying to protect himself. Desperate to shield that child-like persona with a veil of resistance and aggression.

Takemichi had always believed he knew Mikey. Understood the type of man he would become, the child he had been. The one who had lost his brothers, his sister, the one who could ultimately bring upon his own demise.

Now, it feels like he is meeting a completely new person.

"Why are you here? I mean…we didn't exactly leave off on the best foot last time."

"I'm trying to understand something." And there is that smile again. That cruel, cold look–the one trying its best to copy the image of a smiling child. Where the smile stretches the wide, from one ear to the next, trying to appear carefree, all the while reeking with venom.

It's almost sad. The mask Mikey tries so desperately to keep up.

"And what do you not understand?"

"You knew about Kazutora," Mikey accuses.

"We are friends, Kazutora and I…it just came up–"

"No" Mikey cuts him off, shaking his head. "He wouldn't. He would never."

He's not wrong, and Takemichi is a little surprised. It's unnerving how well Mikey knows Kazutora despite his deep hatred for him, and he wonders if Mikey hated him at all, or if it was simply another facade. Anger perhaps, regret probably–hatred…he is not sure.

"Before I saw you, Kisaki came to me, asking me about where you were, as though it was something I would know. And suddenly, I find you with Kazutora–knowing things you should have no way about knowing."

When Mikey puts it like that…it does sound rather sketchy. He has every right to be vary, to see Takemichi as a threat.

"I'm not a stalker," Takemichi repeats, feeling a little ashamed at how he may be perceived after this. He takes in a deep breath, thinking about how he should word his response. How he can explain to Mikey that he was, in fact, not a threat. "I knew Kisaki from cram school."

"Oh? And you are…friends?"

Are you collaborators, is what Mikey wants to say, and even Takemichi wouldn't be blind to recognize that this is an interrogation, not a friendly chat. Yet, Takemichi feels his heart pound in his chest, thrumming within his ear drums, and he knows it is not fear.

He had promised to be more honest, and there really isn't a reason to lie anymore. To deceive. Mikey is alive…he does not need saving. Does not need the luxury of a lie.

"I–to be completely honest," Takemichi starts with his heart at the tip of his tongue. "I don't really know."

"What?" Mikey blinks. Once–twice…a little dumbfounded.

"I can't tell if he hates me or if he is just shy. He used to bully me…but he bought a cactus the other day…it's an odd gift, but it was better than the lamp at least." He's rambling, like he had when he was back in middle school. Strings of incoherent words and nonsensical phrases spilling without so much as a filter.

This wasn't fear. This was…excitement.

'I missed you,' Takemichi wants to say. 'I missed you so much.'

This Mikey wouldn't plummet him to the ground for the slightest hesitation. He was cruel, but not unkind. A little self-absorbed and narcissistic, but not callous.

"A…lamp–" Mikey stammers, confused.

"Yeah, it's a really weird gift, I know…but I think he was trying to apologize?"

His heart flutters, a tingling in his fingertips, and he feels his eyes water–overwhelmed with the ache in his chest. Takemichi was angry, yet…he missed this. Despite his anger and his bitterness at all the hurt, he missed talking to Mikey.

"I'm sorry," Takemichi says instead. "I'm rambling."

"You didn't answer my question," Mikey points out again, but this time, his words don't feel as defensive as before.

"I'm not your enemy, Mikey." There is no enemy anymore.

"Then why speak to me like one?"

'I wanted you to scold me, like a big brother would.'

Mikey dies before Takemichi is able to fulfill that final wish.

"A friend once told me that if I ever felt he was losing sense, becoming someone he shouldn't, I should scold him, like his big brother would have. You reminded me of him," Takemichi confesses.

The air around them stills, and for a moment, he thinks he sees Mikeys' eyes wide–a flicker of recognition within them, but it is gone before he is able to make much of it.

"Your friend," Mikey stares, peering deep into his eyes as though he could somehow see through him. "Where is he now?"

'Takemichi…please, help me..'

Mikey's hand slips, and two children die that night, hand in hand.

"Takemichi feels his heart clench.

"He's doing well now. He still gets a little angry at times, and acts like a complete asshole, but he's…he's doing good."

"I know you," Mikey breathes out eyes wide and unblinking. There is a small tremor in his voice, he almost sounds afraid. "How do I know you?"

Takemichi only bows his head, his sight blurring as tears begin to spill, plattering like rain drops against the cement floor. "I'm sorry, I can't–"

"Are you crying?" Mikey exasperates, and somehow, it makes Takemichi cry harder. His chin trembles, eyes scrunched up like a rotten tomato as ugly tears spill without restrain.

"I..I'm sorry..it's just.." he sobs, choking on all the stories he has to tell. All the things he wants to share, but cannot. All the love he wants to share. "You remind me..of him. I'm sorry. I'm sorry–"

He can vaguely hear Mikey fret around him, arms flailing awkwardly, unsure about what to do.

His throat closed on itself, unable to beg for forgiveness for all the times he let Mikey down. For leaving him behind. For letting Draken die.

'Why did you leave, Toman?'

For not scolding him earlier and running away in shame. For not trying. For believing himself to be unimportant.

'I wanted you to stay with me.'

It was such a simple request, and Takemichi had failed all of them. Like a coward, he had run away. 'I'm sorry…I'm sorry–but I tried. Please. Please, I will try again.'

"What a crybaby," Mikey leans forward, and smacks him on the head lightly. "Everyone is staring and it makes me look like a bully. So stop crying."

"No..I just you reminded me–" Takemichi tries to explain, but finds himself lacking the strength to continue the lie. He hurries to wipe his eyes and nose with the sleeve of his jacket.

"I guess," Mikey speaks, softly–carefully. "I guess it doesn't really matter who you are or how you know."

Please, a selfish part within Takemichi begs. Please remember me.

"But I was cruel that day. I'm sorry, Takemichi."

It wasn't Takemichi he was cruel to that day, it was Kazutora. Mikey's supposed to apologize to Kazutora, but Takemichi cannot find it in himself to correct him. It's selfish of him…he knows this, but just once… just this once, he wants to pretend Mikey is apologizing to him.

Just this once.

"Even though I am not that friend, thank you for scolding me."

Takemichi looks up, and sees Mikey smile, and he feels a little foolish. Embarrassed at this show of vulnerability–but perhaps it is their weakness that had brought them close in the first place. To see the worst in one another, before they are able to see the best.

"You helped Kazutora, even though you knew he was a criminal. You helped Toman," Mikey reaches a hand out towards him. "So let's be friends, Takemichy."

Takemichi doesn't understand. Wasn't Mikey here to interrogate him? To pick and prod at him for answers, and instead, all he finds is an invitation.

Had Mikey felt he owed Takemichi for helping someone he considered his 'own.' The burden of a favor–had he felt obligated to take Takemichi under his wing, the same way he had taken Kazutora under him.

But Takemichi had chosen to save Mikey that day, the same way he chose to save Draken and bring Kazutora home. For that, Mikey doesn't owe him anything.

"You don't owe me your friendship," Takemichi finds himself whispering. "You don't owe me anything."

An apology and a thanks perhaps…but that was not something he needed from Mikey from this timeline.

"No, it just…you seemed like a good person." Mikey tries to explain, but it falls short, his hand hanging awkwardly between them. He pouts, a little disappointed at the rejection.

Takemichi wonders if he reminds Mikey of Shinichiro again, but he supposes it does not matter.

"Lets…let's start again." Takemichi reaches his hand out to meet Mikey. "My name is Takemichi Hanegaki, and you?"

"Sano." Mikey grips his hand, and it's warm to the touch. Bright like the setting sun. "Sano Manjiro."

Once, a long time ago, Takemichi had learned to exist only when he was wanted.

Today, he thinks he exists even when he is hated. Even when he is forgotten and no longer needed.

And if the universe does its best to erase him, then he will do his best to live. Without the empty promises and false fronts. He'll fight–if not for others, than for himself. He'll define his worth on his own terms.

Doesn't need Mikey's approval to know they had once been friends. Doesn't need Mitsuya's embroidered uniform to let him know he has tried his damn hardest. Doesn't need Hina's necklace to know he loved her. Doesn't need the scars to prove his dedication and loyalty.

He'll love (both himself and all others), without any strings attached.

Notes:

I'm back! I apologize I am writing this at 3am, and I will probably edit this chapter later, but here is all I have for now! Thank you all for the kind words and patience, I really appreciate it!

Does Mikey seem OC here? I was trying to write him similar to Mikey in the first timeline, when they had first met. Either way, I hope you guys enjoyed the chapter! Let me know what you think in the comments!

I'm probably going to pass out so I will try to edit everything when I wake up 😭😭

Chapter 12: The golden hour

Summary:

Takemichi has an existential crisis. Also, please excuse my long rant about doroyaki, I was feeling emotional.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Trigger warning: Mentions of scars and death. This chapter was basically Takemichi having an existential crisis, because I was having one.

He starts small, a small speck in the wind and then all at once – growing and surrounding all there is around him. All he can find. All he can carve his memory within and bring peace to.

He follows Draken on evening trips to the convenience stores to get Mikey dorayaki. It's an odd practice to Takemichi, because there had been fresh ones you could buy from the park for nearly half the price, and for someone who complains about being short on money–Takemichi didn't understand why Draken insisted on buying from the store.

Apparently, Mikey had a knack for the prepackaged ones. Something about the artificial sweetness and bitter aftertaste made it feel more nostalgic, more at home.

And while he spends these small walks with Draken–asking questions to which he already knew the answers to, he finds learning to become friends once again, was not as fearful as a task as he had originally thought it to be.

He doesn't quite understand why his heart stretches out, seeps out through his chest, his hands, his eyes, slipping past the crevices of his skin. Takemichi finds himself reaching out, desperate, aching to share this overwhelming flow of love.

For the lives of all he has known and for himself.

Yet, he finds love is a painful thing. Much like life itself, it is fleeting–sweet in it's peak, and followed by a bitter aftertaste. Perhaps that is why Mikey preferred the artificial flavor over the original. Perhaps it reminded him of how fleeting sweetness is–too little and it becomes bland, too much and it becomes bitter.

A reminder of how brief this window of happiness is. The golden hour. Those few minutes of beauty before the sun sets. And as all things beautiful, there is an attempt to capture it, to make it last longer. Taking pictures, painting, writing–all in an attempt to make it eternal. Yet…it is never truly the same, never quite as euphoric as living in that moment itself.

Is that why Mikey prefers the artificial ones? The ones that never truly capture doroyaki's true flavor?

Perhaps Mikey believed that if he learns to crave what is merely a replica–then he will stop yearning for what is beautiful?

And isn't Takemichi the same? Why does he love when there is so much potential to lose? When there is beauty he will have to inevitably let go of–so much he would leave behind.

Why love, when he knows it will leave only sorrow behind–a bitter aftertaste.

"So…what is the plan?"

Takemichi blinks. "I wasn't aware there was… a plan."

"You're dying," Kisaki states bluntly, without remorse, without mercy. There are no sweet words to sugarcoat what they were both aware of.

"I…I wouldn't exactly say dying–"

"You are evaporating. Fucking sublimating into the atmosphere, like poof!" Kisaki opens his hands, fingers spread apart in a tiny burst. "We need to keep you…solid, yeah?"

Takemichi nods, eyebrows furrowed with uncertainty. Try, but how? How does he stop time from moving forward? How can he put a stop to such a…a powerful force? One that works outside their hands.

No matter how hard they really try, no matter how smart Kisaki is, time is not something that is in their control. Life and death–both are inevitable as well as fleeting, for to life implies death, and death implies life. You cannot have one without the other. Cannot choose your pick of the litter and assume you can forsake the other.

But Kisaki…Kisaki seems passionate, and for the first time, Takemichi thinks it is to save a life, rather than to take one. And to take away that vitality so soon–it is not something he is quite capable of.

"So… you ready to try?" Kisaki asks, and it is rather out of character. For Kisaki to ask, rather than simply do. It goes with everything Kisaki is–all impulse and pure rage. Cold, calculated, and with no regard for another.

"Yeah," Takemichi responds, smiling weakly. He knows…rather feels within his soul that these plans will not work. Despite this, he will indulge Kisaki for a little while longer. If not to save himself, then to spend some more time with the man he had once called his enemy. "I think so."

"Fucking knew that plant would work."

"I–"

"Not a word Mitchy, not a fucking word."

"...mitchy?"

"Fuck you."

"..."

According to Kisaki's theory, his objects disappearing were simply a consequence of having been forgotten. And therefore–

"–you will exist, but only if they remember the version of you from the previous timelines. Only if they remember you."

"But we told Kazutora what happened," Takemichi counters, not quite sure why he feels so defensive and unnerved about this theory. Not too long ago he had ached to be remembered. Now, he fears being known for the boy he had been before today.

And why does it matter if they know him from a different timeline or not? Who he is, is simply who he is. He isn't Takemichi from the past. He isn't Takemichi from the future. He simply…is.

Is he not Takemichi if he is not a hero? Or if he hasn't sacrificed his life for some greater self righteous cause? Is he not Takemichi–longing to love and to be loved.

"Yes, but he doesn't remember you," Kisaki explains, words impatient and strained.

"He believed us–"

"Trust, and remembering are two very different things."

Takemichi takes a deep breath, trying to keep his thoughts from running wild. "So, you are saying if we make then remember…my things will stop disappearing?"

"You, yes," Kisaki corrects.

"I don't–I still don't understand how this will work…"

"What is remembered, exists."

What an odd phrase.

To define himself based on the value others place on him. Is it their perception of him that defines his true self? Is it their memories? Their emotions create what Takemichi is and will always be?

Kisaki believes Takemichi would find a place in this timeline, only when everyone remembers him…but isn't it his need for acceptance that had made him invisible in this world in the first place? His desperation to belong.

But he finds, only when he is no longer desperate to please others, that he works to please himself. It is only after he has disconnected from all those around him, that he was finally able to focus on finding himself– his own worth.

And even if he defines his life to have no meaning, to be completely and utterly worthless–he still exists.

He still exists.

Kisaki had said they would regroup in a week. Until then, Takemichi was supposed to think of a memory they could recreate–preferably a non-violent one.

"You said Mikey remembered you?"

"Well, not exactly. He was confident he knew me, but didn't really…know me, if that makes sense."

"Was there something you said that rekindled his memory?"

"Yes."

Takemichi had scolded him like a brother.

The hope was that, perhaps by recreating specific scenes, they could perhaps get them to recognise Takemichi. Give them a feeling that this had happened before, almost like Deja Vu.

Yet, as he spends his afternoon alone with his thoughts and mind, he can't quite recall a particular moment. He remembers small spimpses, and phases appearing in flashes of whispers and memories. His mind felt hazy–as though he were walking through a field of fog, getting lost with each turn.

Think. Think. Think.

And he does…or rather, he tries. He remembers meeting Kazutora in that dirty old train station, eating cake under a rather mellow street light. He remembers being angry, so angry any and filled with a rage he thinks could rival Kisaki's–yet…he can't quite comprehend why.

He thinks about the bullet marks riddling his body like stars in a constellation and wonders which ones came from Mikey, and which ones were from Kisaki. He wonders if one belonged to himself.

And the more he tries, the more he finds he cannot recall, can't quite connect his emotions to his memories. As if doors in his mind were being closed and locked away and there is a strange hollowness in his chest–a reminder of something lost.

He felt disconnected, a bit like his entire being was beginning to fall apart, crumbling away–

–chip…

…by chip…

…by chip.

And he wonders if at the end of it all, he would still be himself. If the parts remaining would be enough to define who he is.

"That's a badass scar you got there. Never knew a crybaby like you would get into fights."

"What?"

"Your hand," Baji points.

Takemichi looks down, a little confused at the vertical mark running through alongside the palm of his hand. He turns his hand over, and notices that the scar goes through, appearing on bth sides as thought something had been stabbed through it.

Yet, it feels foreign to him, a mark he doesn't recall leaving. Almost like his own body was now becoming a mystery to him, full of fractrea and holes, each with their own stories. Stories that Takemichi could no longer tell. Where had he gotten this from? He wouldn't forget a wound liek this. He couldn't–

"So where did you get it from?"

Where–

"I don't know," he finds himself whispering, tracing the scar with his finger, trying to make sense of its depth and crevice.

There had once been a photo frame that decorated his night stand. It was white, with an old rusty wooden canvas–or so it had been painted to look that way.

And yet, despite it having been placed close to his bed, where he would fall asleep staring into the image within that frame…he cannot quite recall what had been in the frame itself. Was it always empty?

Did it hold a picture of someone who was important to him?

Did that person remember him?

Takemichi loses a pair of shoes. And as he searches, he realizes he cannot remember what color they were.

"By the way, our mat got stolen," Kazutora tells him while they are eating dinner.

"Mat?"

"Yeah, you know that 'welcome home' one at the front of the door."

"Oh." He hadn't realized they had one in the first place.

There is a moment of silence, and when he looks up, he finds Kazutora staring at him quietly, brows furrowed and a look of concern in those eyes.

Takemichi swallows the anxiety brewing within him and lets out a nervous laugh. "We can always buy a new one."

"Tora, remember when I asked you if you ever wondered what happened in the other timelines?"

"I already told you…you don't need to. You don't owe it to me."

"No…no no–what if I can't," he tries, shaking his head violently, words choking and tied together in a knot in his throat.

"That's okay," he hears Kazutora whisper, but it's not. It's not okay.

"What if I want to. What if I want to tell you everything, every story, every conversation, every fucking moment –but I can't."

Kazutora pauses, staring at him with the same wide eyes, not quite understanding what Takemichi is trying to say. He supposes he cannot quite hold it against Kazutora, even Takemichi himself does not understand.

But there is…there is this feeling. A chilling bone gnawing pool of dread growing within him, and he knows this feeling all too well. One of loss. An inclination that something was amiss, that something was to be lost, and there was nothing he could do to stop it from leaving.

"What if I can't," he repeats, desperate and frantic.

There was nothing he could do.

"Nothing will change," Takemichi finally confesses to Kisaki. "Everything will disappear. Yesterday, I lost my shoes."

He points to his feet, flaunting the sneakers that were two sizes too large. It was one of Kazutora's old pairs. He had taken it without asking–and no…it wasn't stealing, he was simply borrowing them for a short time.

Kisaki only gives him a sort of disgusted look, as though he didn't quite understand how Takemichi had managed to walk through the rain and to the park with shoes that fell off with every step. And though Takemichi would never admit it himself, he had taken them off on his way and only hurriedly put them on, when he saw Kisaki in the distance.

"Stop talking shit, you'll be fine…we just have to get them to rememb–"

"–You remembered though, Kisaki."

"What?"

"You remembered me," he repeats, taking in a deep breath. "If this was just about them forgetting me, then wouldn't your memories be enough to keep me here?"

"You–" Kisaki stutters, eyes wide before they narrow together in anger. He looks betrayed. "You promised me you would try!"

The rain drops in platters around them, and in the silence, it sounds melodic–a rhythm of sorts. Takemichi looks down at the growing, watching the puddles spread in waves around them, ripples spreading from each drop. He smiles softly, feeling his clothes begin to cling to his body. "I don't think it really matters anymore."

Kisaki lets out a laugh, hysterical fits of giggles as he runs a hand over his face and through his hair. "And pray tell, why the fuck not? We…we talked about this, you asshole. We fucking went over this!"

Takemcihi can't tell if he is crying, but his eyes feel warm. Despite it, he tries his best. Puts up a brave front and breathes. Breathes and savors each breath while he can. While he is still able to.

"I'm not running, I just..I'm…I'm forgetting," he breathes out, the words soft and hushed in the pouring rain around them. And he thinks it's a bit ironic, how his words drift away, washed under the current and through the wind.

Kisaki doesn't reply. He stares, and there is…concern in his eyes, and Takemichi feels the need to continue.

"I loved Hina. Everytime I walked to her house, with bruises and broken bones–knowing I'd lost every fight and run away like a coward, she would…she would have this huge smile on her face and tell me she would protect me," he looks down again, and lets the rain wash away his emotions. Let it become his tears. "You joined a gang because you thought if you could protect her, be stronger, she would begin to like you."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"You thought she liked me because I was strong…but really, honestly–I was kind of pathetic…"

"I know."

"I know I loved her, but I can't…I can't even remember what she looks like anymore. I have this…vague image in my head, but she's…she's fading and I..I can't remember," Takemichi sobs, heart heavy with a love that he doesn't know how to give. He has so much to give, and no one to give it to. "I can't remember."

"You…you are just confused," Kisaki quivered. "It happens, loss of memory is normal with PTSD–"

"No..no no this isn't like that, this is…this is– I.." Takemichi shakes his head. "You were wrong..it was never because of them, it was never–"

"Will you just spit it out?!" Had it been a quieter day, perhaps Kisaki's voice would've sounded louder, scarier, more intimidating. But in the rain, it sounds frail. Just as broken as his own, and Takemichi thinks that…perhaps this is as close to friends they have ever been.

"My things disappearing aren't a consequence of others forgetting me. It's me…it's a result of me forgetting them."

Kisaki stumbles a little, eyebrows furrowed and lips curved in a vengeful stare. "No, no you don't know are talking about–"

"That painting that went missing, I have no idea what was on it or where I had even gotten it from. I lost my shoes and I couldn't remember what color they were and I have scars, and I have no idea how they got there or who put them there...I'm…I'm forgetting me."

"Stop!" Kisaki cries out, and in that moment, he sounds a bit like a child. "You can't!"

"I…I don't really have a choice–"

"No we can, we can work around this…I'll explain everything to you once again, everything I fucking know. I'll write it down for you to remember just…just don't.." Don't forget me.

Takemichi isn't quite sure why Kisaki would care so much. Would this not be better? To be unburdened by the hatred of another. To live with the knowledge that he could truly start all over again–erase all his past mistakes.

Live a life without guilt.

Except, even with all the rain around them, he sees tears in his eyes. Puffy red eyes. Takemichi can see himself in their reflection, and he thinks he can understand. This fear.

It's such a simple feeling–one Takemichi knows all too well. The fear of being left being. Of being alone once again.

"I'm sorry," Takemichi finds himself whispering.

"No! No…no stop! We can…we can fix this, so just shut up– shut up–"

"Kisaki. I'm sorry."

He apologizes because it is all he can do to try and stop the tears, the heartbreak, the hurt he sees. Love, Takemichi thinks, is a bit of a curse. All these emotions burst into tiny glimpses of anger and pain. So much pain…and all that for the love of one person.

"SHUT UP!"

He reaches forward to grab Kisaki, but the other pulls away with a weak shove.

"Shut up..just…just fucking–" Kisaki rambles, a string of incoherent curses and weak insults, all in a hope that this is just one big elaborate prank. That Takemichi is simply getting back at him for all the terrible things he's done. "You've had your fucking laugh you can stop now."

"Even though my time is short, for what it is worth, I am grateful."

"Fuck you, I don't need your pity."

"This isn't pity," Takemichi explains, a wide grin on his face, and despite the cold around them, he feels a bit warm. To know he will be mourned–missed. And as selfish as it may sound, he feels oddly at peace. "I am grateful to have met you. Despite our differences in our past, I'm glad…I'm glad we could be friends this once."

"You won't remember–" Kisaki mumbles, voice weak and defeated.

"I will still remember you in this timeline, I will remember you as a friend."

"I hate you," Kisaki bites out, but the words are weak in their resolve.

Their conversations had always been awkward, filled with abnormally long pauses of silence and half-hearted insults, but Takemichi hadn't minded the company, and he thinks, if this is not being friends, he is not sure what else would be.

To come from trying to kill one another, to trying to save each other–he supposes no one else had a greater growth than Kisaki, who had not been given the luxury of a second chance or a clean slate to start over with.

"I suppose at the end of life…we have to let go," he starts, "maybe that's why I'm forgetting. I'm letting go."

"Why you? Why does it have to be you?"

"Why wouldn't it be me?" For a while, Takemichi had questioned his own misfortune, but he had spent so long questioning he never really tried to appreciate all he had been given. "I already got my second chance. Now it's your turn…besides, who knows–I might still be here after all if you know…poof. Maybe it's just my memories of the other timelines that will disappear."

Kisaki doesn't reply. It's unlikely–if all his other things had vanished, then it was unlikely he wouldn't either. They were both aware, but perhaps it is easier to take in what was unspoken. Then, they could fool themselves into pretending they had a chance in the first place. That things were not lost yet.

And perhaps they weren't.

Maybe there really was a small chance he would stay, but he doesn't want to spend his time searching for an answer. With what time he has left, he simply wants to live–as any boy his age would. Foolish, naive, and a little bit in love.

"It's weird, but I can feel my mind deteriorating a little…it's like, my mind is a huge hallway of open doors, and now someone is going through them all, locking each door one by one and I don't have the key," he explains. "Lets…let's make some good memories, Kisaki. Fill in the lost ones with new ones. Besides, I think Kazutora is starting to like you as well."

Kisaki raises an eyebrow. "You want…tigerboy and me to become friends?"

"You guys aren't already?"

"I manipulated him into stabbing his best friend," Kisaki exasperates.

"All things of the past," Takemichi laughs. "Let bygones be bygones."

And soon, much like Kisaki's anger, the rain lets up, and Takemichi finds the air around them has changed. He finds himself less burdened, and he wonders if Kisaki feels the same.

Takemichi had never thought that Kisaki and him would ever confide with each other with tears in their eyes and hearts at the edges of their sleeves, but he finds forgiveness near his end.

Perhaps, Takemichi in a previous timeline would not have the heart to forgive Kisaki. Perhaps Kisaki had already stolen that from him–but there truly isn't much difference between Kisaki and Mikey. The two are like two sides of the same coin. Full of rage. Full of pain, and know love only through violence.

If he was able to forgive Mikey, it only made sense to forgive Kisaki as well.

And it may be selfish of him to ask to be friends again–whether it be from Mikey or Kisaki. I Know parting will be more painful if they were friends tha strangers and enemies. It may be that he will regret this decision at his end–will beg to want more time when he sees pain and sorrow in their eyes. But he finds he doesn't quite have the heart to hate anymore. He grows tired of being so angry all the time, and at his end–he feels overwhelmed with love.

It was a question he had asked himself often.

Why love, when he knows it will leave only sorrow behind? Why love, when he knows it is fleeting?

But really, what difference will it make, when this love he holds is gone, swept away until it is born once again, a continuous cycle of life and death. Reincarnation in its purest form. And finally, Takemichi understands–this mystery of love.

For love is not an ancient, old entity. It is a child, naive and foolish and mischievous. It goes where it needs to, without any regards to consequence.

For a while, Takemichi had cursed this mystery – this thing he called love. But the sorrow it brings, the pain and ache it creates – it is merely a small part of a much greater whole.

And he hopes, when he takes his last breath, it is with his hands warm with love. Whether it be with tears of joy or sorrow, he thinks it doesn't quite matter.

To see grief at his end is not a fate he will curse. For it is love, nonetheless. Unapologetic, even in its ruthlessness.

Notes:

It has been a hot minute, but i'm back!

I hope this chapter makes sense? I was trying to show how Takemichi is losing his memories of the previous timelines.

I was supposed to update after finals, which was a month ago, but right after, I got covid and it took a while to get better. And once I got better, I had no idea where to start. I don't mean for this to sound like an excuse, but you know how if you stop drawing for a while, and you try to draw again, it feels harder? I guess...I hadn't written in a long time and trying to write this chapter again became like 10x harder. It's still not polished, I sort of write these chapters at midnight when inspiration hurt, but I hope you guys enjoyed it either way!

Thank you so much for the kind words and motivation you have all been leaving in the comments. It takes me a while to get to each of them, but I promise I read each and every one, and they make my entire day!

I hope you guys are all safe! and I apologize for the late updates!

Chapter 13: Paradox

Summary:

A look into Kazutora's thoughts.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Love is a paradox. He finds complexity within its simplicity.

It doesn't conform to rules all too well, doesn't bend or twist or break…rather it simply exists. Unrequited or not–it exists. Ever-present, ever-aching, ever-yearning.

Ever-tragic.

His love blooms from within his body. Lurks in the deep part of his soul that wretches and writhes with desperation, waiting to be seen and heard. Instead, he stays quiet and mum, unwilling to speak.

It wasn't that Kazutora did not like Takemichi, rather, it was an understanding that perhaps they weren't quite ready yet.

Takemichi was a liar, and Kazutora, a mimic. Takemichi speaks, and Kazutora repeats the words like a record, too much of a coward to ask for the truth.

He's not oblivious. He's lived around liars his whole life, been one himself–curled up on a floor repeating sweet lies to rid himself of his own guilt. It is nothing new to him, but sometimes…in the quiet hours of the day, he finds himself frustrated. A little bitter.

He had promised Takemichi that he would wait, and yet… yet his heart aches, left out and discarded as though he was not worthy of the truth.

And perhaps he does not. Takemichi does not owe him anything. Not his secrets, not his trust.

But Kisaki knew. Kisaki, the barrier of omen and ill-intent, knew. Kazutora was sure he did.

Kisaki would turn to Kazutora and his gaze would linger, torn somewhere between pity and loss. There was this look in his eyes, one that spoke of heartbreak and terror. As though he knew something Kazutora didn't. Something he would never know.

Not unless he asks. And Kazutora never asks.

Perhaps he is afraid of the truth. Or perhaps…he is afraid of being lied to. Again. Always.

The same Takemichi who would flinch at the mere sight of Kisaki, shoulders tense and eyes shaking, now seemed to be at peace. He would go on walks with Kisaki and return as though he had a huge burden lifted from his heart. His eyes would be wet as always, glittering with tears, but they were rigid and determined, no longer wavering with uncertainty. It was a look of acceptance, as though Takemichi had finally come out through the dark og he was trapped in.

As though he had found direction. Found clarity.

But that was the problem, wasn't it? Because although Takemichi would appear to be better, there was nothing to show for it. Sometimes, Kazutora would speak of his future, his aspirations and desires. Meanwhile, Takemichi would hum in response, at ease, but with nothing to add to their conversation.

Had he no plans for himself? No desire to exist save for the simple thoughts that would come to his mind randomly? Did Takemichi not believe he had a future…or had he simply given up on it entirely?

Kazutora does not know. He does not ask.

Takemichi is like this: he will lock himself in his room for days on end and return with a smile with only his red puffy eyes to indicate what had occurred. Then, he would go on a high–clean all the mess he had created in his low, and drag Kazutora out to every place he could remember from his previous timelines.

They began to exist in moments–each cycle not so different from the other–life falling into a sort of routine. It had become an anchor of sorts, grounding him to the present world.

Rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat… rinse and re–

But lately…the time between these lows and highs had begun to stretch. Takemichi would get lost. His eyes would glaze over as though he was not truly there…and he would simply sit there, unblinking.

It was, in all sense of the world, terrifying.

Kazutora, as much as Kisaki loved to claim, wasn't stupid. He had seen a similar situation with his own father, who had grown old and forgetful to all the hurt he had caused. All the pain he had inflicted. But that…that was a story for another time. That was a wound he could not heal. It would simply exist–unforgiven and forever bitter.

He begins to connect the dots, slowly for surely. Takemichi was forgetting the events of his previous timelines, his memory scattered and becoming lost.

'What if I can't?' Takemichi sobbed. 'What if I can't tell you–'

He had understood the implications. To live so many times, in so many different times, it should come to no surprise that the boundaries between memory and time had begun to blend–coming together to form one coherent self. In a way, he supposed it was Takemichi's mind trying to protect itself, locking the doors to the past.

Some nights, Takemichi would wake up with terrible screams and violent gasps.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"I don't know…I don't know what it was–" Takemichi stammers, shaking. "Mikey shot me. I know it sounds weird, I don't know why I…I was scared."

"S' just a nightmare," Kazutora whispered. "A bad dream."

And it would calm Takemichi down, as though he truly believed his words. Like it wasn't his memories replaying within his dreams, but simply a distant nightmare.

And he knows…he knows it is selfish to feel hurt. To feel…excluded. It was Takemichi who was being robbed of his memories and yet Kazutora felt as though he was the one being forgotten.

"Takemichi."

"Yeah?"

"If…" Kazutora pauses for a moment, uncertain and afraid. "If something was wrong, you would tell me, right?"

Takemichi stops in his tracks and looks over with a confused expression on his face. It takes him a moment before he replies. "Of course."

It's almost sincere.

How cruel, Kazutora thinks. To trust and to trust alone.

But he had promised to wait, even if it meant waiting until this love he holds becomes lonely and desolate. They had lit the stars together, waited and stared as each star twinked to life under the night sky.

He can wait. He can be patient. He can learn.

And if the time comes when the last star remains, bright with a love, lonely still, he will burn it out himself.

Perhaps love is not as eternal as he had thought. Perhaps, like the stars at night, it was short and fickle. Perhaps it was the aftermath that lingers. An eternity of ache and bittersweet memories, close and yet out of reach.

Is it so selfish for him to wish to leave such an ache in Takemichi as well? The same Takemichi who was forgetting, and loved without consequence. Aloof to the hurt he would leave behind when all his memories have finally been stripped away.

Would he remember the reason he had invited Kazutora to his house? Would he remember Kazutora projecting Shinichiro's death onto his suicidal tendencies? And if he doesn't…then would the Kazutora he remembers be the same one he had known?

The same one he loved?

To let go, Kazutora reminds himself, is not to be unloved. Takemichi was too entangled with his soul.

And if Takemichi forgets his past. If he forgets of Kazutora's dark and twisted past, of all his mistakes and faults, all his hate and all his misfortune–then Kazutora would simply let Takemichi relearn him once again. Let him reread all his scars and all his wounds. Tell him of all his joys and desires.

Until then, he will keep this love he holds close to his heart, unheard and unspoken. And when the time comes when they are both ready (to trust and to love), then...only then…

.

Notes:

So...it's been a while. I thought I would finish this story over the summer, but I began to relapse for a bit, and writing this story makes me feel sad sometimes T-T even if is...in a way cathartic?

I'm not sure, I just needed a break, and it's been a LONG one. However, reading everyone's comments in the previous chapters is very encouraging! And you all are so kind and supportive. I apologize for not replying, I lacked the energy to reply or even try to write. It's been like...I haven't written in a long time. Not as often at least. I tried writing another fic or continue building my original but even then, I wasn't able to write much.

But now, I'm doing a bit better, so I thought I would continue this story! This chapter is not long, a little rusty too, but I hope you all enjoy! I will get to replying to everyones' comments eventually. But for now, I'm going to go to sleep, midterms season is so draining.

Thank you for all the support for this story so far!

This chapter has more that I decided to delete. I'm thinking of changing the plot a little, to spare everyone of the angst. Originally, I had thought to make this into a tragic ending, but I think, a little hope is good. And hope that things can get better and do get better, is not something I want to lose in this story. Kisaki can become a better person, takemichi can learn to be happy, and kazutora can learn to forgive himself. Everyone of them, should have the capability and possibility for change, so I don't want to ruin that with a sad ending. I'll give this a proper and happier ending.

So we heading towards a good ending :D It will get worse for a bit...but then it will get better.

Chapter 14: It's not a metaphor.

Summary:

HOO okay, yuh–

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

"Shuji, am I a bad person if I do bad things to save a good person?"

"Does it matter? We are rotten either way."

Kisaki smiles–and it's not soft or bright like Takemichi. It's twisted, and an ugly sight. Crooked in its intention.

Kisaki, to the best of his understanding, loves with all he has. It's never halfheart–not like Takemichi.

'I'll remember you as a friend,' Takemichi smiles, speaking those words as if they were meant to be some gift to Kisaki. As if…as if that was something Kisaki would want.

Takemichi had said that they would finally be friends, but really, there is no memory that Kisaki had given Takemichi that could remotely imply such a thing. It was a collection of selfishness, insecurity and anger–not friendship, not love.

And really, the only thing that had brought them close in the first place was their vulnerability–to have seen the darkest parts within each other and push and pull until one breaks. And Takemichi…Takemichi was breaking.

Crumbling before him in ways that Kisaki could not put back together. And with each piece in the puzzle going missing, there was no way to put the puzzle back together. He had to find a substitute. Create new ones to take the place of the ones lost.

And if in the process, that makes him a bad person, Kisaki thinks he's okay with that. He's never claimed to be a good person.

And some things, he supposes, never change. Takemichi's story started as a tragedy, and it ended much the same. He wonders briefly if it makes Takemichi feel better–to think the killer is as innocent as the one he killed. To think Kisaki is as good as Takemichi, it's laughable because Kisaki could be worse. Could be better.

Takemichi didn't believe he could escape his fate–that no matter what choice he makes, the story would end the same, that no matter how he chose to exist, he would die at the end. Well, Kisaki didn't really believe in fate at all…but he did, just for a moment–believe Takemichi and all his rambles about there being good inside of him and second chances.

He believed Takemichi, but the crybaby had been nothing more than a hypocrite–believing that one life was worth sacrificing if it meant saving hundred others.

And they both fall down the same rabbit hole – a believer and a non believer at odds in how the story should end. The way Kisaki sees it, if Takemichi were to die at the end, disappear to god knows where–then he had been dead from the beginning.

"You can't save me like you save them," Kisaki sneers. They repeat the same fight they have has before. Takemichi goes into nonsense on how everything is so much more meaningful because he cannot keep it forever–Kisaki calls bullshit. Bull-fucking-shit.

Dead is fucking dead. There is nothing poetic about it–nothing beautiful or worth reminiscing over."

"I'm not trying to," Takemichi frowns, twisting his eyebrows as though he was the one in pain. "You are a monster…and you will always be one. You can't erase your past the same way the rest can. I will forget the others…they might forget, but not you. You will always remember."

"So what? You want me to make peace with fucking tigerboy and his cute little gang. This isn't exactly helping. You will still be gone."

"I…I'm not trying to help you!" Takemichi exasperates. "You are cruel, and mean, and so so selfish! But that is of your own doing. You blame others for your misfortune but you trap yourself in it. You are so used to being caged by your own hatred, you forgot that you are the one holding the key. I can't help someone who doesn't fucking want to be helped."

"Well, that's fucking touche isn't it."

"What?" Takemichi breathes out.

"You say I don't want to be helped, well neither do you," Kisaki retorts, feeling eyes burn once again. He's not sad–he's…he's angry.

"I told you before. I'm not…I'm not suicid–" the blond exasperates, breath breaking for just a moment. "It's not like that!"

"No, but you are a coward. A pathetic, fucking coward," he bites out–heart at the tip of his tongue. "Like you said, some things just don't fucking change."

"I didn't choose this!"

"No, but you accept it. Don't make me a liar–you know it's true. You were going to kill yourself. Hell, you probably didn't think you would get this far, and now that you are here…alive…you have no idea what to fucking do. You…you need purpose, but you don't want to give yourself one."

"Not anymore," Takemichi grits out.

"Keep lying to yourself, but at least I'm honest with myself. I'll tell them…all of them."

"No."

"You make the choice for them as if it is yours to make in the first place. This isn't just about you anymore."

Takemichi did not think the story could change–not his end at least, but Kisaki thinks he's wrong. Afterall, in all the worlds the crybaby has known, in all the time loops he has been through, Kisaki would bet the world that Kisaki had been the kindest in this one.

It is not like him to tell his plans to Takemichi. Muchless to give him a warning beforehand–to give him the chance to be the one to tell Kazutora first.

"Why?" Takemichi finally whispers, tears pouring down his cheeks as though he had been betrayed once again–as though he didn't understand. "Why are you doing this?"

'To be with you–' Kisaki thinks, walking away without another word. 'That's all…'

Takemichi goes home the same day–and spills his secrets–well, at least those he could remember. (He thinks, if anything, it would be better if he told Kazutora himself than hear it from Kisaki.) He was afraid that Kazutora would break.

Kazutora did.

And still, it didn't matter–

No matter how much how much Takemichi loved him and the world and everyone he has known. No matter what Kisaki had hoped to get out of this. No matter how much Kazutora pleaded and begged and weeped–it wouldn't change a thing. It wouldn't change the end.

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay. It's okay." It's not.

"I might leave…well not me…but um..I-I don't...might not rem–"

"I know," Kazutora hushes, if not to calm Takemichi, then to quell the pool of anxiety brewing within him. He's known for a while. Of course he's known…and yet, yet he had sat down on his doubts and done nothing about it. Watched like an outsider looking in on a soap opera film unraveling before him.

Perhaps he thought, if Takemichi had never told him, he could pretend it was all simply a cruel joke.

He doesn't say goodbye. Perhaps more was more understood in the unsaid. Instead he holds his hands, cradles them between his own, presses them to his forehead and cries.

It's silent, his sobs an echo of their memories.

'I love you,' he thinks. 'I love you so much.'

"Stay," Kazutora begs instead, as if it's the only thing he can ask. He doesn't need love in return. Can live with a broken heart but to exist without it at all– "Just stay."

"I'm sorry," Takemichi repeats, like he's done so many times before. "I'm sorry….I'm so sorry…"

He leaves Takemichi's apartment quietly, without a word and with an inkling that something has been lost. Something torn from him.

His chest felt empty, hollow and cold. It is like this for a while–a wash of numbness and cold, as though someone had dunked him in freezing water and left him to shiver. He walks, vaguely aware of where he was going.

Kazutora knocks on the door, weak small thuds. His hands quiver, and shake, head held down as he waits and waits.

"What are you doing here?" he hears. It's a mean voice, the same one that had taunted him for years. The same one whose heart he had poisoned.

God. He really fucked up didn't he?

It hits all at once, like a bullet piercing through his heart–mercilessly, and ruthlessly. His soul bleeds–wounded and hurt–spilling past his eyes without control. His throat closed up, chest seized in a state of perpetual hurt– the events of their conversation finally settling into his heart.

"I h-hurt you," he admits, sobs and chokes out as though the words, finally understanding the weight of what he has done. His knees collapse on themselves, and he slumps to the ground. Perhaps this was the universe's way of punishing him–for showing him the hurt he had put others to. "I hurt you."

He looks up–vaguely aware of Mikey mouthing something he can't quite hear, and shaking his shoulder. He looks concerned, and Kazutora doesn't deserve it. He wishes for the anger, the rage, the hatred…and yet, there is none. His heart hurt–each beat loud and deafening.

Had he ever even apologized? Had he ever taken the time to take accountability for what he had done?

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry," he rambles, feeling his guilt pull and twist, tightening its hold on his lungs. He wants to go back, to undo all he had done. To take back all the hurt he caused, all the horror and tears and heartbreak.

Quiet, wretched sobs rib through his throat as he tries to beg, to plead; his heart heavy with a sorrow he could not quite describe.

Takemichi and Shinichiro–they looked alike. Same watery eyes, and heart of gold and yet…yet Kazutora had never felt loss at Shinichiro's death. Never really learned the consequence of his actions and now…now when he knows Takemichi is disappearing, slipping past his fingers…he understands. He understands.

"–m' sorry…sorry," he mumbles again, hoping Mikey can make out his words. Hopes Mikey can understand, because this wasn't just any apology. This time, he felt empathy–felt..oh god, he…

…he feels so much.

The pain, a witness to his loss. A testament to his love. And there was nothing he could do, nothing he could hold on to.

When he first met Takemichi, the world had become beautiful. Soaked in a pallet of gold and baby blues, akin to a summer sky, bright and warm. Today, when Takemichi tells him he might leave, he finds the world is still beautiful – drenched in lonely shades of blue.