Chapter Text
Novelty was unknown to Atsushi. As abusive as the orphanage was, it imposed a strict and unchanging routine for as long as he could remember. There is comfort in the certainty of events in the sense that yes, there will be a punishment and it will be as painful and unjust as the previous ones were, but knowing that it will happen reduces the fear. Some would say that the anticipation of pain, of what is to come, is crueler than the pain itself, since expectation feeds fear, which in turn feeds stress. And a stressed body is one that is tense when faced with the leather of the whip. Atsushi will say, however, that surprise hurts more than apprehension.
So he didn't like surprises. Or rather, he didn't like change and the novelties it brought. Shibusawa was a wave of change, plural, and Atsushi had never learned to swim.
"This is your new home now," the man told him once the car had stopped. Red eyes smiled at him in the rear-view mirror, but Atsushi only had eyes for the building in front of him. In fact, he hadn't looked away from the window once the whole way. First there had been the driveway of the orphanage, fading away into a black dot in the distance, then crowds of people like Atsushi had never seen before. It was one thing to be dragged through winding streets by a Sister with only her black uniform and white apron to focus on, it was quite another to see those streets from the seat of a car. Safe and warmed by the heating that had been turned on beforehand, the city passed by too quickly for Atsushi to make out any details. It was grey and brown and a whole bunch of colours that didn't have a name, then it was green like expanses of grass, meadows as far as the eye could see where cows, horses and sheep led a pleasant life.
Then there was the view in front of Atsushi: a house too large to be called that, but very different from the orphanage in its structure. Shibusawa had time to turn off the engine, get out of the car, and open the door without Atsushi noticing, too preoccupied by the high stone walls and the many windows of the building. He then got out in turn, arms still tightly wrapped around his few belongings and gaze shifty. "Is this where you live?" he asked quietly.
"Indeed, and you'll be joining me from now on." A hand rested on his shoulder blades to straighten his back. Atsushi looked up from the ground where they had reflexively landed. The sun was still high in the sky and made it difficult to see the man's face; small as he was, he seemed far away, but he could make out a welcoming smile and narrowed eyes. A second push on his back had him walking toward the large, grand house where a man was already waiting for them by the door.
"This is my mansion," Shibusawa informed him after the man took his coat. Atsushi's box followed, though he clung to it until Shibusawa told him that everyone he saw from now on was staff, including the man trying to take the box from his hands. Atsushi reluctantly had to leave it with him and follow Shibusawa through the mansion. Indeed, here and there they passed men and women all dressed in the same black and white outfits, some washing windows while others dusting floors and shelves. Not so different from the Sisters at the orphanage except for their complete indifference to Atsushi's presence. Their gaze was blank, their movements mechanical, their faces so closed they looked like porcelain dolls.
Shibusawa walked with long strides, so much so that Atsushi had to trot to keep up with him. The corridors they walked through all looked the same: a high ceiling, curtained windows on one side and a sparsely decorated wall on the other, a carpet stretching endlessly beneath their feet, a pretentious red that seeking to be important. Atsushi would have felt bad for dirtying it with his worn shoes if he wasn't busy trying to chase Shibusawa's back, where his long hair swayed from left to right to the rhythm of his steps. White, a bit like his own, but lighter, shinier. Healthier. Was that why he'd adopted Atsushi, because of their resemblance? The Sisters had mentioned during their gossip that he wasn't married, did he need an heir? But he still looked so very young.
Atsushi was startled from of his thoughts when he collided with the back of the man he was chasing, almost falling backwards onto the ground. The man turned abruptly towards him. "You'll find your room upstairs," he said, pointing to the imposing staircase where he had stopped. "It contains a fully-equipped bathroom. No need to go out during the night." At Atsushi's confused expression, he tilted his head, eyes squinting. "There are several rules to follow under my roof, but we'll talk about them tomorrow morning over breakfast. It's been a long drive after all, you must be tired."
A pat on the shoulder and then Shibusawa was already heading in the opposite direction, leaving Atsushi confused at the bottom of the stairs. It took him a few minutes to stop staring at the place where Shibusawa had gone, probably a corridor leading to another corridor, and it took him even more minutes to finally start climbing the stairs.
The second floor was not so different from the first. Carpets, windows, curtains, paintings. Atsushi walked hesitantly through the corridor, on the lookout for the slightest noise, a little lost as to where he was supposed to go, until he spotted a figure still standing in front of a door. Same sober uniform, black pants and a white shirt, hair tied up in a tight bun and a blank stare. "Um, excuse me?" Atsushi approached the member of staff, who barely blinked at his presence. "I'm looking for my room— well, Shibusawa-san said my room should be—"
The woman opened the door to the room she was guarding. And then left.
"Huh?" Atsushi glanced inside. A bed, a wardrobe, a chest of drawers, two bedside tables, the usual composition of a bedroom. He didn't enter the room until his gaze landed on the box he had given to another member of staff earlier. "Thank you!" he shouted into the corridor before closing the door behind him after waiting in vain for a reply.
He then stood there for a long time, his back glued to the door and his eyes everywhere but nowhere at once. It was a lot. A lot in a short space of time. At first it was too good to be true, after all, a rich man coming out of nowhere to get Atsushi out of his kitchen-household-cellar routine like Cinderella's fairy godmother was all very surprising— unreal. If it was someone looking for an unpaid worker, easy-to-sell organs or a guinea pig to test drugs and cosmetics—after all, orphans logically belong to no one except the State— the ethical and moral fallout would be minimal, if not nonexistent. Or, crazier and less likely, a man caught by a sudden father fever and wanting to have a child he could call his own.
But Shibusawa was none of the above. No, he had something in mind for Atsushi, something as unsentimental as the desire to start a family with a boy chosen at random from a dubious orphanage.
And breakfast the next morning only heightened this feeling.
Atsushi had barely slept all night. Eventually he'd moved from his frozen position in front of the door and allowed himself to explore the room until the carpet on the floor and the wardrobe full of white shirts had nothing new. He then sat by the window watching the moon rise through the closed shutters until sleep overtook him. Atsushi hadn't dared sleep on the bed, preferring the carpet to the soft, fluffy mattress, just as he hadn't dared use the hot water in the morning. The bathroom connected to the bedroom was in the same light tones, with bath, toilet and sink available, and above all hot water.
Atsushi had been tempted, as he was often deprived of such luxuries, but the possibility of him lingering under the running of water was certain. And although he'd got up at the crack of dawn, the last thing he wanted was to keep Shibusawa waiting. So he gritted his teeth through his icy shower, then slipped on a shirt and pant that strangely fitted him before going out once the clock in the bedroom showed seven in the morning.
The same woman from yesterday stood in front of the door and, upon his appearance, began to cross the corridor without a backward glance. Atsushi was already getting used to her taciturn behaviour.
He followed her with some distance between them through the mansion, walking from corridor to corridor, down to the ground floor, more corridors until they reached a large door, more ornate than the others. The woman knocked and Atsushi recognised Shibusawa's voice telling her to enter.
"Ah, good morning to you," he said once the two of them had entered the room. A dining room. Large like all the rooms in this manor, with curtained windows, dark wooden chests of drawers on either side of the room, a long table in the centre and a chandelier that lit up the room. Shibusawa smiled at Atsushi from where he sat at the head of the table. "I hope you slept well. I insisted that your sheets be cotton peracle instead of linen for maximum comfort."
Atsushi didn't know the difference. "It was fine," he replied, at a loss for words. The woman who had accompanied him to the dining room pulled out a chair near Shibusawa where cutlery was already laid out. Hesitantly, Atsushi sat down in the place allotted to him under the piercing gaze of the man at the end of the table. He thanked the woman but she was already leaving the room, while Shibusawa didn't spare her a glance. In fact he barely noticed the waiters who were now coming and going with trays of food.
Soon the table was covered with food as far as the eye could see, far more than what about forty children ate every morning. The fumes emanating from the dishes mingled with each other, the smell of eggs swirling around that of the toast, carrying with it the cheese and salmon, and encroaching on the avocado salad and the platters of charcuterie, right next to the plates of fruits.
Atsushi was speechless at the sight, while Shibusawa seemed to go through this every day, or so he thought. "So," he began after the staff had finished filling the table, "I told you there were some things to discuss now that we're living together." Pale fingers were armed with knife and fork, cutting the omelette from the plate with accustomed ease. Grey shirt closed to the neck, white hair tied loosely back, probably to prevent it from touching the table. It gave him a clearer, more angular face and his eyes were more visible. Atsushi kept his glued in front of him. "The rules," he said. His plate also contained eggs and the rest of the food seemed far away on the long table. He picked up his cutlery with trembling fingers.
"Yes, the rules."
It was the most food Atsushi had ever seen on his plate and yet he hardly dared to take a bite. What's the catch? he thought, glancing at Shibusawa who was eating without hesitation. What's the catch?
"No lurking in the hallways after curfew—because there is a curfew—no leaving the mansion without my permission except for the greenhouse," he listed. He took a bite of his breakfast and took his time chewing before continuing. "We will have breakfast and dinner together every day with some exceptions. I'm too busy at lunchtime to see you there. No mail sent without me checking it. The basement and attic are off-limits. Violating these rules will result in consequences, do I make myself clear?"
Atsushi swallowed the excess saliva that had accumulated in his mouth. He nodded.
Shibusawa seemed satisfied with his answer. "Any questions?"
"Um," his grip on the fork was beginning to weaken due to his sweaty hands, so he released it to discreetly wipe them on his pants. "Why did you adopt me?"
He regretted his question the second it echoed through the room. "I-I mean, I'm not ungrateful, on the contrary, I'm very grateful, it's just— Why me?" When Shibusawa only responded with a tilt of his head, pressing him for more, Atsushi finally mustered the courage to look him in the eye. "I'm not..." deserving, "useful to you in any way, and all of this," he waved his hand in front of all the steaming plates of food, "will be wasted on me."
Shibusawa set down his cutlery, a thoughtful expression on his face. "What makes you think you're not useful?"
Atsushi blinked. "I am?"
"Obviously," the man at the head of the table sneered, shaking his head, as if he couldn't believe Atsushi's reasoning. "You don't really think I traveled all the way to a questionable orphanage out of the goodness of my heart?"
And that's the problem, Atsushi didn't know. Knew nothing about this man or his intentions, good or bad. His hands gripped the fabric of his pants. "I'm useful?" he repeated and immediately regretted it when Shibusawa's face subtly tightened in annoyance before smoothing into a kind expression. He had that effect on adults: slow to understand, slow to complete tasks, prone to repeating himself. "H-How?" he stammered in an attempt to catch himself.
"Well, I firmly believe that no one is truly useless. We all have a role in the grand scheme of things. Fate, destiny, and the likes."
The bitter scent of coffee tickled Atsushi's nostrils while the sound of a spoon tapping against a cup as he stirred the liquid grated on his ears. "We are all useful, some more than others," Shibusawa continued contemplatively, his wrist moving in circular motions. One turn, two, three turns, and then the spoon was removed from the cup. He raised his steaming drink to his lips, sipping as if he had all the time in the world at his fingertips. Perhaps he did; he seemed so out of reach in his fine clothes and his home—his imposing mansion. He made Atsushi feel small.
"And in that usefulness, you, dearest, are special."
Atsushi barely had time to open his mouth before Shibusawa cut him off. "No, no, don't contradict me. You probably think otherwise, but it doesn't matter because I know." He stared into Atsushi's eyes, his ruby gaze so deeply red, red, red compared to the shy yellow and purple that was anything but royal. "You eat at my table because you're special, wear my clothes, and now live under my roof because you're special."
Atsushi took a deep breath, but no amount of air could properly fill his lungs. Special. Special? Him? Lulled by the contempt of the Headmaster and the Sisters since childhood? What sane parents would abandon their supposedly special child at the gates of an orphanage? Special. It was wrong, it had to be, and yet Atsushi's eyes moistened at the crazy, far-fetched, insane, inconceivable possibility that the Headmaster was wrong and this man who appeared out of nowhere one fine day was right. Hope fuels even the most broken machine.
Shibusawa smiled. "But for now, breakfast."
And Atsushi ate. The weight on his chest disappeared, and with it his hesitation. He ate cold omelets and salmon toast, an apple turnover that made him forget the Sister's old cinnamon roll, sipped a large glass of hot milk, and even tried the not-so-hot tomato and cheese dish. He ate to his fill, ate until his stomach protested and he was forced to put down his cutlery, all under Shibusawa's amused gaze.
"I take it the food is to your liking," he said with a hint of humor in his voice, his lips stretched into a thin smile that wrinkled his skin. Atsushi could only nod enthusiastically.
This was how he spent his first two weeks at the mansion, meeting Shibusawa every morning and evening to share a hearty meal that made Atsushi forget his nights spent hungry and cold. He didn't see him during the day, and since he had no chores to complete thanks to the presence of the attendants, he spent his long free time in the library. Access was granted, Shibusawa confirmed one morning when Atsushi asked for it, fearing he might break a rule, so he didn't restrain himself.
He'd read and read, but mostly fairy tales: Grimm and Andersen, Lang, Jacobs and Aulnoy, then Perrault and Villeneuve and finally skimmed over Galland's translations. He'd read about little girls in red and glass slippers, wicked wicked witches, of love resting heavily in foam at the bottom of the sea, bears and wolves and pigs and Arabian desert nights. It took Atsushi some time to get used to having time and not running around from morning to night, juggling several tasks at once.
The library was more spacious than the one at the orphanage, but with a lower ceiling and a more subdued atmosphere. Whereas the mansion was full of windows pouring in natural light, the library had only one, blocked by a heavy red velvet curtain. Atsushi spent his days, first on the floor out of habit, then, emboldened by the lack of discipline Shibusawa granted him, he took to sitting on a padded chair near the theology section. Shibusawa seemed strict at first, with his list of rules laid out on the very first morning, but now that he'd gotten used to things here, they were actually quite lax. No going out? Curfew? Floors off limits? Nothing much different from the orphanage.
Apart from that, Atsushi was free. At first he had thought that, being adopted by someone obviously well-off, he would be obliged to attend classes in one subject or another. He knew how to read, of course, and how to count; the orphanage offered an education that stopped at the basics, but no more. But nothing was forced on him, neither a course nor a teacher. He thought he might have to do something about it when a man, taciturn as ever, approached him on the third day with a tray, which turned out to be a snack to accompany his reading. Cookies are awesome.
So imagine his surprise when, on an evening colder than the previous ones, Shibusawa seemed... annoyed. Upset with Atsushi. Which was strange because he hadn't done anything wrong, hadn't been out of the mansion or in the attic or basement, not even the greenhouse, and certainly hadn't communicated with anyone outside. And yet Shibusawa was upset. Their meals had often been spent in comfortable silence with the incessant rain of the last few days in the background, the air subtly changing from autumn to winter. Tonight's silence was anything but comfortable. It was heavy and stifling, and the sound of cutlery scraping against the plates felt like needles stabbing his ears.
Shibusawa was upset, Atsushi would even say disappointed. Not the Headmaster's disappointment, no; he found Atsushi's very existence to be disappointment. Shibusawa's was closer to expectation.
But expectation of what? Atsushi hadn't received any instructions beyond the rules, what could he possibly expect of him? How could Atsushi have failed? So early, no less? Wasn't he supposed to be special?
Perhaps the man was simply in a bad mood, a difficult day hardening his features and his gaze. Atsushi made himself very small that evening, smaller than usual, and hoped that whatever was spoiling the mood of the man who had adopted him would soon pass. But it didn't. Each day that followed brought a new wrinkle to Shibusawa's tense face, until the man no longer bothered to hide his displeasure. Eyebrows furrowed, right cheek chewed from the inside, fists clenched, he no longer spoke either at the table or on the rare occasions when Atsushi passed him in the corridors, his shoulders tense with expectation and frustration.
To tell the truth, he was beginning to scare Atsushi.
But he didn't dare mention it, in fact he didn't dare speak until Shibusawa had done so first. And that wasn't likely to happen, given the silence of the meals, whether it was them or the taciturn waiters with their empty stares. Since his arrival, Atsushi had yet to hear any of their voices. Perhaps they had taken a vow of silence, as was sometimes the case with the sisters at the orphanage, Atsushi didn't know, and it wasn't as if they would answer his questions if he did.
The tension that had been building up over the last few weeks reached its peak on a cold, dry morning, with no rain for once and no wind, a harbinger of the heavy snow to come in the night.
Shibusawa was sitting as usual at the head of the table and Atsushi to his right, devouring his plate despite his knotted stomach, when the man suddenly looked up. "I get it now," he said, his eyes wide and staring into space before settling on Atsushi, "I get it."
Atsushi stopped chewing his toast. Shibusawa seemed to be struck by a revelation, the answer that had eluded him all these weeks. The eureka to his equation. And judging by the red gaze piercing him from across the table, it involved Atsushi.
"You're incomplete," he announced. For the first time in days, he abandoned his withdrawn expression for a smile too wide to be called warm. Discomfort spoiled Atsushi's appetite.
That same day, Shibusawa dragged him out of the library by the arm. Atsushi didn't even have time to react, too surprised to see the man appear between the shelves in a whirlwind of white threads. "Follow me," Shibusawa had ordered him and, finding him too slow for his liking, had opted to pull him by the arm through the mansion, Atsushi struggling to keep up.
It was so sudden that he couldn't form a single coherent thought; they jostled and tangled in his head, a jumble of what, how, why, where. It didn't help that he had no idea what Shibusawa's mood was; all he saw was his hair swaying behind his back with every step. It wasn't until they had descended the third flight of stairs in a row that Atsushi realized they were heading for the basement.
He then struggled reflexively. Basement rhymed with Headmaster, with punishment and isolation, cold, hunger, and everything he thought he'd left behind at the orphanage. An incomprehensible fear seized his being, so great and oppressive that his entire body began to tremble. Panic, Atsushi panicked. It greatly amplified his movements, much more dynamic than they had been a few weeks ago, invigorated by a richer diet. He pulled and pushed and struggled like hell, even going so far as to literally bite the hand that had so generously fed him until now. Shibusawa hissed in pain, momentarily letting go of Atsushi's arm, who didn't waste a single moment in bolting.
He barely ran a few meters before the man caught up with him thanks to his long legs, arms wrapping around Atsushi in a vicious embrace. "Atsushi-kun," he said, the scent of his cologne unmistakable even behind all the panic clouding his mind. "Atsushi-kun, I need you to calm down."
There was no trace of anger in his voice. Not even a hint of irritation at Atsushi's blatant disobedience, just a hint of easily overlooked worry in the breathlessness of his voice. They were both breathing heavily, one out of panic, the other because of said panic, which was making him struggle to keep Atsushi's body in his arms.
"I-I'm sorry— Please, please, I won't do it again, don't punish me please, I'm so sorry—" Tears streamed down his cheeks. He apologized as he always did; bargaining is for the grieving the Headmaster used to say, and Atsushi didn't understand, obviously, but still tried to avoid the inevitable, the whip and the chains and the moon—
"I'm not going to punish you."
"Please, please, I'm sorry, ple—"
"I'm not going to punish you," Shibusawa repeated, his grip on Atsushi as firm as iron. It was only now that Atsushi noticed the man was on his knees, hugging him from behind, his head resting heavily on his shoulder. His crystal-clear hair was spread out on the floor, but he paid them no attention. "I'm sorry for scaring you, dear. It wasn't my attention. Remember when I called you special?" He waited until Atsushi nodded shyly. "It turns out I need your potential to advance my research in the basement. Nothing but old books and paper down there, I promise."
Atsushi swallowed hard, his body still shaking but stable in Shibusawa's arms. His usually unwavering voice had softened into a gentle whisper that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Nobody spoke to Atsushi like that; calm and collected, reassuring, tenderly caring. It hurt, to have such intonation directed at him, arms wide open when all he'd ever known were palms descending on his raw, beaten skin. It made him want for more.
They stayed like that until Atsushi's breathing calmed and his heart no longer seemed to want to jump out of his chest. The arms around him didn't loosen once. Atsushi slowly placed a hand on them, his gaze fixed on the ground. "You promise?" he asked in a trembling voice tinged with hope.
"I promise," came the reply before Shibusawa rose from the floor without letting go. The basement door was open and the interior lit up, white marble stairs similar to those in the rest of the mansion descending into the unknown. "Shall we?" Shibusawa pushed him towards the door. Atsushi hesitated only a handful of seconds before following suit and diving into the basement.
And the torture began.
Atsushi had had a dream a long time ago. He was far too young at the time to remember it properly, but certain details were still clear in his mind
It was a sunny day. He knew that from the large windows that let in the sunlight. Orange and pink, too warm to be dawn, no smell of morning dew in the air. There was a man. Several men in fact, but this one was more imposing than the others with his white hair and his haori smelling of green tea. The ceilings were high but the desks—
Limp. As far away as possible. Running was pointless, not for lack of trying. Every step stained the white marble under his feet with reddish imprints. Brownish. Dirty and soiled. He was barefoot.
—were quite low and of a different wood to the Headmaster's desk. But they were also desks, two rows of desks where many people were busy. The imposing man had his back to them. He was watching the sky. The dream was blurred in the middle and frayed at the edges, fragile as a dandelion, warm as spring, the smell of coffee omnipresent. Golden threads—
He had asked for help at first. Between screams and tears, he had begged every adult he had encountered in his rare moments upstairs. No response. Atsushi didn't blame them, not anymore. At least he still had his tongue in his mouth, unlike them. Turns out they were all trapped in this nightmarish mansion in a scenario almost identical to those in the books he had spent hours reading in the library. No one could help Atsushi here.
The Headmaster was right. He was right all along, just what did he except?
—floated on the periphery, short and prettily adorned with a straw hat. A little further away, duller blond hair was tied back in a long ponytail. So pretty. Nothing like Atsushi's hair, gray as the ashes of Cinderella's name. There was a girl, maybe two, maybe one was a woman and the other a girl, maybe both were adults but not like the Headmaster and the rare couples who come adopted that Atsushi never saw. Closer to adults like the Sisters, but then again maybe they're only adults in his ignorant eyes that didn't know much outside of the orphanage.
What is an adult? A pretty woman who's a friend of butterflies? A ghost dressed in red? Did they wear skirts? Pants? The Sisters' dark robes or Shibusawa's cruelly white suits?
Was your blood forever imbued in the fibers of their clothes? Did they promise you wonders, then tied you to a chair and showed you hell? "It's hot," one of the few truly religious Sisters had once told him. "The flames of hell burn hot, boiling, red, and forever." Atsushi didn't know they could also be lightning and electricity, that thunder didn't just occupy the sky and could be brandished at someone else.
It burned. It burned, burned, burned as he limped wearily, painfully, through the mansion. Climbing to the first floor with his butchered body was a different form of torture than burning, first by electricity coursing through him from head to toe and then, when Shibusawa concluded that this was not enough to achieve the desired results, by fire. Not the metaphorical fire, no, real fire that blazed as soon as the match was brought into contact with Atsushi's gasoline-slick skin.
He burned like a witch at the stake for lies delivered by accusing fingers until the pain was nothing more than a distant echo. He knew it was there in his charred limbs, his melted left hand, and his vision reduced by the loss of his eye, but it occasionally faded into the background, like Shibusawa's coat catching fire as Atsushi clung to him in search of mercy. One moment it was white, then the next it was orange with flames, and the man screamed and thrashed and tried to wriggle out of his clothes and his hair caught fire in turn and the basement door was open.
So Atsushi limped to it and beyond, dragging the sack of flesh that served as his body to the only place that crossed his mind.
The staff didn't spare him a glance despite his pitiful state. Atsushi climbed the stairs one by one, their indifference leaving a bitter taste on his burnt tongue even though he knew they were in no position to care. He knew without having to turn around that some were already busy cleaning up the trail of blood and flesh he left behind.
No sooner had he reached the second floor than Shibusawa stormed out of the basement. He, who was usually so neat and graceful, was a blot on the manor's landscape. His clothes and hair burnt, his face largely reddened by the flames, his features contorted into an ugly expression of fury. He launched himself wildly up the stairs after the macabre trail staining them. He'll catch up with Atsushi soon. But that didn't matter, not when Atsushi won't be there to see it.
He lost his hearing once he reached the second-floor balcony. It was a good thing it wasn't locked, because opening it would have been impossible with Atsushi's inert fingers and his eyesight deteriorating by the second. It was the first time he'd ever stepped onto the balcony. The cold winter wind barely registered on his charred face. It was sunny, or not, who knows, certainly not Atsushi, and even if he could know, it didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered as he slowly, painfully, and laboriously hoisted himself onto the thick stone balustrade.
The sun was setting. The ground vibrated under Shibusawa's heavy, hurried steps. The snow below resembled a welcoming carpet of clouds, soft and fluffy, and cold enough to numb the damage caused by a simple match on a few centilitres of gasoline. Atsushi looked up at the sky one last time but was met with nothing but a black canvas, his vision failing him at last. In a final effort, he painted with diluted colors the fragments of his distant, unattainable dream. Alice's Wonderland and Peter's Neverland.
Then he let himself fall. And fell he did. He fell and fell and fell and fell—
Atsushi died long before hitting the ground.