Chapter Text
Yashiro Nene will die within a year.
It’s not like Hanako didn’t know that. He knew it from the start; from the moment her voice stirred him from his stall in the girl’s bathroom, the moment he peered through the frosted glass of the door to see someone standing before it, hands locked together in a desperate prayer. The moment he appeared behind her and carefully placed a hand on her shoulder, only for his hand to sit there on the soft fabric of her school uniform, that she would die soon.
Only those nearing the border between life and afterlife were able to summon him like she had. Some people, like the Kid of his brother, are born on that border—forever linked to the supernatural, for better or for worse. Others, like the lowliest of the Clock Keepers, earn that right through some contract or another, and can just as easily have that right stripped away from them. Everyone else spends their whole lives inching towards death, and a very unfortunate few are fated to see death much quicker. Yashiro was merely one of them.
At first Hanako told himself he didn’t care, and at first he believed it. He was already dead after all. He’d seen seasons change, life come and go while his own time stood still. When and whether another person lived or died was of no interest to him.
He wasn’t sure when that fact changed. When the thought of Yashiro’s death began weighing on his mind so heavily, when that subtle feeling of unease began to settle into his stomach every time she was out of his sight for just a little too long. It’s not like he could do anything about it even if he wanted to. The rules of the universe state that all life must eventually come to an end. Despite all his powers as one of the 7 School Mysteries, it’s not like he could stop time from ticking, he was no Clock Keeper.
And even if he could, it wasn’t a fate he could ever bring himself to subject her to. To stop her passage of time would mean to condemn her to the same fate as him—a being with no future, existing only to atone for something else, a crime she didn’t even commit. It’s not that he simply didn’t want her to die, it’s that he wanted her to live. He wanted her to experience the highs and lows of life past what the universe predetermined for her; to graduate high school, to continue gardening, to get a job in a field she loves, to get married to someone that fits all of her ideals. To have the opportunity to do everything she ever wants to do, even if it wasn’t with him.
But he’s dead, and without a wish he’s powerless. It was a lost cause, he was sure of it.
That was until an idea came to him one afternoon, on the rare occasion his assistant was away from her toilet cleaning duties. A storm had rolled in unexpectedly, thick grey clouds blanketing what was a clear sky only minutes before, and Yashiro didn’t bring an umbrella. In any other circumstance Hanako would’ve been more insistent on her staying for just a little longer, clinging desperately to her shoulders as if he had the power to physically keep her there, but something about the possibility of the rain turning Yashiro into a fish during her walk home made his chest twist in a way he couldn’t handle, so he let her go. And thus, Hanako was left to play rounds of koi-koi with the Mokke just to pass the time.
It was in these moments, without the distraction of a lively assistant and her somehow even livelier company, that he would find his mind drifting elsewhere. Towards Yashiro and the ever-looming issue of her lifespan, so much so that the Mokke would have to prod his knee every time it was his turn. He’d even zoned back in only to realize one of the little creatures was sitting on his lap, his hand stolen from him a dozen rounds ago. Today was no different.
Hanako sat on the windowsill of his bathroom, one leg pulled close to his chest, propping up the hand that held his hanafuda, while the other dangled lazily below him. With Yashiro gone, his gaze lingered on the practice garden. The one Yashiro and her clubmates tended to every day, the one that would be devastated by her sudden absence. His grip on his cards tightens, earning a surprised squeak from the Mokke who were, he realizes, trying to take them again. He breathes out a sigh as he shakes his head and shifts his focus elsewhere, intent to ignore that the feeling in his chest had sunk to his stomach.
He looks towards the adjacent school building, tracing its exterior with his eyes while attempting to recall the various classrooms housed within its walls, anything if it would distract him. That was the building that had specialized classrooms, he remembers. Science rooms filled with lab equipment and dangerous chemicals instead of rows of desks, or home education rooms that looked more like the interior of a kitchen than it did a classroom. Students were allowed to use the room to cook things so long as they brought the ingredients and cleaned up after themselves. According to Yashiro, some teachers hosted cooking lessons after school, and even Tsuchigomori had once taught her how to make hard candy. His eyes lower as his thoughts begin to drift again.
He wonders which classroom it was that Yashiro made donuts in. He wonders if it was her idea to make them for him, or if donut making just happened to be what was being taught that day. He wonders if the distinction really matters if she gave them to him regardless, and he destroyed them even before he had the chance to taste them. Yashiro hadn’t made him anything since then, and Hanako can understand why. There’s a small part of him that wishes she would do something like that for him again, a part that he tries desperately to smother before it gets too loud. He knows someone like him doesn’t deserve her kindness, it’s a good thing that she’s decided against it.
A strong wind rattles the window so hard Hanako jumps, pulling him out of his thoughts and back into his body so quickly it almost felt violent. His breath quickens, and his heart beats faster too. His hands find each other, now devoid of the cards that were probably stolen by the Mokke a long time ago, fingers intertwining in a shallow attempt to comfort himself. A weak laugh escapes him, only at the sheer absurdity of his situation.
He looks towards the bathroom for a moment, thinking maybe a change of pace would do him good, but he knew its interior like the back of his own hand. There was nothing about the cleanliness of its wooden floors or the way the side of the sink sparkled in the weak sunlight that didn’t remind him of her. He turns towards the other school building again, intent to ignore the bathroom, intent to ignore the home education room, intent to focus on something else, anything else.
Kamome Academy had an auditorium, he remembers suddenly, though he isn’t sure what part of the red brick wall and curtained windows reminded him of that. Once a year, students with all sorts of talents would come together to put on a performance for the school. Artists would make props, actors and actresses took the stage, and musicians played songs at just the right moments to pull at your heart. He wonders if the relics of their past performances could be found somewhere, if the costumes and props and songs were stored in some closet he wasn’t aware of. He didn’t know, he was never into the arts.
Hanako pauses, eyes widening with realization. There was one supernatural that could ensure Yashiro’s safety without stopping her life entirely, one that could allow her to keep living, even if it wasn’t in reality anymore. A supernatural that paints fictional worlds inside of a canvas to trap the living: 4th of the 7 Mysteries, Shijima of the Art Room.
Her rumor rings in his ears, how her spirit still haunts the art room. He tries to shake the thought, but it consumes him before he can even realize it, staining every logical facet in his mind with newfound possibility. Something twists in his chest as he considers it more, harder this time, sending thunder into his veins, like he had stumbled upon a piece of knowledge he was better off not knowing. That Yashiro might be able to live.
Hanako curls into himself, pulling both legs into his chest and folding his arms over them, burying his face into his knees. Might, he has to remind himself. Borrowing another supernatural’s powers was dangerous work, especially for something like this. In the best case scenario Yashiro stays trapped in a painting forever, eternally unaware of her dwindling lifespan, free to live out her years without fearing what fate had chosen for her.
And in the worst case scenario, it would be him bringing her straight to death’s door.
He grips his arms tighter, so hard they might’ve bruised if he were made of real flesh and blood. He didn’t know enough about Number 4’s powers to say anything for certain; whether a painting world would be safe, or even if it would be anything like reality for that matter. But the thought continues to beckon him, an opportunity that he knows would forever haunt him if he didn’t at least explore it.
“I just need to check.” He reasons to himself as he unfurls and jumps down from his perch, his leg catching the Mokke’s placemat and scattering hanafuda cards in his wake. The Mokke exclaim something that Hanako doesn’t bother to hear, his focus set on more important things. “I need to make sure this won’t work.”
- - -
Number 4 was a supernatural that rarely showed herself to humans. Unlike the other 7 Mysteries, Shijima of the Art Room seemingly had no interest in spreading her own rumors. So much so that despite his long service as Number 7, and even in the wake of the current rumor-changing issue plaguing the school, Hanako had scarcely heard cases of students getting trapped in her paintings. Thankfully even without a heavily spread rumor, locating the entrance to Number 4’s boundary was no difficult task—there was only one art room that displayed student works in Kamome Academy, and only one painting on display by a Shijima Mei.
Hanako stands before it, hands folded neatly behind his back, head tilted slightly downwards as if he were trying to intimidate a framed picture. The room was dark now that the rain had begun to fall at full force, heavy drops of water banging on the windows so hard that for once, Hanako is glad Yashiro decided to go home early. Still, it makes viewing the contents of the painting more difficult than he’d like it to be.
He had no idea what the inside of Number 4’s boundary looked like, so he had hoped that the painting itself would give him some indication of what to expect. But in the dim light of the art room all he can make out on the canvas is some kind of strange tower.
Its form and architecture was nonsensical, composed of what appeared to be a bunch of smaller rooms stacked on top of each other to support one, larger room at its peak. A pulley system craned out from one side, but attached to it was nothing in particular. The building appeared strangely dilapidated for the subject of a painting, with boarded windows and cobwebs spinning off of every surface. He assumes the whole thing is meant to be symbolic, though symbolic of what he isn’t quite sure. At no fault of the painting itself, no matter how much time he spent leaning in and narrowing his eyes, Hanako couldn’t change the fact that he had never been good at reading between the lines. He takes a step back.
Boundaries tended to be large and winding, reflecting the will of its overseer in the sort of twisted way that becomes every supernatural, no matter how initially human-like. The image in the painting gave Hanako very little to work with, leaving most of his expectations up to his own imagination. Given what he knew of Number 4, perhaps her boundary was a tower made of paint strokes and pencil lines that stretched infinitely upwards, displaying her paintings on its walls. The mere thought of it made him frown.
Hanako beckons one of his hakujodai over, cradling it in the palm of his hand as he thought. He considered donning its power to begin with, but Number 4 had never presented herself as an especially dangerous individual. A supernatural that feels threatened is one that would do everything within its power to protect itself, so perhaps loudly announcing his distrust in the other while walking into a place where she was the ultimate authority would do him more harm than good. He waves the orb away. He’ll enter Number 4’s boundary, track her down, question her about her powers, and leave. He takes a breath, and touches his hand to the painting.
The world around him blurs in an instant, the art room and all of its paintings muddying into a mix of different colors that eventually culminate into nothing. Then, just as quickly as the world faded, a breeze brushes past his cheek. Hanako blinks his eyes open. It wasn’t what he expected at all.
Number 4’s boundary was bright and sunny, a stark contrast to the dark classroom he had been standing in moments earlier. He seemed to be in a small room, though the balcony to his left made the space feel much more open than it actually was. Art supplies littered every surface; boxes overflowing with rolled parchment, discarded palettes colored with dried paints, jars filled with paintbrushes of various shapes and sizes. Tubes of paint occasionally waddled past him, which, alongside the layer of water on the ground, confirmed to him that this was the boundary he had been looking for.
Easels holding up canvases lined the walls, yet most only displayed unfinished sketches of scenery and random figures, messy lines conveying a vague idea but lacking in any real definition. Others were completely devoid of anything, reflecting back a white so sheer Hanako half expected to be able to see his own reflection in its fibers. It was a far cry from the collection of paintings of trapped students he felt he was promised.
And in the middle of everything, standing only a few strides away from him and framed by a particularly large canvas, was Number 4 herself. Her back faced towards him, a palette in one hand and a paintbrush in the other. She continued to draw, filling the room with the rhythmic sound of a paintbrush stroking paper. Occasionally she would stop, taking a step back and shifting in thought before starting again with a new color or a different brush. She seemed obvious to his presence, or perhaps she just didn’t care to acknowledge him.
Hanako stands still even as his hakujodai wander, looking past Number 4 and towards the painting she was so focused on, or at least what little he could see of it. This one was mostly white too, but perhaps that was a given if she was still actively working on it. He could see little blotches of color near the edges of her figure, as though the main focus of the painting was whatever was at its center, obscured by her. The thought occurred to him then, the sheer absurdity of it all.
Scanning the room and all of its paintings, not one of them looked like a world could be housed within it. They were all pieces of the world, fragments of a whole, no better than trapping Yashiro in a room for the rest of her remaining lifespan. Had he really become desperate enough to resort to something like this? His eyes narrow in frustration as a feeling of disgust spreads throughout his chest and rises to his throat. What was he even doing here?
“You have a favor you want to ask me, right?” Number 4 breaks the silence with a loud sigh, turning to face him with her paintbrush still held crooked in her hand, as if she was mid-stroke when she finally had enough of ignoring him. Hanako can see her eyes widen slightly as they meet his, but if his expression made an impression on her, she doesn’t say anything about it. “Is this about my yorishiro? Are you here to destroy mine too?”
Hanako breathes out a laugh. “Nope!” He chimes, keeping his tone deliberately light, holding a curled hand up to his mouth in a half-hearted attempt to conceal his grin. He walks closer, and Shijima takes a hasty step back, bumping into the easel behind her and sending a pencil down into the water below. He can see her watch as it sinks, but she doesn’t move to pick it up.
“Say, Number 4,” He starts, his voice suddenly low. Shijima’s eyes immediately flick back towards him, and Hanako swears he saw her jump when he spoke. Maybe he needs to be a bit gentler. “How do your powers work again?” He smiles at her innocently, tilting his head and leaning forward with both hands behind his back.
“Why are you asking me about this all of the sudden?” Shijima questions, her words slow but not calculated, just a bit hesitant; distrusting of him, but not enough for her to act on it. She turns her attention back onto her painting, as if she’s disinterested in the conversation already.
Hanako hums as he falls backwards into the air, choosing to hover instead of stand. He looks to the ground, tracing the shapes in the water with his eyes until he found what he was looking for—the pencil she had dropped earlier. “Isn’t it a part of the leader of the 7 Mysteries’ job to keep tabs on everyone? There’s nothing weird about that, is there?” He fishes it out of the water, smoothing over the droplets on its surface before setting it back on the edge of the easel.
“I suppose not…” The other Mystery sounds almost defeated as she lowers her palette, dipping her paintbrush in a nearby jar of water and swirling its contents around in preparation for a longer conversation. “I’m School Mystery Number 4, Shijima of the Art Room. My powers let me trap people inside fictional worlds created from my paintings.”
“And…?” Hanako prods. A line of wandering paint tubes catches his attention out of the corner of his eye. He leans down and picks one up without thinking. The cyan one, colored just like the tips of Yashiro’s hair. He blinks. It wiggles in his hand like it’s distressed. He isn’t sure if his choice of color was a coincidence or not. He decides not to think too hard about it.
“Is there something more specific you would like to know?” Shijima shoots him a sideways glance, seemingly growing more impatient with each question. She pulls her paintbrush out of the jar and taps it on the rim a few times only for it to still be dripping with color. She tries again, to no avail.
“What happens to the people trapped in your paintings?” His voice lowers some as he clasps his hands over the tube of paint, holding it up to the other ghost as if attempting to illustrate his point. It struggles within his grasp, the motion tickling his palms just enough for it to be noticeable, but not enough to be a bother.
“Who knows, I don’t care. Trapping people inside paintings isn’t a hobby of mine.” She spits, with so much venom in her tone it catches Hanako off guard. Shijima picks up the jar of paint water and walks over to a nearby sink, dumping out its contents and rinsing it clean. Hanako follows suit, taking a seat on the counter space right next to her and watching as the colors from the jar mix, then fade down the drain. “Each painting I make is different, so I suppose it would depend on that. But those worlds are still a part of my boundary, so they would be removed from the real world at the very least.”
“Do they know they’re trapped?” Hanako opens his hands a little, taking a peek at the tube of paint still confined between his fingers. It shudders, or at least it does the paint tube equivalent of shuddering.
Shijima raises an eyebrow. “Not if they don’t try to find out.” She pauses as she scrubs the jar clean and refills it with clear water. “The people trapped in my paintings gradually lose their memories as the painting gets worked on. Once the painting is complete, they integrate perfectly with the world and forget everything about where they originally came from.”
Number 4 walks back to her canvas, wiping the exterior of the jar’s glass with her sleeve. She places it on the rim of the easel before attempting to clean her paintbrush again. Hanako can hear her satisfied hum when the brush comes back spotless, but her face is still scrunched with annoyance when she turns back to face him again. “Are you satisfied now? Can I go back to painting?”
Hanako leans back against the wall behind him, one leg propped up on the edge of the counter while the other hangs lazily off its side, his hands settling near his abdomen absentmindedly. “If I were to ask you to trap someone in one of your paintings for me,” He starts, his words slow and his voice level, but his gaze intense, face angled slightly downwards as he looks at the other supernatural. Something flickers in her eyes as he speaks, some mixture of curiosity and confusion. “Could you guarantee their safety?”
His stomach turns as he asks the question, the words difficult to get off his tongue and through his teeth, as though speaking them would make the load harder to bear. He feels like he’s asking for something wrong, something too indulgent in his own desires for anyone other than himself to ever say yes to. A heat creeps up to Hanako’s cheeks, the same way it always did when he thought about it, about her.
“Huh? What are you-” It takes Shijima a moment to respond, and by the time she manages her first few words Hanako is already cutting her off. He’s made his decision; this is a stupid plan.
“Actually, nevermind!” He announces, dropping the tube of paint into the water below and watching as it lands with a small splash before scurrying away. Hanako lifts himself off the counter, floating back towards where he had been standing when he entered Number 4’s boundary. Another painting, he realizes; one of the art room. He’s about to state his leave, one arm preemptively reaching for the painting, when Shijima cuts him off.
“Would you like to try it?”
In the absence of the sound of Number 4’s painting, the words linger in the air. Hanako can feel himself tense up, the same way his body always does when he’s about to have to make a decision he doesn’t want to make. He looks down at the ground, at the water lapping at the hem of his socks, as if they could give him a push in the right direction.
This could be the answer he’s been looking for, this could be the thing that lets Yashiro live a long, safe life, even if it meant using another supernatural’s powers. It might not be safe, but he didn’t know that for certain, nothing about their conversation nor the paintings that surrounded him confirmed that with absolute certainty, and he wasn’t sure if he’d ever be able to forgive himself if he let this chance pass him by. If his inability to act led to Yashiro’s death.
That’s the reason why he was here after all, wasn’t it?
Without a clear answer, Shijima continues to explain. “If you want to learn about my painting worlds that badly, I could let you have a try in them—create a little snapshot of a perfect world, just for you to enjoy.”
“If you’re trying to trap me in a painting right now, you’re gonna have to try a bit harder than that.” He responds flatly as he swirls to face her again, a hand gripping the edge of his hat while the other sinks into his pocket. The seriousness of the other’s expression catches him off guard, her eyes dark and her mouth thin, a stark contrast from the vaguely troubled demeanor she had moments before.
“Oh of course not, I would never!” She throws her hands up in a display of resignation, the edges of her lips pulled into a slight smile, as if she was lying, or just very bad at telling the truth. Hanako remains unconvinced, keeping his own face vacant. “Art has certain fundamental rules. When I make my paintings I have to create them with certain conditions that must be followed. If I say that you will be pulled out of my painting before its completion, it will happen.”
“Really…?” Hanako tilts his head, and thankfully his expression doesn’t betray him. It’s a story that sounds too good to be true, too good to be trusted.
“Yes! I wouldn’t dare lie to Honorable Number 7.” It’s not exactly the most honest sounding words, but in the absence of his immediate refusal, Shijima has already started moving. She whips back around to her easel, taking off the canvas she had been working on when he had first arrived here and propping up a new one. “What kind of world would you like to live in, Number 7?”
He floats a little closer in silence, watching as the other School Mystery opens drawers he didn’t even realize existed to fish out fresh paints, squeezing them out onto a fresh palette to create a wide display of colors. Her actions, to him, looked almost haphazard. Perhaps to another artist, this display would be typical. “Something similar to this one?” He answers vaguely.
“That’s no fun at all! It’s a fictional world, you can ask for anything and I can make it happen.” She loops the palette around her thumb and dabs a paintbrush into one of the colors. Hanako settles at arms-length from her, hovering in the air with his legs folded over each other as though he were sitting down, and his hands placed in his lap.
“It’s just to test your powers.” He answers shortly, dodging her offer again. Finally, she shoots him another sideways glance. He was expecting a mote of anger, or annoyance at the very least, but there was something less aggressive about her stare this time. More knowing, as if she was looking into him instead of at him. He does his best to keep his lips from turning into an uncomfortable grimace.
“Who were you planning on trapping, Number 7?” She focuses her attention back into the canvas again, her tone casual, unchanging, as if she didn’t just point and ask about the thing he holds most dear to his heart. Anxiety prickles at his chest and threatens to flush his face crimson.
“No one.” His voice comes out quicker than he wanted it to, more desperate than he needed her to know he was, and to top it all off, it was a terrible lie. Shijima fully pauses this time, turning to look at him, and prompting Hanako to look away. She studies him with such intensity he worries for a moment whether she could see into his thoughts. She lets out a long hum before going back to her painting, and Hanako hopes in vain that the heat building in his body wasn’t visible on his face.
“Okay, what do you think of this?” Number 4 steps back from the easel, one hand placed gingerly on her chest while the other pointed towards her work, inviting Hanako to take a closer look. He unfurls from the air and floats over hesitantly, arms tucked into his chest while letting his hands dangle. He scans what seemed to be an incoherent mess of shapes, lines, and colors—was it another artistic thing he didn’t quite understand?
“What does this-” He’s about to turn back towards her when a hard shove knocks the rest of his words out of him. He’s barely able to twist his body in time to look at Number 4 before he’s swallowed into the canvas, the world around him blurring into the same mess he was merely observing moments earlier. The last thing he sees is Shijima standing and waving, an innocent smile plastered on her face as she speaks. “Good luck, Honorable Number 7.”
- - -
Something soft envelops his body. Like a cloud, but firmer, more physical than a collection of water particles in the air. Something warm heats the skin of his cheek. Like a breeze, but without sound or movement. Something bright prickles his eyes from even beneath his eyelids, forcing him to stir.
Hanako’s eyes flutter open lazily, at first gazing at nothing in particular. As they adjust, he takes to focusing on the little dust particles in the air, how they catch the light as they fall, how they were a solemn sight to see nowadays, though he can’t quite think of why he feels that way. He closes his eyes again. His head felt strange, as if someone had replaced his brain with cotton; fuzzy, like he was being prevented from remembering something important.
He’s about to drift back to sleep again when a frenzy of footsteps coming closer and the slam of a sliding door opened much too quickly demands his attention, but before Hanako could even assess the situation, he feels himself get tackled backwards.
“Amane! Are you awake yet?” A familiar voice asks, a voice that makes his chest tighten as soon as he hears it. His eyes flick open, widening as they meet a pair that look just like his own. “We’re gonna be late for school if you sleep any longer.” Tsukasa teases with a giggle.
Hanako rises slowly, a blanket falling off of his shoulder as he pushes Tsukasa off from where he had landed on his abdomen. His brother peels away with little protest, falling backwards to the foot of the bed. He was wearing what seemed to be a school uniform, but one that was unlike anything Hanako had ever worn; a sky blue shirt and dusty brown pants, with a striped tie with its end dipped in black tied neatly around his neck. It's a stark contrast from the white shirt and black pants he was used to, but the way his brother wore his uniform was still the same—shirt slightly untucked on one side, buttons done so hastily he missed a few.
“What’s the matter? Did you have a bad dream?” Tsukasa questions, righting himself before staring at him with wide eyes. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
He looks around the room. His room, something deep within his brain affirms it like it should be common knowledge. But this isn’t his room, he knows that; his room never looked like this. Light wooden floors, mossy green walls, and a dark plank ceiling with a light hanging from the center. A bed placed in the far corner, a desk stocked with books and stationary and science magazines right beside it. Likely a closet behind the two sliding doors on the opposite side of him, and a shelf tucked right beside the door that Tsukasa had rushed to open so aggressively that it was slightly ajar. Some of the walls had posters about space and astronomy, and sitting gingerly on the chair tucked into the desk space was a school bag with a rocket keychain. All his things, but it couldn’t be.
The memories begin to come back to him. About Yashiro’s lifespan, about wanting to save her, about visiting Number 4 and being thrown into one of her paintings. About getting desperate enough to let that happen to him.
Hanako looks down at his hands. Completely opaque. Warm, real, alive.
“Amane?” Tsukasa had inched closer to him again, crawling on all fours until he was nearly sitting on top of him, his face just inches from his own. He slips a hand underneath his bangs, pressing a palm into his forehead. “Did you get sick?”
“What- No, I’m fine. I just…” Hanako stammers, looking for a good excuse. He grabs his brother’s wrist and forces it away, using it as an opportunity to push Tsukasa back so that he can fully sit up himself. “Stayed up a bit too late yesterday.”
Tsukasa hums, though he can’t tell if he’s content with his answer or still suspicious of him. Regardless, he hops off the bed and heads towards the door. “Classic Amane.” He murmurs, two fingers hooked on the edge of the doorframe. “I’ll be waiting for you at the door, be quick okay?” He glances over his shoulder as he speaks to him before sliding the door shut, leaving Hanako in a stunned silence.
He blinks. Then he pinches himself, but he doesn’t wake up, and the pinching hurts. Of course he doesn’t wake up, it’s not like this was a dream. He was trapped inside Shijima’s canvas, with no way of getting out.
Slowly, Hanako stands. Based on what Shijima had told him, acting out wouldn’t do him any good. He’s the only one that’s aware this world is a fake, and acting with that in mind would only draw more attention to himself. More importantly, he realizes with a frown, he has something he needs to do. He needs to confirm that this place would be safe for Yashiro, and to do that he had to act the part of a normal student. He sighs. How long had it been since the last time he had to get ready for school?
He doesn’t know this room, but he knows how to get ready. He shouldn’t know that his uniform was hanging on the far left side of the closet, but he did. He shouldn’t know that the textbooks he needed to bring for the day were tucked neatly inside the top drawer of his desk, but he did. It made his jaw tighten, all the things he knew about this place that he shouldn’t know, like he already belonged in this world, like he had always belonged in this world.
He slips the books into his school bag. He knew the rest of his things were already in there, a pencil case, some notebooks, gym clothes folded neatly into a drawstring bag. His eyebrows furrow, only because his frown can only go so deep. He zips the bag shut and slings it over his shoulder, making the decision to stop thinking about it before it turns into a headache as he leaves the room.
The house felt similar to his own, though he isn’t sure how much of that feeling was Number 4’s influence. Outside of his room, the walls were a sort of light beige decorated with the occasional painting or family photo that he knows were never taken, accented with dark wooden panelling that ran up until his waist and down to create the flooring. Tsukasa’s room, he wants to pretend he realizes, was the one right across from his. The bathroom was just down the hall and his parents’ room loomed uncomfortably at the end of it. He tenses for a moment, shifting on the pads of his feet before swallowing hard and making his way towards the stairs. If his parents end up being a problem, it would be a problem for later.
“Come on! We might make it in time if we hurry!” His brother calls for him as soon as the first step creaks under his weight. Hanako descends faster. Right, he was late for school. He meets Tsukasa at the door, who was swaying back and forth on his heels, his bag thumping against his side as he moved, as if he’d die if he wasn’t constantly in motion. Hanako nods as he slips into his shoes, avoiding his brother’s eyes as he barrels out the door. It isn’t entirely unlike him, and that’s what makes accepting it so much harder.
Or maybe it was easier? The thought flickers in his mind as he locks the front door, a motion that came so naturally it almost felt practiced, like he had done it hundreds of times before, even though he knew he hadn’t. It was only difficult for him to accept because he knew this world wasn’t real, because he was actively trying to resist it.
But what if he didn’t know that? Tsukasa unloaded their bikes, and they began pedalling to the school together, the route familiar, implicit in his mind, even though this was the first time Hanako had ever gone down these paths. If he had merely woken up in this world one day, he might’ve accepted this world in a heartbeat, accepted that the life he had been living before was nothing but a nightmare.
By the time they arrive at school, Hanako can’t help but feel consumed by how remarkably normal everything was. He had been waiting for a moment to shatter the illusion, for something to happen that didn’t make sense, to remind him of the truth of this world—that it was nothing but a fake, not to be trusted, but that moment never came. If anything, it was the opposite, and it almost felt like he was the strange one for trying to convince himself that something bad could happen. But that didn’t mean this world was safe for Yashiro, at the very least still couldn’t say that with absolute certainty.
“Amane,” Tsukasa calls him softly, but his voice still manages to startle him. Hanako had been following him this whole time without much thought, but now as he attempts to enter the classroom, his brother is pushing him backwards by driving an elbow into his chest. “Your class is over there.” He says, pointing to the room on the opposite side of the hall.
He can feel the heat of embarrassment rise in his body, even though this should’ve made more sense, he shouldn’t know where his homeroom was. He can see Tsukasa’s eyebrows lower, and his lips part as if he was about to say something more, but Hanako turns on his heel before he can, this time walking into what was, apparently, the correct classroom.
Yet despite that, Hanako still finds his seat right away, hooking his bag on the hook at its side before sitting down. He shouldn’t know it was his seat, this is the first time he’d ever set foot in this classroom, and there was nothing about the lacquered wood desk or its accompanying chair that defined it as his. But something about it felt correct, in the same way the room he woke up in felt like his, in the same way he knew all the twists and turns to get to the school in the first place. A sense of familiarity you gain when you’ve lived life the same way for so long, except he hadn’t lived this life for any time at all.
His eyes narrow at the thought. Propping up his head with one hand, Hanako’s gaze trails off towards the window, tracing the edge of the horizon with his eyes. The worst part is that this world didn’t seem unsafe, though it didn’t feel safe either. It felt eerie, like the calm before a storm, but was that only because he came here for the sake of questioning it all? There was nothing about this world that, logically, felt eerie. It only felt wrong because he knew it was wrong, so if he didn’t… would he realize? And if there was a chance that he wouldn’t realize, could he be certain that Yashiro wouldn’t either?
A familiar voice pulls him back to his senses, just in time for him to turn and face its source.
“Good morning, Amane-kun!” A girl plops down into the seat in front of him, her hair a grey-blonde with cyan tips that falls over her chair, a skull shaped brooch sitting comfortably on her chest. She smiles earnestly, as if she’s genuinely happy to see him, giving him a small wave. His jaw falls slightly agape, his eyes wide with shock. His own name rings in his ears. Hearing her call him that makes his skin crawl, like his very being was opposing it. Because he shouldn’t be Amane-kun, at least not to her.
“Is everything okay?” Yashiro asks, sliding to sit sideways in her seat so that she could face him, head tiling with concern. Hanako jumps to fix his posture, as if that would make him look better to her. He didn’t want her worrying about him, even if it wasn’t actually her, or perhaps especially because it wasn’t actually her.
“Yeah…yeah! Sorry, I- I slept badly yesterday and…” He forces a smile as he rambles out a bunch of incoherent excuses, his hands moving around in a weak attempt to help illustrate his point. Yashiro’s face scrunches as if she wants to question him more, but the bell chimes before she can. Her gaze lingers on him even as she starts to turn around, as if she was trying to keep him in her sights for as long as possible. Hanako can’t imagine why.
He takes to staring out the window again, gazing pointedly at nothing in particular. He was always good at drowning his surroundings, and this time was no different.
A perfect world, just for him. The words weigh heavily on his mind.