I could set this world on fire and call it rain.

CHAPTER IV — LATE NIGHT CAFÉ

[...]

Terushima snores.

He knew that from the bus. It’s not a surprise. Keiji remembers thinking it’s a bad idea to room with him back when he asked him, and now he knows why. Damn his sleep-deprived self for not being smarter.

It’s past midnight now and Terushima fell asleep pretty much immediately after laying down, but sadly, that’s no relief. He thought he could finally catch some rest at night, not feel like he’s living next to a sawmill.

Falling asleep in broad daylight in the middle of the day? Sure, no problem. Falling asleep in the same room as Terushima? Apparently impossible, no matter how he tries to hide under his pillow and blanket.

Screw it, this won’t work.

He sits up on his bed, takes the sheet music for Spica from his night table, stands up, and quickly puts on something vaguely resembling an outfit that isn’t his pyjamas.

The hostel is small enough to not be confusing and he finds a spot to practice quickly, on a small, fairly secluded terrace.

Now that he’s here he regrets not bringing a jacket, as it still gets fairly cold at night, but he doesn’t feel like going back and getting it. A dim lantern provides him with enough light to read – if he can’t sleep, he might as well practice. It’s a duet part, sure, but Mai is still miles above him and it can’t hurt to polish it on his own.

He wishes he had an instrument, but he even left his violin at home. There’s a piano in the common room of the hostel, he could use that, but the chances of waking someone up are too high. It’s right next to some of the sleeping rooms.

Well, practicing acapella has only ever helped him improve, he supposes.

He hums the part leading up to his first solo line and immediately loses track of it, stumbling over his first word, which is only one syllable long of all things. He blames it on his lack of sleep and focus and starts over again.

“Linked in fate, bound by duty …” It’s a weird enough passage on its own, but it just sounds so wrong without Mai’s first line leading into it. Usually, Mai’s last word and his first word of each line are in unison before they go on like this, kind of like a chain as the song suggests. Singing it alone feels hollow, even if the lyrics could stand on their own.

He decides to just quietly sing Mai’s part, too, as to not confuse himself any further. “The road they’ve gone, hands linked / in fate, bound by duty / calls to lead them apart …” Wait, no, that’s not an ‘apart’, it’s ‘astray’, he must have read that wrong … “Duty calls to lead them astray to the lights / of one million suns—”

“So I was right, it is you I heard.”

“I was just getting it right, why would you interrupt—” He quickly stops himself when he sees who was talking. He should have recognised that voice, damn it.

Oikawa smiles, but in the dim lighting he can’t see if it looks all that earnest. “Sorry, but you weren’t getting it right at all.”

He wants to protest but gives in, breathing out slowly. “I wasn’t.”

“What are you doing out here this late?” he asks and sits down on a bench across from Keiji.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“You didn’t, though.”

He’s too tired to play along. “I can’t sleep. Terushima’s too loud.”

“Right, you’re rooming with Teru-chan …” How on earth he’s close enough with him to use a nickname is beyond him, but then again, the two of them aren’t all that close either and he’s still Akaacchi for some reason. “Sorry. He does seem like the kind of person to snore, as say my great people skills.”

“You just saw him on the bus, didn’t you,” Keiji deadpans.

“Specifics …” He looks away at nothing in particular. “I’m much luckier. Dai-chi is dead quiet. Or maybe just really dead. I haven’t checked for a pulse yet.”

Oikawa and Sawamura in the same room? He has seen them be friendly before, but he always assumed it was just an acquaintanceship more than a friendship. “Why are you still awake then?”

“I’m a night person,” Oikawa says as if it was obvious. “It’s nice to be outside at this time, and the stars are really pretty here.”

The stars? Keiji looks up and realises he’s right – back at Karasuno they weren’t really in the most urban area either, but now the only light source are the lanterns few and far between, so the night sky is indeed breathtaking, painting spills of white and bright blue all over the black.

“You’re ruining your sleeping schedule,” he says a little quieter than he meant when he lowers his head again.

“And you aren’t ruining yours?”

“No, Terushima is.”

They’re silent for a while but it’s not uncomfortable at all, unlike he would have assumed. The world is quiet around them and speaking doesn’t seem necessary, as it would only disturb it. In this moment, he almost believes they could have something other than the strange not-quite-rivalry thing they have right now.

Then, without a word of warning, Oikawa stands up and steps behind him, and he only realises what he’s doing when he places his wool cardigan over Keiji’s shoulders.

“What?”

“Do you want to freeze to death? I can see you shivering, you know.”

He wasn’t even aware he had been. It doesn’t feel all that cold anymore, to be perfectly honest – and certainly not now. He hopes the dark hides the blush that’s appearing on his face right now if his cheeks heating up is any indication. What is Oikawa thinking, suddenly being all cute after not even speaking to him most of the time? Is this some sort of tactic?

It doesn’t help that this jacket is actually really soft and comfortable.

“Now you’re going to be cold,” he manages to say and tries to look Oikawa in the eye, not failing spectacularly for once in his life.

“No, because I was smart enough to put on a warm sweater, unlike you. A t-shirt? Really?”

That’s what he gets for getting dressed as quickly as possible.

“I can deal with cold,” he lies and Oikawa raises an eyebrow. “Heat is more of a problem.” The latter is actually true, but it’s extreme temperatures in general that throw him off. Can’t the world be at a perpetual state of 20° Celsius, please?

“Okay, fine, if you want to believe that …” He holds out his hand. “Give it back, then.”

Uhm, no, is what his mind says immediately and for once since his arrival at Karasuno he has enough control over himself to not blurt it out. Instead he stays quiet and sends Oikawa the gaze Bokuto once dubbed ‘the Akaashi stare of severe discomfort’ (before asking how you write that in kanji). It seems to work.

“Or not. But that means you owe me.”

“You gave it to me in the first place, I’m just playing along.”

Oikawa pouts, a look that seems to suit him in a really strange way. “Be a little more grateful to your senpai, Akaacchi.”

It’s right then when it hits him that he absolutely has not been treating Oikawa the way he should have – he is his senpai, and he’s always made a great deal out of most of his senpai-kouhai relationships to stay just that. Bokuto is different, of course, but even him he treats with respect, though admittedly half of that is usually sarcasm.

But it’s okay right now, isn’t it? The atmosphere around them is fairly relaxed. Maybe he shouldn’t care so much; they’re not in high school anymore, after all.

He knows he probably shouldn’t push his boundaries, but … “I will be if senpai stops calling me by that stupid nickname.”

“It’s cute,” Oikawa says in a tone of voice incredibly similar to Terushima when he’s defending himself from likely true accusations.

“It’s silly.” He actually doesn’t mind it too much, although he would prefer his actual name. This one’s too affectionate in a way that sounds fake.

“You have no taste.”

“Said the one calling Sawamura-san ‘Dai-chi’.”

“Okay, give the cardigan back.”

Keiji can’t help but grin, just a little bit, as he pulls the fabric closer. “Actually, I think I’ll keep it.”

If he had his phone, he’d take a photo of Oikawa’s shocked expression. “You’re a demon with the face of an angel.”

“A jacket-stealing demon, alright,” Keiji retorts, efficiently ignoring the second part of the comment.

“And I’m the fairy tale prince fighting you for the affection of a princess …” He crosses his arms, then raises an index finger to his lips, looking around for a moment. “Where’s the princess though?”

“Asleep, probably.” Like both of them should be. He doesn’t know what time it is but he’s going to feel this tomorrow … Later today … For sure.

“Speaking of which …” Oikawa’s playful expression drops for something that looks like genuine concern, which Keiji’s immediately wary of. He can deal with them bantering a bit before going back to mostly ignoring each other. He cannot deal with signals this mixed. “Are you sure you’ll be okay? It’s still funny now, but sleep deprivation isn’t a good thing, especially not during camp. Last year someone had to go to the hospital, you know.”

He’d think he’s messing with him if he hadn’t heard that story from Tashiro before. Keiji sighs. “I’ll have to be.” And if he has to throw Terushima out. With how quickly his friend was out, he doesn’t doubt he could sleep on the floor outside of their room.

“Maybe switch rooms with someone?”

And make them go through the same hell? He shakes his head. “It’ll work. Somehow. There’s got to be a way to shut him up, or maybe it’s just today.”

“Dai-chi sleeps like a stone,” Oikawa says and a fragment of that mischief is back in his voice.

“No,” Keiji deadpans. He will not share a room with Oikawa. Besides, for all he knows, he snores as well or even talks in his sleep. He can see that happen.

“Your own choice.” He shrugs and shoots him a smile. “I’m going to bed now, you know where to find me. Good night, Akaacchi!”

I have no idea where your room is. Not that it matters.

Keiji always thought ‘good night’ sounded like an intimate thing, especially when he’s saying it, so all that comes out is a forced, “See you.”

Although he wouldn’t be surprised if they stopped talking from here on out, again.

Deciding it’s useless anyway, he goes back to his room as well. It’s only when he changes back into his pyjamas that he realises he still has Oikawa’s cardigan.

He did say he’d keep it.

The first thing he remembered was the sensation of falling, refusing to open his eyes lest it was more than just an illusion, and then, the crushing weight of silence.

Silence for a long time. Silence for what felt like an eternity, and thinking that this had to be some sort of punishment, living in a world where nothing existed – or maybe everything was out there and he just didn’t know because he still refused to look.

Silence for so long the sudden sound startled him.

It was a dull sound. Like he was hearing it from behind a million walls, just loud enough to know that it was real, the steady thump, thump, thump of somebody’s heartbeat.

He didn’t know why he knew that it was a heartbeat. It was a miracle he had any words at all, so he decided not to question it. If he did, this, too, might fall apart and he’d be left alone again in silence.

Thump, thump, thump. Like the beat for a song he hadn’t written yet, but that he already knew would be his greatest work. Something about it felt safe. Like home. Like a place where he could open his eyes without fear.

He wanted to chase after that sound.

Thump, thump, thump.

He couldn’t move. He could hardly think. He was vaguely aware that he was alive – so he thought, at least; death would not feel this real, but what did he know about death – but that was it. All he had was that sound, and that desire deep inside him to seek it out.

Thump, thump, thump.

Louder. Maybe he was imagining it. Maybe it was coming closer. Nothing about it mattered.

He still had his eyes screwed shut.

Thump, thump, thump.

No, it was definitely getting louder. He decided that realising that it was must be a good thing. It meant he wasn’t completely lost yet.

Thump, thump, th—

It stopped abruptly. Cut right through the middle of the sound with a blade sharper than any he’d ever seen.

He couldn’t think that he was back in silence before something else reached his ears.

Open your eyes.

No. No. He couldn’t. He didn’t know why – perhaps he was being paranoid – but the thought of facing whatever situation he was in filled him with an overwhelming sense of fear. This way he could play pretend.

Open your eyes.

It was a lovely voice, one he had never heard before but that felt familiar nonetheless. A voice he didn’t want to disobey, to disappoint. But— But.

If he openened his eyes—

Look at me, Hiyori.

So he did.

the one waiting for me on the shore is 『    』

Eyes the colour of the sunset and the autumn leaves, looking up at the starry sky with wonder.

Hair like the deepest ocean, dark and soft and wild, falling all over his face in a way that must be annoying.

Skin like porcelain, just as fragile, just as pristine, making him seem weak like Hiyori knew he wasn’t.

A smile that echoed the sun itself, blinding and warm and addicting, causing his own lips to twist upward and his own heart to soar whenever he saw it.

Kirishima Ikuya was ethereal.

Hiyori knew he probably had no business saying that, being the closest thing to an ethereal being himself, but he didn’t really care. He had nobody to say it out loud to anyway, so he might as well think it, and he sure as hell believed it.

Sometimes he wondered if there might even be a point to it. After all, even though by all accounts he shouldn’t, there were times when he felt like Ikuya was looking his way for longer than otherwise explainable. Despite knowing that there was no real point to it, Hiyori always ended up hiding behind something, though never quickly enough to make much of a difference.

But if Ikuya really did see him, he never said a word, so he might have been imagining that after all.

look at me

He found himself listening to Natsuya a lot.

Hiyori wasn’t quite sure whether he really put any thought into what to say or was just making all his wisdoms up on the spot, but he’d usually end up nodding in agreement after all, even if he didn’t quite understand it. Natsuya just had a way of making you listen.

If Ikuya was the reason he stayed at the pool, keeping watch on him every day, his brother was the reason he liked to sit in this particular spot under the tree by the wired fence. It seemed like Natsuya had picked the corner as his favourite spot to take a break and talk to his teammates, and sometimes to Ikuya, too.

“You’re alone, but you’re not alone, you know,” he said to him one day, and Ikuya looked at him with narrowed eyes and a confused cock of the head. Natsuya crossed his arms and looked at the pool, thinking, before continuing, “Swimming is a sport like running, where your competitors don’t really matter. It’s not like football or volleyball where you have to react to what they do. You just do your best on your own.”

“So you’re alone,” Ikuya concluded, with a dark tinge to his voice that made Hiyori’s heart ache.

You’re not, he wanted to say, and I’m right here, but no words came out. Even if they had, Ikuya wouldn’t have heard anyway.

“You’re not,” Natsuya echoed Hiyori’s thoughts. “Yeah, you’re swimming on your own, but you’ve still got your teammates cheering and hoping you win, and they’ll help you train and all that. It’s like …”

A small smile appeared on his lips and he reached out to ruffle Ikuya’s hair, only to receive an indignant squawk in return that was frankly adorable.

“In the water you’re alone, but on the shore, everybody’s waiting for you.”

he is 『    』 to you

He almost drowned, once.

He didn’t, of course, because Hiyori was there to reach for him and pull him out – not the smartest thing he’d ever done, he should have just shoved someone else in that direction, but in that moment he couldn’t think that far – all he had was the sensation of water filling his lungs and a shout of Ikuya’s name on his lips and the distinct thought, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he shouldn’t be this careless.

Thankfully, nobody seemed to notice that anything was up, to them it must have just looked like Ikuya had struggled to the surface on his own, conscious for just long enough to reach the edge of the pool and collapse on the ground.

Hiyori had let him go immediately when he’d noticed that Ikuya was capable of getting that far on his own. It was convenient, really, that it hadn’t ended in what looked to others like an invisible person dragging him on land. Despite everything, a lot of things worked out that day.

Even when Hiyori was kneeling on the ground, coughing up water, it was all fine in the end.

He stayed at the hospital, listening to Natsuya chew Ikuya out about overworking for a good twenty minutes, and while he had to agree, he couldn’t help but feel like something about it was off. Maybe it was the way Ikuya stared at his blanket, or how nobody else was coming, nobody but Hiyori, who sat there and watched him read the same book over and over again.

Hiyori liked books, in theory. Picking them up proved impossible – he could touch things but never move them, unless it was when Ikuya was in danger, or so he assumed – but he liked looking at the pretty covers and sometimes, when Ikuya was asleep and he allowed himself to stray away for a bit, he’d go look if there were any readings going on in the nearby library. It wasn’t often, but occasionally he’d find something, and he’d sit there and listen to the stories they told.

The book Ikuya was flipping through again and again was The Little Mermaid, one that Hiyori was actually pretty acquainted with by now, since it was easy to sit next to Ikuya and read along with him.

To be honest, he didn’t particularly like the story.

But it was Ikuya’s favourite, so he had it memorised anyway, each and every word.

it’s not fair

Thump, thump, thump.

He felt the beat resonating through his body when he raised his hand to his chest. It was a familiar sound, one that felt like home and belonging, like that person was right here, like the chest he was touching wasn’t his.

Thump, thump, thump.

Pulsing in a steady rhythm, though faster sometimes, and when that happened, Hiyori would hold on tight to that feeling, trying to say it’s okay and I’m here and you’re okay.

Thump, thump, thump.

Two hearts beating in unison – or perhaps not, perhaps his own heart wasn’t beating at all. It didn’t make a difference. All that mattered was knowing Ikuya’s.

Thump, thump, thump.

Steady, steady.

Thump, thump, thump.

Even if it wasn’t his, it was still his.

look at me

A certain name was coming up a lot ever since Ikuya had moved back to Japan.

Hiyori never bothered to remember that name, only the shadow of pain in Ikuya’s expression whenever he heard it. That was precisely why he hated the person the name belonged to. Anyone who made Ikuya look like this was an enemy in his book.

He’d grown quiet ever since the incident, quieter even than before. He was training more, too; Hiyori could tell not only by the increasing amount of time they both spent at the pool, but also by the frequent soreness in his own muscles. To say he was concerned would have been an understatement, but all he could do was watch from the side lines and be ready to jump in should something happen.

Hiyori though that that person was responsible for this, though he didn’t know how. Whenever the name was mentioned, Ikuya would have an extra long practice session. Were they a rival? Someone who had hurt Ikuya?

If it was the latter, it meant they were Hiyori’s responsibility to take care of.

Not that he could actually do anything about that. In a situation like this, you couldn’t really do much but talk, and that was a hurdle too high to overcome.

He couldn’t even talk to Ikuya, after all.

(He couldn’t even talk to his Ikuya.)

if only 『   』 could

Rain was strange, when he thought about it.

Ikuya was a swimmer. He willingly spent a lot of time in water, sometimes colder than comfortable, pushing himself to the limit of what his body could achieve in it. Yet he’d still run from rain.

If Hiyori had been there – any more there than he was right now – he would have offered to share an umbrella on their way back from the pool to the dormitories. For now, all he could do was walk beside him and join in on getting soaked from above.

(It really was unpleasant, though he suspected that had nothing to do with him and everything to do with Ikuya. The world didn’t really have an effect on Hiyori. He would have felt the rain either way, because Ikuya did.)

This way, he could pretend like they were part of the same world, two friends walking in silence save for the occasional muttered curse. Like he could say something and Ikuya would turn his head and pick up on the conversation, or at least utter some form of hm in response.

“It really won’t stop pouring, will it?” he asked despite better judgment.

Ikuya said nothing.

the one waiting for 『   』 on the shore is 『   』

An ordinary night.

Ikuya asleep on the bottom bed.

Hiyori sitting on the top one (grateful that Ikuya still hadn’t been assigned a roommate).

Stars twinkling outside.

A gentle autumn breeze.

His muscles burning from the earlier workout.

An ordinary night—

A familiar name, muttered into a pillow.

Voice soft, pleading.

A name Hiyori never bothered remembering.

(The thought that maybe, just maybe, he had a heart after all, if hearing it could hurt him like this.)

if only『   』 could

Not quite existing came with a lot of drawbacks. Some of them were just annoying, like not being able to switch the channel when something bad was on TV. Some were a bit dangerous, like wanting to cross a busy street knowing full well that the car drivers couldn’t see you.

And some were soul-crushing.

Hiyori didn’t know why it hurt him this much. It could have been because he saw Ikuya falling deeper every night and was unable to do anything even though he was right there, he should be protecting him, that was his job, but he couldn’t fix what wasn’t tangible. Or (and that was the far scarier option) it could have been because he wanted so desperately to be part of his life for real, to have Ikuya look at him even just once, to be acknowledged, to be liked, to be loved—

He was slowly coming to terms with the fact that he did love him.

It made sense, he thought, that he would. He had been by Ikuya’s side all this time, ever since he’d come to America, he knew more about him than anyone else, even Natsuya, and that desire to protect him … He wasn’t sure if it was something that defined his very being or if it had come from learning to love him. Perhaps it was both.

In the end, it didn’t matter either way. A lot of things didn’t matter. It wasn’t as if he could change any of them.

look at me

Ikuya in the water, and his racing heartbeat pounding away in Hiyori’s chest. He was always a sight to behold, especially now. Shionezaki had been a nice enough sports school, but Shimogami was a swimming powerhouse, and their coach’s experience and knowledge of the craft showed in their athletes’ prowess. Hiyori had picked up a lot about swimming just by being at the pool for Ikuya’s practices, but he hadn’t thought it possible for Ikuya to improve much more – and had been proven wrong.

It made him kind of proud. He knew he had nothing to do with it, but this was still his person showing up everyone else and winning race after race. At this point, the reason he came to watch all the time wasn’t even primarily his duty to watch out for him, he just liked seeing Ikuya steamroll the competition.

That name hadn’t been coming up so much recently.

He still heard him whisper it sometimes, when he thought nobody was listening, or maybe he wasn’t even aware he was saying it. Every time he did, it was like a slap in the face. Hiyori wondered if he’d ever run into the person the name belonged to, and if so, what he would do – or what Ikuya would do, rather.

In a perfect world, he would see them and turn away, turn to Hiyori instead.

In the real world, up on that bridge with the sun setting over the crowded scenery of Tokyo, the opposite happened.

the one waiting for 『   』 『   』  is 『   』

Thump, thump, thump.

It hurt. It hurt. It had never hurt like this.

Thump, thump, thump.

He was used to feeling the familiar ache in his muscles, or the itching skin of a mosquito bite. But never this. This was abstract. Surreal, yet painful all the same, like something inside him twisting and twisting—

Thump, thump, thump.

That heartbeat was all he had, but every single one made it hurt more.

Thump, thump, thump.

Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop make it stop make it stop

make it stop

There were hardly any stars in Tokyo, yet Ikuya stared up anyway, as if looking long enough would make them appear.

(Maybe it would. Hiyori wouldn’t know.)

He wanted to say … Something, but even if Ikuya had heard him, he didn’t really know what was going on anyway. He only knew the intense pain it caused Ikuya, and the aftermaths of it, and he wondered what would have happened if he’d tried to pull him away that evening on the bridge. Would it have let him?

He was supposed to protect Ikuya from any harm, but they were here anyway, on a lonely playground in the middle of the night, and they were hurting.

Even now, the pain wouldn’t disappear, pulsing steadily in the place where he thought his heart was, and he didn’t know if it was Ikuya’s or his own.

In the water you’re alone.

This was a bit like swimming, too. One miscalculation and you would drown.

How many had he made so far?

please

“There’s nobody out there,” Ikuya said to nobody in particular. His apartment was empty save for himself and Hiyori, and he wasn’t aware of the latter.

“That’s not true,” Hiyori replied anyway.

“Even if I sink, nobody will come to save me.”

“Of course they will.”

“I’m all by myself now.”

“I’m right here.”

“If something happens, nobody will be there.”

“Just open your eyes!”

“So I can’t rely on anyone.”

“Look at me!”

The knife in his heart, a sharp, piercing kind of pain – and the beat of it against his ribcage, sending dull vibrations through his body that might have always been there and he’d just never noticed until recently – they turned his voice into little more than a sob.

Ikuya raised his head.

the one 『   』 『   』 『   』  is 『   』

For a moment, he dared hope.

For a moment, he dared reach out – slowly, carefully, as if fighting against water.

For a moment, he dared think that perhaps miracles could occur, and perhaps Ikuya had heard him.

For a moment—

Ikuya stared straight through him and out of the window.

“It’s raining.”

Hiyori’s soul shattered in time with the raindrops tapping on the glass.

please

The rain pours on relentlessly. When you reach to touch it, it melts your skin like acid; by now, you are but torn flesh and broken bones, a creature that roams the world rather than a human, and every step is aching until you beg for it to stop, knowing that it never will.

It’s been three years, or so you’ve been told, since you died.

“This world,” says a woman whose voice is dripping with venom whom you’ve not yet heard today, though you’d wondered where she’d been, “is inhabited by monsters.”

She’s right. You’ve seen it. You’re seeing it even now, when you hide away in the shadows they don’t want you to know about, when the only thing you recognise is the sound of someone’s scream as you rip their heart out of their chest.

“The only way to survive is to become one yourself,” says another, kinder voice.

That one is not right. You’ve become a monster, and you’re anything but alive.

There’s a young woman with sad eyes standing in your peripheral vision, her chest bleeding from where the arrows are piercing it even through her armour. She doesn’t say anything.

You don’t say anything either. You just walk forward with legs that are half numb, half screeching in protest, all dripping with blood, be it your own or someone else’s.

You’ve heard whispers of a castle overgrown with flowers.

Blossoms of crimson line the walls and creep out of the windows, a carpet of red trampled underneath the soles of those who dare go there.

People say, you think, that it serves as a grave for those who have nowhere to die.

Those who go out into the world and never return, whose names are never remembered when they fall in battle because they never cared to mention them.

Maybe someday you, too, will end up there, buried beneath those flowers.

For now, though, you need to find it not for your own sake, but for the person you’ve been searching for.

You’ve heard whispers of the ghost of a blade.

In a peaceful world, there is no need for killing.

So you know that the world is not peaceful when you chase the trail of blood they only ever mutter about, as if they were scared. Rumours of a solitary mercenary who takes no reward and charges into battle as though he was searching for death are what you cling to, overheard in shady taverns where nobody ever bothered to know your name.

You chase the trail of blood that should not exist, not anymore.

You don’t love death.

You don’t hate it, either.

It’s easy. Breaking someone’s neck with your bare hands, severing their head with a blade stolen from the lifeless body next to theirs, gouging out their eyeballs, or ripping out their spine – there are many ways to end a life, and you’ve familiarised yourself with all of them. It’s a necessity, more than anything.

The path you tread is made of corpses, and it’s one you’ve built yourself.

You’ve thrown away doubt and dignity years ago in exchange for the resolve to head forward. Anyone who stands in your way will be just another stepping stone – just another bloodstain on hands long dyed crimson.

“You’re useless,” a rough voice, young but jaded, mutters into your ear. “What is your excuse? You should have found him already.”

“Forgive me,” you say, knowing that he won’t.

There’s a young man with a wistful smile and his head split in two by the force of a powerful axe strike, sitting in a corner of the abandoned church you’ve made your home. He doesn’t say anything.

You wish he would.

You’ve heard whispers of a castle overgrown with flowers.

It stands proudly, they say, even after all those years, by a lake in the mountains, where it’s too cold for most people to survive, and yet they bloom, and bloom evermore.

You’ve heard whispers of the ghost of a blade.

He, too, is blooming in crimson. He’s not unlike you, perhaps, though that thought is the most terrifying one of all. The last person you want to see with that look in their eyes is him.

In a peaceful world, he would be home. You would be home.

But this world is not peaceful, no matter what they’d have you believe.

“The king is dead,” says a young woman with platinum hair that you remember being darker, whether it be dripping with red or something else from a time long past.

“Long live the king?” muses her retainer in that tone you’ve always hated, as if he found pleasure in the suffering of others.

It’s funny how your skeletised hands are now the same colour as their armour.

You ram a knife into the right one and nothing seems to change.

This world is not peaceful, but in order to see that, you have to know where to look.

So you keep chasing the trail of blood that should not exist, and you’ve familiarised yourself with those who dwell in the shadows that should be alight, because you know that it’s where he’s going, too.

There aren’t many things you remember, but his eyes are among them.

Brown, unlike the piercing grey of his brother’s, warmer and softer than he ever was. Eyes that looked at you with admiration and then disdain, disgust even, and maybe some shade of regret from across the battlefield.

You have no right to see those eyes again.

But you have no right to be living, either, so what’s one more sin upon those you’ve already amassed?

None of those driven into the underground are friendly, and you feel no remorse cracking open the skulls of those who would dare attack you, but you do wonder whether you should leave them just barely alive for him to find.

“Pathetic,” spits a voice not unlike his.

You’ve heard whispers of a castle overgrown with flowers.

You do not know where it is, nor what you would do once you get there. Die, possibly. Or tear it all apart, rip out the blossoms, dismantle the building stone by stone, until nothing of it is left.

But you keep looking for it.

You do not know why, or how it always aligns with the paths you choose to go anyway, through dirty alleyways and burnt-down forests. But you do.

You’ve heard whispers of the ghost of a blade.

You do not know if they speak the truth or if they are exaggerating, spinning stories from legends of long ago to keep themselves calm or frightened.

If you were to ever meet him again—

That young man and that young woman speak in unison.

“What would you say?”

He is alive, you know that. He has not yet joined the ranks of those who follow you every waking moment. So he is alive.

Though, to be fair, he could barely stand looking at you that day at Gronder Field.

Would he come to haunt you? Or would he stay away even after death, disgusted by everything he knows you’ve done?

“It’s no fair, Dima,” he says with a pout and his arms crossed over his chest. “Why does Glenn get to train with you? I’m your best friend!”

You laugh.

“Father keeps saying that too. But I’m just as good as he is.”

Somewhere in the distance, a bird cries out.

“You’re just mocking me! Come on, draw your sword. Right now! I’ll definitely beat you, and then they’ll have to acknowledge me!”

The training hall at the palace is empty, which is strange. It never is. There’s always at least one guard by the door.

“And don’t you dare hold back. I can handle myself. Accept my challenge!”

He’s right. Glenn may be stronger, but that’s mostly due to the age difference. One day, he, too, will be a glorious knight, undefeated and right by your side.

The rain pours on relentlessly.

The smell of blood has become a friend to you.

After all those years, ever since the massacre twelve years ago, you’ve become accustomed to it, and by now it’s almost inviting, like coming home to a warm fireplace after having been out in the snow for too long.

You know a battlefield when you come near it.

You’ve never been wrong about that. And right here, in the clearing of a forest high up in the mountains where you’re sure you would be freezing if you could feel anything at all, you find it.

One person is left standing when you arrive.

You have never seen them before, but you have seen the one on the ground in front of them.

You do not know how you kill them. In one moment you’re standing there looking at them, in the next you toss their lifeless body aside and sink to your knees, reach for his face with shaking hands.

Those warm eyes are open but not shocked, glassily staring into nothingness, and you close them as gently as a monster could.

You’ve heard whispers of a castle overgrown with flowers.

Its ceiling is torn off much like the one at the monastery’s cathedral was, and the walls are crumbling down, but you still think it is beautiful. Nature has woven itself into the stone structure, carpeted the floor in red petals, painted the walls with leaves, and the statues of grotesque animals and imposing saints are bleeding flowers.

You carry his body as you ascend the stairs, as you know you shouldn’t, as you know he’d hate you for. Even so, you cannot stop yourself.

There are names, somewhere in the far back of your mind, to the ghosts that tail you. You don’t remember any of them, but you do know how they died.

The thought that he would become one of them sends jolts of pain through your body like you thought you couldn’t feel them anymore.

Once upon a time, he loved you.

Even now, you love him.

And yet, you couldn’t save him, like you couldn’t save your precious friends.

You’ve heard whispers of a castle overgrown with flowers.

People say, you think, that it serves as a grave for those who have nowhere to die.

Dimitri und seine Braut sehen aus, als hätten sie Spaß.

Dimitri auf der Tanzfläche zu sehen ist ein seltener Anblick, und noch seltener ist, dass sein Lächeln darauf echt ist, aber hier ist er nun und wirbelt seine neue Ehefrau herum, und Felix sieht zu.

Sie lächelt ebenfalls und ihre Bewegungen sind gekonnt und elegant, deutlich mehr als es Felix‘ jemals sein könnten. Wenn er mit ihr trainiert, sind sie für gewöhnlich auf einem ähnlichen Level – sie ist die Tochter eines niederen Herren, der im Krieg umgekommen ist, aber weit keine hilflose Adlige, was er schätzt. Für Felix ist sie so etwas wie eine Trainingspartnerin, vielleicht sogar eine Freundin. Eine gute Frau für den König, sowohl als Person als auch für eine diplomatische Hochzeit, welche die Stadt, die sie regiert, nach Jahren relativer Isolation endlich mehr in die Affären des Königreiches eingebunden hat.

Sehr, sehr … Eingebunden.

Sie tanzen weiter und weiter und er fühlt seine Stimmung mit jedem Takt sinken. Es stimmt schon, dass er teilweise selbst daran Schuld hat, wenn er sich lieber in einer Ecke versteckt, um sich bei der nächstmöglichen Chance aus dem Staub zu machen. Allerdings ist da ein Teil von ihm, der nicht umhinkommt, über gewisse Dinge nachzudenken.

Die Braut ist kleiner als er, aber er weiß aus Erfahrung, dass ihre Kampfstile sich nicht wirklich unterscheiden, beide mit Geschwindigkeit und Genauigkeit als ihre Steckenpferde. Wenn er sich die Mühe machen würde, tanzen zu lernen, könnte er—

Er nimmt diesen Gedanken und stopft ihn zurück dahin wo er herkam bevor er die Möglichkeit hat ihn zu bereuen, und wendet den Blick endlich ab.

Schließlich endet die Musik, wie sie es immer tut. Wenn dies der Ball auf Garreg Mach wäre, würde er von Sylvain dazu gedrungen werden, zumindest einmal zu tanzen, und sich schlussendlich die nächstbeste Person krallen, die sich nicht über ihn lustig machen wird (Mercedes, wie er sich erinnert), um sie durch den traurigen Abklatsch eines Walzers zu quälen, damit sein Freund endlich Ruhe gibt. Aber das hier ist eine Hochzeitsfeier und Sylvain befindet sich irgendwo auf der anderen Seite des Ballsaales, um Ingrid gleichermaßen zu peinigen.

Und zu seiner Verzweiflung kommen diesmal der König und seine Königin gerade genau auf ihn zu.

„Was hast du uns denn die ganze Zeit über angestarrt?“, fragt sie mit einem wissenden Grinsen. „Ich hab selbst da drüben gespürt, wie sich dein Blick in uns einbrennt.“

„Ist nicht meine Schuld, dass ihr wie ein Unfall ausgesehen habt.“

„Schmerzhaft, aber man kann nicht wegsehen?“, erwägt sie. Wenn es etwas gibt, dass er am meisten an Dimitris Frau schätzt, ist es, dass sie sich von Felix‘ Gemüt nicht aus der Ruhe bringen lässt. Er weiß nicht, was er getan hätte, wenn seine neue Königin für jedes Wort über ihn geurteilt hätte.

Dimitri lacht, aber es ist gedämpft und klingt, als würde er sich zwingen. „Komm schon, so schlimm waren wir nicht … Aber wenn do sowas denkst, willst du nicht mit mir tanzen?“

Was.

„Ich tanze nicht“, antwortet er mehr instinktiv als alles andere. Mit etwas mehr Eigeninitiative fügt er hinzu: „Insbesondere nicht mit dir.“

„Wie wär’s dann mit mir?“, fragt sie und lacht ebenfalls, und ihr nimmt er das auf jeden Fall ab.

„Nicht in diesem Leben und auch nicht im nächsten.“

Ein Kichern und ein wissender Blick zu ihrem König, als hätte sie Felix genauestens verstanden. Um ehrlich zu sein, hat sie das wahrscheinlich auch. Es ist furchtbar lästig.

Dimitri sieht eher verwirrt aus als alles andere. „Ich wollte nur einen Vorschlag machen. Weil … Du mein Berater bist.“

„Was hat das denn damit zu tun?“ Berater oder nicht, ist doch völlig egal. Außerdem ist er das erst seit anderthalb Jahren. Es ist nicht so, als wäre er in seine Rolle schon sonderlich reingewachsen, abgesehen von der Tatsache, dass er ihn für dumme Entscheidungen ausschimpfen kann. „Wenn du tanzen willst, dann tanz. Dafür brauchst du mich nicht.“

„Oh, ich verstehe“, murmelt die Königin gerade laut genug, dass er es hören kann. „Er hat Angst, dass er gegen mich auch auf dem Tanzparkett verliert, wie gestern mit dem Schwert.“

Seine Hand zuckt.

„Es ist nicht so, als könnte ich nicht tanzen. Ich will einfach nicht.“

„Du kannst tanzen?“, fragt Dimitri, und Felix erwägt leise, ihn für seinen überraschten Tonfall zu schlagen. Das Problem ist, dass er nun einmal Recht hat – er kann ums Verrecken nicht tanzen. Aber das bedeutet halt nicht, dass er einfach hier stehen und sie reden lassen wird.

„So gut wie jeder andere auch“, lügt er.

„Wirklich? Bei deiner Schwerttechnik könnte ich dir sogar glauben!“ Sie klatscht enthusiastisch in die Hände. „Tu ich aber nicht. Nicht bis du’s mir zeigst. Ihr beide geht einfach und tanzt zusammen und ich spiel die Richterin!“

Es gab eine Zeit, in der diese Frau ihn an Annette erinnert hat. Mittlerweile weiß er allerdings, dass das ein unfairer Vergleich war. Annette könnte niemals so grausam sein.

Er tanzt genau nach ihrer Pfeife und jetzt kann er nicht mehr nein sagen, ohne sein Gesicht zu verlieren.

Nicht, als würde er sein Gesicht nicht ohnehin beim Tanzen verlieren.

„Meinetwegen“, schnauzt er und greift Dimitri bei seinem Handgelenk, um ihn in Richtung Tanzparkett zu ziehen. Er weigert sich, zurückzuschauen, wenn die Königin ihnen ganz sicher mit selbstgefälligem Gesichtsausdruck nachsieht.

Er hatte in seinem Leben genau eine Tanzstunde, vor sehr vielen Jahren. Dort ist er er über seine eigenen Füße gestolpert und wurde von Glenn so sehr ausgelacht, dass er anfing zu weinen (den Teil würde er leugnen, aber wie das Schicksal es so wollte war Ingrid da um alles zu sehen, wenn auch gleichsam elend dreinblickend). Seit diesem Tag drückt er sich um Unterricht wann immer nötig. Selbst, wenn er mehr Erfahrung hätte, wüsste er nur, wie man führt, und das kann er hier ohnehin nicht.

Das hier wird ein Desaster.

„Du hast gelogen“, stellt Dimitri sachlich fest, sobald sie auf der Tanzfläche angekommen sind. „Sie hat dich aufgebracht und du konntest es einfach nicht über dich bringen, dich geschlagen zu geben.“

„Wie unheimlich scharfsinnig von dir, Keiler“, knurrt er. „Führ mich besser gut. Ich hab kein Interesse darin, gegen sie zu verlieren.“

„Bist du sicher, das ist eine gute Idee?“

„Du hast mich gefragt. Mach’s vernünftig.“ So sehr er auch lieber verschwinden und nie wiederkehren würde, jetzt ist er nun einmal hier, und er wird sich vor keiner Herausforderung verstecken, insbesondere nicht, wenn sie von der Frau kommt, die Dimitri gerade … Geheiratet hat.

Er nimmt seine Hand und hofft auf das Beste.

Sie sind unbeholfen. Natürlich sind sie das. Er weiß, dass es wahrscheinlich die bessere Entscheidung ist, einfach bei allem irgendwie mitzugehen, das Dimitri mit ihm machen will, aber so langsam kommt ihm der Gedanke, dass das meiste an seinem guten Tanz vorhin von seiner Frau gerettet wurde – und es hilft ihm nicht, dass er sich wirklich wünscht, er hätte Handschuhe getragen, um nicht zu fühlen, wie sich ihre Hände berühren, Haut auf Haut—

„Du bist wirklich schlecht“, merkt Dimitri an, als Felix ihm das dritte Mal seit Anfang ihres Tanzes auf den Fuß tritt.

„Ich hab dir gesagt, du sollst mich gut führen, oder? Also ist es deine Schuld.“ Bei der Göttin, er hofft, dass die Königin ihnen nicht allzu genau zusieht. Aber so wie er sie kennt wird sie ihnen ein komplett ausgeschriebenes und signiertes Zeugnis darüber ausstellen, wie sehr sie gescheitert sind.

„Alle schauen uns zu.“

Das tun sie wahrscheinlich. Dimitri ist nicht nur der König, sondern auch der Bräutigam dieser Hochzeit – einer Hochzeit, für die ganz Fódlan angereist ist, um sie zu sehen. Es ist immerhin ein riesiges Ereignis wenn der König heiratet, und noch dazu in seinem jungen Alter. Und was ein wunderschönes Paar sie doch sind.

Er greift Dimitris Hand fester.

„Willst du zurück und mit deiner hübschen neuen Ehefrau tanzen? Ich bin mir sicher sie wäre außer sich, wenn auch nur, um es mir auf die Nase zu binden.“

Wie glücklich sie ausgesehen haben, als sie zusammen tanzten. Felix hat für solche Dinge keine Verwendung.

Ein Schritt zur Seite. Eine ungeschickte Drehung, die ihn fast zu Fall bringt. Man würde kaum glauben, wie schnell und agil er ist, so wie er sich hier blamiert.

„Felix“, sagt Dimitri in diesem Tonfall, mit dem er nicht umgehen kann.

Hände, die sich berühren, ohne Stoff zwischen ihnen. Sie sind sich nah, so nah, zu nah, aber er kann sich dem Halt nicht entziehen.

„Wie gesagt, du hast hierum gebeten, also bekommst du es, ob du willst oder nicht.“ Falls er jemals eine Idee hatte, was genau er hier eigentlich tut, verliert er sie in genau dem Moment, in dem er sich ihm weiter nähert, und auf einmal ist es fast ein Engtanz, wenn mit nicht ansatzweise genug Haltung.

„Das habe ich, das … Das tue ich.“ Dimitri klingt atemlos, so sehr, dass es lächerlich anmutet, als ob sie kämpfen und nicht tanzen, und Felix genießt den Effekt den er auf ihn hat für den Bruchteil einer Sekunde, bis er sich wieder an die Zeremonie erinnert.

Weiße Blumen, bombastische Musik, die Erzbischöfin als Vollzieherin der Trauung, ganz Fódlan als Zuschauer.

So etwas kann Felix ihm nicht geben. Nicht das, und nicht einmal einen vernünftigen Tanz.

Und das will er nicht. Das wollte er nie. Aber es gibt einen Teil von ihm, der es versuchen will, derselbe Teil, der der Grund dafür ist, dass Dimitri von Mercedes frisiert wurde und nicht von ihm, obwohl er explizit ihn um Hilfe gebeten hatte – weil er den Gedanken nicht ausstehen konnte, so kurz vor der Heirat bei ihm zu sein.

„Dann freu dich drüber. Ich bin für diesen Nonsens nicht gemacht, aber ich bin trotzdem hier. Mit dir.“

Nah. So nah. Er könnte ihn küssen, wenn er wollte. Tut er nicht. Will er nicht.

Gelächter von Dimitri, leise, warm, vertraut. „Ich freue mich doch. Ich hätte niemals gedacht, dass ich dich hierzu bringen könnte.“

„Hast du nicht. Deine Frau war’s.“

Er ist sich nicht mehr sicher, was sie überhaupt machen. Dimitris Halt ist fest und er wird fortgeschwemmt von ihren tollpatschigen Bewegungen, und jeder Schritt ist, als würde er näher am Abgrund tanzen und als wäre es nur eine Frage der Zeit, bis er fällt.

„Dann muss ich mir bei ihr bedanken“, sagt Dimitri mit einem Lächeln. „Dass sie dich selbst zu so etwas bekommt … Sie ist ziemlich schlau.“

„Hör auf, mich wie einen Idioten zu behandeln“, murmelt er, aber selbst in seinen eigenen Ohren klingt es schwach.

„Das hatte ich nicht vor.“ Sein Gesichtsausdruck sagt etwas anderes, ein Grinsen, das er für gewöhnlich nur an ihm sieht, wenn er über etwas nachdenkt, das vor vielen Jahren passiert ist, das meiste davon peinlich für Felix mehr als alles andere.

„Sei still“, schießt er zurück. „Wenn du dich nur mit mir anlegen willst, brauchst du dafür keinen Tanz.“

Seine Gefühle spiegeln seine Worte nicht wider. Mittlerweile ist er froh, dass er sich an Dimitri festhält – seine Beine fühlen sich schwach an und er traut seiner eigenen Fähigkeit zu stehen, geschweige denn zu tanzen, längst nicht mehr.

Er könnte es tun. Er könnte ihn herunterziehen und ihn küssen, mit allen Augen auf ihnen, genau wie seine Braut auf der Zeremonie.

Seine Braut.

Ja, Dimitri braucht einen Erben, das Königreich war ein reines Durcheinander vor gerade anderthalb Jahren und braucht jedwede Art von Stabilität, aber warum jetzt? Warum sie? Und warum sah er so glücklich aus mit ihr, wenn jemand den er tatsächlich liebt irgendwo da draußen sein könnte, mit gebrochenem Herzen? Felix hat sich nie wirklich für diese Dinge interessiert, aber das hier fühlt sich einfach nicht richtig an. Es ist nicht richtig.

„Ich hasse dich“, sagt er.

Dimitri blinzelt ihn nur an.

„Ich …“ Er ist sich vage darüber bewusst, dass er ihn mittlerweile zurückdrängt und dass man das wahrscheinlich so nicht macht. „Ich mein’s ernst. Ich hasse dich.“

Es fühlt sich nicht so an, als würde er es meinen.

„Wofür?“, fragt Dimitri und folgt seinen Schritten wie er es nicht sollte, als gäbe er seine Führung auf.

„Diese Farce eines Hochzeit.“ Dafür, dass er in irgendeinem spießigen Ballsaal mit seinem besten Freund tanzen muss, mit seinem König, der jetzt eine Frau hat, die er nicht einmal liebt, so denkt es zumindest Felix – oder will es vielleicht denken.

„Nichts wird sich verändern“, beschwört er ihn wie ein Kind, das beruhigt werden muss, und dafür hasst er ihn ebenfalls.

„Schwachsinn. Du bist verheiratet.“

Sie weichen gerade eben etwas aus – oder jemandem –, aber er hat keine Ahnung, was genau es war. Es ist so, als jagte er ihm jetzt nur noch nach, Schritt für Schritt für Schritt, wie in einem Kampf, bei dem er ihn in die Ecke drängt, nur sind ihre Hände noch verbunden und er fühlt sich, als ob er jederzeit in Flammen aufgehen könnte.

Bis Dimitri auf einmal innehält, und erst dann kommt die Welt wieder in den Fokus und er realisiert, dass das Lied, zu dem sie tanzen, vorbei ist.

Alles ist laut. Das Gerede der Leute um sie herum, das Rauschen in seinen Ohren, seine eigener Atem, schwerer als er dachte. Dimitris Gesicht ist tiefrot, und er wenn die Hitze in seinen Wangen richtig deutet, sieht Felix ähnlich aus.

Er reißt seine Hand praktisch von Dimitris und tritt einen Schritt zurück. „Also. Das war dein Tanz. Zufrieden? Und jetzt lass mich alleine.“

Als er zu seiner zum Versteck erklärten Ecke zurückkehrt, immer noch leicht desorientiert und mit nicht dem Hauch einer Ahnung, wo Dimitri als nächstes hinwill, ist die Königin noch da um ihn zurück zu begrüßen.

„Diplomatische Hochzeit“, erinnert sie ihn, selbstgefällig wie eh und je.

„Du mich auch.“

The door shuts with a resounding thunk, and then they’re alone.

Tenn’s first thought is, Damn it, now we have to push that stupid heavy door open again.

His second is, Wait, that door only opens with a key.

His third, Riku vocalises in time with it. “We don’t have the key.”

They stare at each other in disbelief as the realisation of their situation creeps up on Tenn ever so slowly.

This is an old unused storage room in a building they were asked to help tidy up by Takanashi Production’s director. It’s clean and relatively spacious, there’s light but not much in the way of furniture, and the door had been held open by a doorstopper that he even remarked upon not looking particularly trustworthy. It was the only one they had, after all, and there’s only one master key for most of the building, including this room. Said key currently being on Ousaka Sougo, who, if everyone kept to the schedule, should be out shopping right now, not to return until he’s worked his way down the ridiculously long list of items to gather that IDOLiSH7’s manager had handed him. He had a fleeting thought, when they were instructed on what to do with this room, that maybe it would be better to hand the key to someone else, but didn’t say anything, too preoccupied with gauging whether or not this would be too much of a strain on Riku. Everything happened pretty quickly.

Which means …

“We’re stuck,” he states matter-of-factly.

There’s not really much else to do. Panicking won’t help them, nor will shouting for someone to get them out. Phone reception in this place is basically non-existent, as they figured out soon after coming here. The only thing they can do is … Wait, he supposes. Maybe move some of the boxes that are still standing around here, although they were supposed to take them outside, so that would just be a very sad way to entertain themselves.

For a while, they just kind of stand there, looking around aimlessly. Eventually Riku tries to push the door open, and when that doesn’t work, he sits down on the floor and leans against the wall. “Uh … At least we’re together? And we have light.”

Right, without the ceiling lamp they’d be in complete darkness. On top of that, this room is perfectly clean and dust-free, so his brother won’t have any problems – he made sure of that before they got to work. As much as he’d like to get this done, there are worse times and places to be locked up in a small room for what could very well be hours on end.

And yet, he feels … Odd. Not restless, though he’s sure that will come eventually, and not necessarily anxious, either. But he cannot deny the budding feeling somewhere inside him, an unpleasant one that he thinks he’s felt before, though he doesn’t remember where.

Lacking a better alternative, Tenn sits down next to Riku.

He made sure to put a reasonable distance between them, but of course his brother immediately shuffles over until they’re much closer together, close enough that he could rest his head on Riku’s shoulder if he wanted to, that Riku could lean into him completely disregarding any idea of personal space if he so pleased.

That feeling grows a little bigger.

“I hope Sougo-san comes back soon,” Riku muses. “But I’m glad it’s you that I’m stuck here with. It could be worse.”

“If it was the other members of Trigger …” Yes, Tenn can also imagine worse. Arguing with Gaku can be fun, but not for hours on end, and Ryuu, while a marginally better option, would get extremely annoying after a while. Not exactly the kind of people you want to be locked up in a small room with, no matter how much he’s come to treasure them – not that he’ll say either of that out loud.

But if it’s Riku, then …

“I mean, Mitsuki or Nagi could probably find a way to entertain themselves. With everyone else it’d just be boring. Or, well, Iori would probably chew me out for a bit for letting this happen in the first place … Although it’s nobody’s fault but that doorstopper’s.”

“Sure, and who placed that doorstopper there and said it’d be perfectly fine? This is your fault.” Even if it’s also Tenn’s for not double-checking and simply trusting what Riku and the staff member who showed them around said.

“Ugh … You’re right, but you don’t have to say it.” Riku sighs and leans back a little. “So what now? Not like we have much to do with the door being closed.”

That much is true. If Gaku was here, he’d probably call this a bonding experience or something ridiculous like that. In truth, it’ll most likely just be boring at best, while at worst …

That feeling spikes when he thinks that, and he finally comes to recognise it as dread.

He’s suddenly very aware of Riku’s body next to his.

“Hey, maybe we can talk a little to pass the time,” his brother suggests.

“About what?” He’d rather not, to be honest. If they’re at it long enough, he might say something he’ll regret.

“Hmm … How’s work going?”

Leave it to Riku to pick the most innocent question imaginable when he was steeling himself for something worse. Tenn almost breathes a sigh of relief. “Fine. Not much different than normal.”

Riku pouts, just a little. “That’s it?”

“There’s not much to say. You already know all the real anecdotes from when Ryuu told you on the way here. Or do you want to hear about what kind of shirt Mister Shimooka was wearing last time I saw him?”

“I guess … Then how about …” He contemplates for a moment, then says, “Your daily life!”

That’s not much more exciting, which is fine by him. Topics like these are safe. “Not much to say. Although I did buy a book yesterday. I haven’t gotten around to starting it yet, though.”

“What kind of book? I remember when we—”

“Nothing like that,” Tenn cuts him off before he can finish that sentence. “It’s on music history. I met the author at an event once and figured I might give it a try if I have nothing else to do.”

“Sounds boring,” Riku says, and he doesn’t want to admit that yes, it kind of does. “If it was a story, I’d check it out too. You know, like the one that you read to me when we were young.”

He wasn’t fast enough to stop him this time.

He’s aware that he should probably just dismiss him until he gets bored, but that wouldn’t be fair to Riku, either. It’s not like he wants to make him feel bad – quite the opposite. But this … Dread is gnawing away at him, as if it’s telling him that he knows full well where this will lead, where it always does.

Despite it, he asks, “Which one?”

“I don’t remember the name, but … The one with the songbird. You know, where it couldn’t think of any songs to sing, so it flew around the world to hear everyone else’s. And in the end, it wrote its own little lullaby. How did it go again … Something about the clouds and the stars … Do you remember?”

Oh, he remembers alright. He remembers the song word for word, every last note; how could he ever forget? He sang it for Riku almost every night back then. And Riku would listen intently with a smile on his face, even in the dark moments, even when he was in the hospital again and nothing else would make him happy. The songbird should listen to you, he’d say. He’d love to hear your voice, too.

“Faintly,” Tenn says.

Riku is quiet then, and for a moment it feels like he can finally breathe again.

Just for a moment.

“Tenn-nii?”

“Hm?”

“Can you sing me a lullaby?”

Riku’s voice is so soft, so hesitant. It’s unlike him. Tenn supposes he’s the one to blame for that, making him feel like he can’t even ask.

Even so, this …

“No.”

Silence.

Then, quietly, “Why not?”

“You’re not a kid. You’re not supposed to go to sleep here. You’re not even legally my brother anymore. Should I go on?” It’s a half-truth, but it’s the best he has.

Tenn feels Riku shuffle next to him and then suddenly, in a display of more Riku-like determination, his brother is climbing onto his lap.

Before he knows what’s happening, he’s being stared down.

His hands move to Riku’s waist and he stops himself just before they touch it, letting them drop uselessly to his sides.

Something inside him is screaming at him, but he doesn’t know what for.

“You’re unfair, Tenn-nii,” Riku says, louder this time, or maybe it just feels that way with how close he is. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wonders if he can hear his heart pounding against his chest in an uncomfortable mix of all sorts of feelings he’d rather not name, even to himself. “Who knows how long we’ll be stuck in here? Just one song, please. I’ll do something for you in return.”

Get off then, he wants to say, but no words come out.

Riku’s hands are resting on his shoulders only lightly, but his gaze is locking him in place regardless. He could shove him off. He could. He should.

“You won’t stop being my big brother just because you changed your name,” Riku says. “Haven’t we been over that?”

“Several times,” Tenn concedes. Thinking about Riku as not his family anymore is just as painful as the reverse is for Riku, maybe even more so. But it’s the best course of action, no matter what.

My brother, he reminds himself.

He should shove him off.

Riku is the one who breaks eye contact. Of course he is, when Tenn could never. His gaze drops to the ground, dejected.

They sit like that in more silence for a while, and it really is only a matter of time until Tenn can’t deny him any longer.

That feeling of dread eases off his heart a little with the first note.

“Do you know the light of the sun / when it rises in the morning?”

He feels Riku stiffen a little on top of him, then relax, and, finally, lean forward to rest his forehead on Tenn’s shoulder.

Tenn closes his eyes as he sings, as if that could make him forget.

“Do you know the twinkle of the stars / behind the clouds that lay the sleepy sky to rest for the night …”

Everything is warm like this.

Riku is, breathing calmly, as Tenn sings and absentmindedly strokes his back. The room is, although it’s only early spring, and comfortably so. His heart is, chasing away the shadows that cling to it.

He sings, just like he did every night so many years ago.

Riku is humming along ever so quietly, and he only barely takes notice. Together, their sound weaves something natural, as it always does when they sing together. Sometimes he wonders why they don’t do it more.

It’s not a long song, but it feels like an eternity passes until he’s reached the end, letting the last note fade out slowly to leave them with silence, and he keeps his eyes closed for as long as he can allow himself.

Riku sighs, contently now. “I love you, Tenn-nii.”

Tenn’s eyes snap open.

That dread is back in full force, spreading through his veins like ice, and suddenly everything is too hot even though he’s freezing on the inside and it’s all he can do to stop himself from shaking.

He remembers now why they don’t sing together.

His hands are on Riku’s back. Riku is sitting on his lap. Riku’s head is on his shoulder, Riku’s arms are wrapped around him, Riku is— Riku—

He should shove him off.

Rather, he has to.

He doesn’t move.

Someone with a lack of tact may remark from time to time that it feels like Tenn is avoiding Riku. He always denies it, but the fact that their schedules don’t often align is a very convenient truth indeed. It’s not like he doesn’t want to see him – quite the opposite.

Flipping through Riku’s photobook and imagining himself there next to him is one thing. Toeing a line, maybe, but in the end it’s only some pictures and a few thoughts that got out of hand. It won’t leave his room, or his mind. It has no impact on anything that actually matters.

This?

This is dangerous.

Riku is dangerous, by no fault of his own.

“Tenn-nii? Something wrong?”

Everything is wrong, he wants to say. “It’s fine. You’re just heavy,” he says.

A gasp, but no other movement. It seems like they’re locked in this position for now. “Are you saying I’m gaining weight? That’d be bad for our performances …”

“You’re heavy because you’re a grown man, Riku. I’d be more concerned if you weren’t.” Though thinking of him as that still feels wrong, like he’s defending himself from an accusation nobody is making. In the end, Riku will always be his little brother.

It takes all resolve he has to not tighten his grip on him in a feeble hope that it will chase away the feeling clawing at his body, and maybe something else.

“Yeah, makes sense,” Riku mutters, and he can feel the vibrations of his voice by his neck, just faintly, but enough so to send a different kind of shivers down his spine.

Tenn considers himself pretty good at faking his way through situations he’d rather run away from. It comes with the territory as a pro; you’ll have to do things you’re not good at or that you don’t want to do and work with people you despise. Over the years, he’s built up enough of an immunity to those things that he can get through just about anything if he has to. It’s just another aspect of his life, really.

But the thought of being stuck in this room with Riku for hours …

It hasn’t even been half of one and he’s already feeling like he’s going to break if this goes on any longer.

That dread has been nameless, shapeless, an abstract feeling settling in his gut and spreading its icy venom from there. He refuses to admit what he’s so afraid of.

That is, until he can’t deny it any longer.

But he won’t. He will not acknowledge it. He’ll sing his brother a lullaby if he wants, he’ll stroke his back and indulge him, just for now, until they go back to being Nanase-san and Kujou-san.

I love you, Tenn-nii.

Breathe. He should just breathe. He’s being paranoid, and he’s usually better than that. Nothing is going to happen. They’ll sit this out, they’ll wait for the others to return, and they’ll get back to work. Riku can say whatever he wants to him. He’s his brother. Brotherly love is a thing that exists; in fact, it’s what Tenn feels for Riku, nothing more to it than that.

Their silence now is suffocating.

Riku can probably tell that something is off. As much as he likes to pretend otherwise, they’re still connected, they know each other well enough to realise when the other is having trouble. Tenn maybe more so than Riku, though that’s more because he’s gotten extremely good at pretending. They’ve both changed, but Riku is still Riku and, underneath all that has been piled on him over the years, Tenn is still Tenn.

That person who thought of his brother when first asked if he was in love with someone, years and a lifetime ago, still exists. Though it’s only that, and he should be able to shrug it off. He was a child, after all. He’s grown out of that, as anyone does. He didn’t understand the true meaning of the question back then, or what love really entails, and now the closest thing he has to something like that is his fans.

“Tenn-nii,” Riku says ever so softly and everything inside him is screaming liar.

“It’s nothing,” Tenn replies to a question that wasn’t asked, though even he can tell his voice is shakier than usual. What an amateur mistake. “Forgive me if I’m not thrilled about being locked in.”

“Is it because you’re with me?”

Ah.

The way he said that was heartbreaking, adding a whole other kind of pain to the dread he’s already feeling, and yet he can’t deny it. He truly is an awful person.

He should lie. It’ll be easier if he just denies it and makes up some excuse about not being good with closed off spaces like this, or being paranoid about Riku’s condition. Anything will do, anything but the truth. Even a half-truth at this point would do more harm than good.

“You said you’d do something for me if I sing for you,” he says, careful to not betray any more emotion than he already has.

He could try and fall into something more playful, lean into Riku’s nostalgia even if it’s dangerous, as long as he knows what he’s doing. Avoiding it didn’t do him any good. But right now he’s not even sure what he’s going for at all. There’s plenty of masks Kujou Tenn knows how to switch through at a moment’s notice, and none of them fit, yet removing them spells even more trouble. Part of him is glad that Riku still has his head on his shoulder; he doesn’t know what his face betrays right now and he’d rather not find out.

“You didn’t answer my question at all.” He should be hearing a pout in his voice to match what he hopes is playful banter, but Riku sounds entirely sincere.

He can’t answer him. Instead, he says, “If Izumi Iori was here, what would you do?”

Silence. Tenn isn’t entirely sure either why that was what he asked. Or, well, he does know, but he should have known better than to voice it. So much for staying in control.

After a moment, Riku finally sits up a little to stare him straight down again, and he only hopes his expression is composed enough to be unreadable. “What does Iori have to do with any of this?”

Izumi Iori is a lot of things, though primarily a thorn in Tenn’s side. Someone who claims to know Riku better than he does, and someone who very obviously has feelings for him – as if that gives him any right to act like he knows best. The overbearing caretaker role should be reserved for Tenn. What’s a group member, even if they’re a good friend, to Riku’s brother?

It’s a different kind of dread that reminds him how of all the people in the world, the one who has the least right to walk with Riku is himself. He doesn’t care about facing that one, either.

“What would you do?” he repeats.

Riku doesn’t seem impressed, if the frown is any indication. “Uh … I mean, we’d probably argue. I don’t know if there’s anything in particular we’d have to talk about that we haven’t already been over. Things are going pretty well recently.”

“What do you mean by that?” That one slips out involuntarily.

“At work? And everyone’s getting along well enough right now. Oh, we’ve been having game nights recently! Mitsuki and I teamed up last time and we almost won, but then Yamato-san …” His words trail off into nothing and he shakes his head ever so slightly. “Why are we talking about this? Iori isn’t here and the others aren’t either. It’s rare that I get to spend time alone with you, even if it’s like this … But you just change the topic whenever I think we’re actually having a conversation.”

Oh. It’s … Admittedly almost funny how easily he sees through him in the end. He can’t resist the urge to pet his head, drawing a cute little sound out of him that approximates a squeak, which in return makes Tenn smile, just a little. “Fine.”

“Answer my question, then.”

And just like that, it all shatters once again. Their peace is always so, so fragile, and it’s always Tenn’s fault.

But what is he supposed to say? ‘Yes, it’s because of you’? Even if he wants to be honest, there’s some things he just cannot ever say, not to himself and certainly not to Riku. One answer leads to another question, and then another. Any of the paths he could go down would end in them fighting, and that’s if he’s lucky – if he were to be completely honest, spell everything out the way he never has before, the right thing for Riku to do would be to never look at him again.

If he’d stayed back then, that might be different. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. For Riku’s sake, and for his own.

It’d have been best if they’d never met again – that’s what it comes down to, and that thought digs its sharp, unforgiving claws into his stomach too.

“Tenn-nii—”

“It’s … It’s not. Because of you. It’s my own fault. Don’t think too hard about it.”

In a way, that’s probably the closest thing to the truth. Riku isn’t to blame for any of this, Tenn is. Tenn’s treacherous heart that wants to claim Riku as his, even though ‘his Riku’ is an existence he buried many years ago alongside Nanase Tenn. What a morbid joke it is that they share a grave.

“How do you mean that?”

His veins are frozen, but Riku is burning on top of him, as if he’s trying to thaw him from the outside in. In a way, that’s something he’s been trying since they met again. Some ice never melts though, even if you set it on fire.

“Like I said, don’t bother. There’s some things only the people that are feeling it can understand. You’ll just get unnecessarily agitated if you let it get to you.”

“So I should just not try to get it at all? Even though it’s hurting you?” Riku’s lips quiver as he says it, but his voice is stern. It keeps twisting the knife in Tenn’s heart further, but some messed up part of his mind is whispering, He’s beautiful.

He wants to run.

“There’s nothing you can do,” he says, which is the truth.

“I’m an idol!”

It’s like a slap in the face.

A declaration without a second of hesitation that freezes everything in place – their locked gazes, Tenn’s back against the wall, time itself.

“An idol’s job is,” Riku states and puts a hand on his chest, grips the fabric of his shirt, “to make people smile. Even when their lives are dull and grey, idols are there to bring colour into their world and to make them forget about their worries, if only for a few hours. I want to become an idol that can make everyone smile! I want that … But …” His shoulders fall and he slumps forward a little, gaze dropping to the floor and his free hand on Tenn’s chest now, without exerting any pressure at all. “Now we’re here alone, and you’re hurting and I can’t do anything, even though you’re someone who’s so important to me. What kind of idol am I?”

Kujou Tenn has sealed his heart off to the world, has built walls upon walls around it and surrounded those with barbed wire and impassable rivers.

And somehow Riku is still right there to break it.

There’s nothing else he can do. He’s already lost. His first mistake was being born as Riku’s brother, and any prospect of coming back from that is a mere illusion. Perhaps it’s true what people say – starcrossed lovers get reborn as twins.

He reaches out to tilt Riku’s face up so he can meet his gaze once more, maybe for the last time, then puts his hand on the back of his head and gently pushes him down.

There’s no resistance when their lips meet, and no push forward, either. It’s barely even a kiss – too soft, too fragile, laced with fear and melancholy and the knowledge that he’s currently destroying everything Riku worked so hard to rebuild.

Even that feeling of dread is stunned silent, and in this very moment, he feels a little bit more alive again.

He’s the one who breaks away first, leaning back only slightly – that something about Riku that draws him to him refuses to let him go any further than that, like he needs to feeling of his breath on his lips to survive. It might not be wrong. Or rather, he needs Riku to survive.

But this is just another corpse to bury.

Neither of them move as his heart is beating away in his chest almost violently. It hurts. Everything hurts. He made his choice, as if he ever had a choice at all.

Riku’s voice is but a whisper.

“Tenn…nii?”