Chapter Text
Consciousness didn't return to Toya all at once. It leaked back into him, cold and grey, like a winter dawn.
He tried to blink, but his eyelids felt like they had been glued shut with exhaustion. When he finally forced them open, the world was a blur of mahogany and shadows. His head was a cavern of white-hot pressure; a massive, blunt ache had taken up residence behind his eyes, radiating down into his jaw. Every time he breathed, a sharp, localized spike of pain flared in his neck, a reminder of the awkward angle at which his body had collapsed.
He lay there for a long minute, staring at a shard of glass a few inches from his nose. His back felt like a sheet of rusted metal, stiff and unyielding. His limbs were heavy, humming with a dull, pins-and-needles numbness that made them feel miles away.
Get up.
The command was silent, but it was absolute. Toya didn't check his pulse. He didn't check for injuries. He didn't allow himself the mercy of a groan. To Toya, this pain was the correct price to pay for his "pathetic" display. He braced his palms against the floor. The movement sent a fresh wave of nausea rolling through his gut, and the room performed a slow, sickening tilt. He ignored it. He pushed.
The first thing he noticed was the smell: the sterile, metallic scent of the floorboards and the faint, lingering sharp aroma of the spilled ink. Then came the sound—a low, rhythmic thrumming that he eventually realized was his own pulse, echoing against the floor. Then came the scattered papers, the silver fountain pen, empty ink tubes on the edge of his desk, and the with ink-ruined and ripped paper overfloading trash can. Then came his limbs that didn’t feel like they belonged to him, but someone else. He felt like a ghost in his own body, or could he even call it his body anymore, after making it suffer so much?
Unworthy. Un-wor-thy. Un-wor-thy. You. Are. Un-wor-thy.
The thought was the final blow. It was the scream he couldn't let out, the sob that turned into a choke. Toya lunged for the window, for the door, for a pocket of air that wasn't tainted by his own presence, but his knees struck the carpet with a sound like a falling tree.
The world began to fray. The stormy eyes that had stared so intensely at the ink-ruined paper now glazed over, losing focus as the "grey static" ate the edges of the room. The "small, mean voice" didn't need to speak anymore; the silence was doing the work for it.
„I’m sorry“, he tried to whisper to the ghost of Akito that lived in the corners of his mind. „I’m sorry I wasn't enough.“
But the apology died in his throat. The constant ringing in his ears reached a deafening pitch, then—utterly, mercifully—the power was cut. He was in his room again, sitting right next to his desk. His eyes scanned the room frantically, trying to absorb his surroundings as much as he could to stay present and not fell back into the hole of misery again. His elbows shook, his joints popping with a dry, audible sound in the silence of the room.
When he finally forced himself onto his knees, the "soreness" in his back sharpened into a burning line of fire, but his expression remained a mask of marble. He grabbed the edge of the desk—the same wood he had clawed at in his panic—and hauled himself upward.
His knees were a joke, trembling with a frantic, rhythmic instability that threatened to dump him back into the glass. His legs felt like they were made of water and glass, swaying under his weight.
He stood there, swaying, one hand white-knuckled on the desk, the other hanging limp at his side. He was a ghost in his own room, a collection of aches and tremors held together by sheer, stubborn guilt.
The headache screamed, his neck throbbed, and his knees threatened to buckle, but he stood. He had to. There were still papers to be cleared. There was still a life he had to pretend to lead. He reached towards the final result of the first letter he has written.
He read through it, an uneasy emotion welling up his chest, something between disgust and hatred. His eyes tracked the lines of ink, but they didn't see a confession. They saw a pool of self-pity, anguish, and despair.
Pathetic.
The word felt like a mouthful of ash. He read the sentence about Akito "hanging the stars," and a sharp, hot flash of shame burned across his cheekbones. It was so small. So desperate. He looked like a child tugging at a sleeve, begging for a glance that he had already thrown away.
The honesty in the ink didn't feel like a relief; it felt like a secretion—something oily and private that should have never been dragged into the light. He felt a sudden, violent urge to vomit. It was a visceral rejection of the person who had written those words.
Who do you think you are? The small voice hissed, louder now, echoing off the sterile walls of his room.
You think he wants this? You think he needs the burden of your agonizing decision? Now you want to play the victim you become due to your own desicion and ask for forgiveness? You are truly delusional.
He looked at his own handwriting—once so precise, so disciplined—and hated the contrast. The neatness of the Kanjis felt like a lie, a thin veil of prodigy draped over a shivering, hollowed-out coward. To him, the letter wasn't a bridge back to Akito; it was an anchor that would only pull them both down.
The disgust was a physical weight in his throat, thick and suffocating. He hated the way his heart softened at the memory of Akito’s smile, and then hated himself even more for putting that softness on paper.
It was a betrayal of his dignity. He felt like a fraud playing a part in a tragedy he had written himself. He gripped the edges of the paper, the parchment crinkling under his thumbs. He wanted to tear it.
He wanted to tear himself. He was a creature of Zero passion, yet here he was, leaking his desperation onto a page like a broken pipe. It was grotesque. It was a stain. He was no longer just unworthy. He was a nuisance. A pathetic, ink-stained ghost haunting a life he wasn't brave enough to stay in.
A sudden, jagged heat rose from his gut, bypassing his lungs entirely. His throat, already raw from the panic, tightened into a narrow, burning straw. There was no room for air anymore—only the rising, rhythmic pressure of a tide that refused to be held back.
As fast as his jelly-like legs could carry him, Toya rushed into the bathroom and locked the door, before he was thrown forward, his forehead nearly striking the floor as his torso buckled. His entire frame seized, a violent, involuntary contraction that started in his toes and ended in a bitter, searing heat behind his teeth.
He clutched at the granit, trying to hold on, his knuckles white, as his body tried to expel a poison that wasn't in his stomach, but in his soul. It was a rhythmic, punishing wrecking ball hitting him from the inside out.
After emptying his stomach, Toya just lied on the ground, feeling as restless as ever. His hand moved and covered his eyes, which were blended by the sharp and cool white light that reminded him of hospitals.
Can’t even handle bright bathroom lights… what are you good for? Nothing?
The thought of being Nothing made Toya shiver. Was he really… Nothing? Toya recoiled, hand still covering his face, but the light bled through the gaps in his fingers anyway—sterile, cold, and blindingly honest.
His head throbbed, a sharp, rhythmic spiking behind his eyes that made his stomach heave in a fresh wave of rebellion. He continued lying on the granit bedded floor, trembling in the middle of the bathroom, cowering from a lightbulb.
Look at you, the voice whispered again, and this time, it sounded like his own voice, stripped of all hope.
You can’t even stand in a lit room. You can’t write a letter. You can’t keep a partner. You can’t even handle the light.
The good-for-nothing realization wasn't a sudden epiphany; it was a cold, sinking weight. It was the absolute certainty that he was a creature of the dark, a mistake that only looked halfway human when the lights were dimmed. He felt like a fraud.
He had spent his life pretending to be a prodigy, a perfect son, a reliable partner, but the bright, unforgiving glare of the bathroom revealed the truth: he was a hollowed-out shell that crumbled at the slightest touch of reality, he dissociated with his reality far too quickly.
The cold tile biting into his skin, his eyes squeezed shut until colors danced in the blackness. He, was useless. Not in a poetic, tragic way, but in a dull, clinical way.
He was a tool with a snapped blade.
He was a song with no melody.
He was nothing.
And he will stay in the category nothing-
His tray of thoughts were interrupted by rough knocking on the door. Toya snapped his eyes open and sat up quickly, his breathing becoming frantic at whoever was standing outside the bathroom door, eventhough he knew it could only be one person.
His father.
„Toya, why are you wasting time in the bathroom? You will be late to school. If you don’t want to be a classical musician, then at least not neglect your academical performance.“, his father’s harsh voice reached Toya’s ear, making the poor boy shiver at the cool and distant tone that never carried any reserved affection or warmth for him.
„Toya, are you ignoring me? Is this how you treat your own father?“
Toya wanted to scream „No“, but his throat locked up, like his brain didn’t want him to answer his father. He wrapped his hands around his neck, trying to soothe the tension, to at least get a single sound out of his vocals, but nothing came.
The more he pressed, the more his closed up, letting him feel like his is being held on marionette strings again. He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it, closed it, opened it. Nothing. Like someone was restraining his voice, preventing him to cry for help. A sign could be heard from outside, then footsteps fading down the hallway, only its echo remaining for a little longer.
Toya thought of getting up, being the useful son he is- was, getting ready, dressing up, and heading to school. But school meant meeting his friends- meeting Akito.
No, he was certain that the last thing Akito wanted to see was the face of his former singing partner. Toya had brought him so much trouble, given him so much problems, he probably wishes that Toya would just disappear already. Out of his life, out of this world.
„Fufufu“, the small voice that imitates his chuckled. „At least you are smart enough to figure out where you stand, or where you should go.“
The voice shifted, now imitating Akito’s voice.
„I can’t believe I chose such a burden as my partner. You neither have the motivation nor the passion to keep up with me. At least you recognized it and broke up with me. But having the courage to say that my dream is ‚childish‘? Dude, you don’t even have a goal in life, who are you to judge?“
After Akito, it was his nightmare of a father’s turn.
„What a disappointment you are. First, you disobey my orders, then you throw away your talent as a classical musician, now you are neglecting your studies and let that Shinonome kid lead you down the wrong path, what are you good for? Being a burden? Whenever I look at you, I don’t even know whether I should call you my son anymore – perhaps I should call you another trouble added to my list of unfixable problems. That is definetely where you belong to. My life would have been a lot easier if you just followed in my footsteps, like how your brothers did, instead of entering this sinful rebellion phase.“
Then, it was his mother’s. Her usual gentle demanour? Gone.
„Toya-san, please stop bothering us and just follow your father. It would make life so much simplier if you did. I love you, you are still my son – but please stop being selfish for once and think about your parents‘ feelings. How hurt they would feel if you just threw the path they carefully built for you being thrown into the trash.“
At last, it shifted back into his own voice.
„ ———— pathetic———-stop————————— „
„———— „ „————————— „
Toya jammed the heels of his hands against his ears until his jaw ached. He didn't want to hear the truth—that he was a coward, that he was useless, that he was a burden, a disappointment for not following his father’s footsteps. He pressed harder, trying to create a vacuum where the jet engine roar of his own frantic heartbeat could drown out the syllables.
He wanted the silence to be a physical weight, something heavy enough to crush the words before they could take root. As soon as silence won back ist place, Toya fought back against his body’s resistance, rising up slowly, ignoring the headache stinging needles into his brain.
„Ugh…“, he groaned, feeling under the water more than ever. The floor was that one thing Toya knew for certain. For a long time, he simply existed as a collection of pulses against the cold granit, his cheek pressed into a space between two ruby red carpets. But the silence of the house eventually began to itch. It was a cold, demanding silence that told him he couldn't stay here.
He continued to ascent, not with strength, but with a series of grim, calculated negotiations.
First, his fingers. He pulled them back from the floorboards, the joints popping with a dry, splintering sound that seemed to echo in the hollow of his skull. He shifted his weight onto his elbows, and the world immediately rebelled.
A sharp, white-hot spike of pressure drove itself into the base of his neck, radiating upward until his vision swam with silver spots. He froze. He stayed there, suspended in a half-crawl, eyes squeezed shut, waiting for the heavy ringing in his ears to fade back into a dull hum.
Slowly, he coached himself, though the voice was a ghost of its former cruelty. Don't move your head. He dragged one knee forward. The friction of the fluffy, comfy carpet through his trousers felt like sandpaper against raw nerves. Each inch gained was a trial. His back was a sheet of stiffened parchment; to straighten it was to risk tearing.
He moved in increments—centimeters at a time—keeping his center of gravity low, as if he were afraid the air itself might knock him back down. When he finally reached for the door knob, his hand looked like a stranger’s—pale, trembling, and mapped with blue veins.
He didn't grip the shiny metal; he hooked his fingers into the gab between the door and the wall, using it as an anchor rather than a lever. He breathed in shallow, cautious sips, terrified that a full lungful of air would trigger the nausea again.
He rose. One inch. Two. His knees were treacherous, vibrating with a high-frequency fatigue that made his bones feel like they were made of dry chalk. He paused at the halfway point, his forehead resting against the cool mahogany of the door.
The massive headache was no longer a dull throb; it was a rhythmic hammer, keeping time with the frantic, weak thudding of a heart that had been pushed too far.
The other hand, that had been supporting his weight on the ground, reached for the door knob deliberately, fingers trembling as it turned the knob. The door creaked open, a wave of wooden scented air filled his lungs, but it was the usual silence in the Aoyagi household that caught Toya’s attention.
My father isn’t home…
What felt like relief soon abandoned him, hollowness and desperation now taking its place.
His father wasn’t home, meaning he could not reach out for help.
His father wasn’t home, and although they do not have a good relationship, there was a tiny bit of hope inside that Toya that maybe, maybe his father would take his issues serious once.
His father wasn’t home, so Toya couldn’t tell him that he is no longer with Akito anymore, that he finally chose to obey the older man’s orders, that he finally stopped his rebellion phase, that he can finally be the son his father wanted him to be.
When he got the courage to stand up, he did it sluggishly, because standing was no longer a simple movement; it was an act of high-stakes engineering. Toya gripped the edge of the door knob, his knuckles bone-white and bloodless, and began to force his weight upward.
His knees rebelled instantly. They didn't just wobble; they vibrated, a frantic, staccato rhythm that made his joints feel like they were full of dry sand. It was a high-frequency fatigue, the kind that came after the body had burned through every ounce of adrenaline and was now running on fumes. He felt the tremors traveling up his shins, a sickening, electric instability that made his legs feel less like limbs and more like fraying cables.
He paused at the halfway point, his body hunched, his center of gravity shifting like mercury in a tray. The floor beneath him—usually so solid, so reliable—now seemed to slosh and tilt. He stared at his feet, but they felt miles away, two leaden anchors that he no longer knew how to pilot.
Just lock them, he commanded, the voice in his head thin and cold.
Lock your joints. Stand up.
He pushed. The massive ache in his back flared into a bright, searing line of heat as he straightened his spine, but his knees remained the weak point. Every time he thought he had found his balance, a fresh wave of tremors would seize his thighs, forcing him to clutch the knob harder. The metal creaked under his grip— like it was being torned off at some point -but it gave Toya some clarity, since it was the only sound in the suffocating silence of the room.
He was a marionette with tangled strings, an useless toy that couldn't even perform the basic function of verticality. He felt a spike of hatred for his own weakness. Why was he so fragile? Why did his body insist on being as "messed up" as his mind? Was it trying to prove its point? Why is the only thing he could rely on in the world turning against him, disobeying him?
Finally, with a jagged, hitching breath, he forced his legs to snap straight. The impact sent a jolt of pain up to his hips, and for a terrifying second, his vision went completely white. He stood there, swaying like a reed in a gale, his breath coming in shallow sips, waiting for the world to stop its violent rotation.
He was up.
He was vertical.
But he was certain that a single breeze—or a single thought of Akito—would be enough to shatter him back into the carpet, turning into his down-fall.
Slowly, but steadily, he took his first step, knees buckling under his weight, but the door knob didn’t surrender under his weight, it maintained its aid. Then the other foot moved.
One step, two steps, three steps, and he was standing in the quiet hallway of his house, one hand pressing onto the wall, the other hanging like dead meat on his right side. Toya let out a shaky breath, feeling the tremor inside him calming down unhurried, and a tiny bit of stability returning into his joints, as he took another step.
„One… two… three… one… two… three…“, he whispered, all of his attention on his feet.
Each step felt like his body was coming back to its senses, proving that small, mean voice that he was capable of basic movements, proving that he was still functioning, that he wasn’t a puppet relying entirely on marionette strings.
Step by step, he reached the door that leads to his room.
He stopped in front of the wooden door, standing in the center of the wreckage, his knees locked into a painful, rigid stasis. He wasn't really there. He felt as though he were hovering six inches behind his own eyes, watching a pale, trembling boy inhabit a room that had been turned inside out.
His glanze locked on the door.
It looked strangely two-dimensional, a flat slab of white wood that seemed to belong to a different house, a different life. It was miles away—a distant shore across a sea of shattered glass and ink-stained carpet. Between him and that exit lay the evidence of his uselessness.
If he moved, the glass would crunch. If he moved, the smell of the mess would follow him.
He stared at the brass doorknob. It caught the sterile, judging light of the hallway lamp leaking through the crack, glowing with a dull, malevolent gold.
To Toya, that knob was a trigger. At any moment, it could turn. The silence of the hallway was a predatory thing, waiting for him to make a sound, waiting to catch the real Toya—the messed up one—before he could scrub the stains away.
An icy spike of anxiety drove through his chest, but it felt muffled, like a phantom limb. He knew he should be moving. He knew he should be cleaning. But his body was a heavy, unresponsive machine. He was trapped in the in-between — too broken to be the son his father wanted, and too ashamed to be the partner Akito deserved, too pathetic for his whole existence.
He watched his own hand reach out toward the door, a slow-motion gesture that didn't feel like his own. The air between him and the exit felt thick, like invisible cobwebs that pulled at his skin. He didn't want to leave. He wanted the door to vanish. He wanted to be a ghost so that the mess on the floor wouldn't matter, and the eyes on the other side of that wood could never find him.
He took a long, deep breath, trying to calm his intrusive thoughts and inner demons down, twists the door knob in slow motion. The only barrier between him and his room creaked open.
It was a long, low protest of hinges, a sound that seemed to announce his failure to the entire house. Toya flinched, his heart kicking against his ribs, but he didn't pull back. He pushed.
The door swung open, and the sterile, judging light of the hallway flooded into the room. It didn't just illuminate the space; it interrogated it. The light slid across the floor, catching the jagged edges of the shattered glass and the dark, bruised smears of ink on the carpet. To Toya, it looked like a wound being pried open.
He stood on the threshold, a ghost caught between two worlds. Behind him was the cold, perfect order of his father’s hallway; before him was the chaotic, pathetic wreckage of his own heart.
The mess was no longer a secret. It was a landscape. And as he stepped over the line, the smell of the spilled ink, used paper and the sour tang of his own terror rose up to meet him, welcoming him back to the useless thing he had become.
Deliberately, he closed the door, protecting the chaos and himself from the invisible eyes of the world. Just the thought of someone discovering him in his lowest state makes his skin crawl. His gaze swiped over the ocean of paper, over the mountains of thick music books, over the piles of dust on his once polished floor, over the shattered glass that reminded him of himself, and over empty ink tubes that reminded him of his failures. But there was one thing that caught his attention:
Beneath the classical music books, were a few pieces of paper, shining through the dust. Toya forced his legs to move, to close the distance between him and these papers that looked oddly similar to printed pictures. Now, only these photos mattered.
His mind shut out the mess around him, ignoring piles of paper that need to be thrown away, the old books that are waiting to be placed back on the shelf, the glass that needs to cleaned up so he doesn’t endanger himself, and the empty ink tubes that were begging to be put away so Toya could forget his fraud of an existence, his incapability to complete a simple task – writing a letter.
When he arrived at his destination, he bent down to reach for the pictures, fingers trembling slightly as he did, knees a little shaky as soon as he realised these weren’t just some pictures, but pictures of him with his partner- ex partner- Akito. A dull ache settled deep into his chest as he picked them and just… stared at them.
There were three pictures, all of them provided Toya with a familiar warmth, but at the same time, with agony.
The first picture showed them both at the arcade, Akito taking a selfie with him in one of those selfie boots with the two plushies they won after exchanging their gaming points. Akito was holding a navy blue fox with glittery, black eyes, while Toya was holding a grumpy looking orange cat plush with cream yellow streaks on its body, that cat also wore a red leather collar where a small, golden bell was hanging. Akito carried a bright and sharp grin on his face, his left hand the peace sign, while Toya looked rather shy, a small smile on his lips while clutching around the orange cat tightly.
The second picture presented them under a huge willow tree in Shibuya Park, both boys settled on a red picnic blanket while snacking cookies together. Toya remembered that day vividly. It was his 15th birthday. The corners of his mouth twitched, like it was trying to form a smile, but it disappeared as quickly as it came, as the taunting voice returned.
„Who do you think you are, smiling at old memories? Do you seriously think you have the right to do so, after what you have done? After the chaos your existence created? Are you that delusional? Remember, Toya, you have absolutely no right to feel anything joyful, euphoric. You deserve pain, and suffering, since your presence brought agony into this world.“
Snap.
A sharp joilt of pain brought Toya back to reality.
A jolt of electric, white-hot heat sliced through the fog. It was a singular, microscopic point of agony on the pad of his index finger. Toya’s body jerked, a violent, reactive twitch that sent a shudder up his arm and cracked the brittle silence of the room.
He blinked, the tunnel vision finally widening. He looked down.
He had been gripping the photograph with a white-knuckled intensity he hadn't realized he possessed. The edge of the high-gloss paper, sharp as a razor’s edge, had buckled under the pressure and sliced clean through his skin.
For a heartbeat, there was nothing but a thin, pale valley in his flesh. Then, the red arrived.
It bloomed with terrifying speed—a vivid, visceral crimson that looked too bright for the dull, grey atmosphere of the room. A single, heavy bead of blood welled up, trembling for a second before it broke and slid down his finger, leaving a hot, wet trail in its wake.
It hit the corner of the picture.
Toya watched, paralyzed, as the red drop smeared across the image of Akito’s laughing face. It looked like a blemish. A mark of violence. His inner demons fell completely silent, replaced by a cold, hollow horror. He had tried to hold onto the memory too hard, and in his desperation, he had bled all over it.
The sting was rhythmic now, a sharp thrum-thrum-thrum that matched the frantic beating of his heart. It was a tether, dragging him back from the clouds and pinning him to the carpet, to the glass, to the reality of his own shivering frame. He wasn't a ghost anymore. He was a body. A broken, bleeding, incompetent body that couldn't even look at a photograph without destroying it.
But there was one thing about it; the pain felt good, breath-taking, even.
Toya stared at the blood ruined picture, then back to the little cut, then back to the photo, then his fresh wound, again and again. He pressed the blood soaked edge against the injury, watching the paper dig a little deeper into his skin as he added pressure.
„Are you such an attention whore that you even start self-harming? Truly path-“
Toya gripped the photograph tighter, the pain shooting through his body as the volume of said intrusive voice deliberately faded away.
But the accusation—attention seeker—sliced through him deeper than the paper ever could. It was a jagged, ugly thought that demanded a sacrifice. Without a word, without even a conscious breath, Toya leaned into the sting for a second time.
He pressed the sharp, high-gloss edge of the photograph directly into the split in his skin. He didn't flinch. Instead, he felt a sickening, sweet relief. The good pain was a white line of absolute focus that finally, mercifully, strangled the voices into silence.
For a few seconds, there was no Akito, no father, no unworthy son—there was only the cold, sharp pressure of the paper and the heat of his own pulse. He pushed harder, dragging the edge with a slow, trembling hand until the shallow cut deepened, the skin parting to reveal a fresh, pulsing well of red.
And then, as if a candle had been blown out, the darkness in his mind cleared.
The lingering whispers of his intrusive thoughts vanished, leaving behind a silence that was far more terrifying than the screaming had been. Toya’s breath hitched, a sharp, broken sound in the back of his throat. His eyes finally focused, the static of the dissociation evaporating to reveal what his hands were actually doing.
Horror, cold and paralyzing, washed over him.
He was no longer looking at the anchor. He was looking at a ruined relic. His blood had pooled along the white border of the photo and was now seeping into the center of the image. A dark, wet crimson smear had cut right across the bridge of Akito’s nose, staining the gold of the sunset and the colours of their jackets.
He let go of the photo as if it had turned into white-hot coal. It fluttered to the carpet, landing face-up among the shards of glass.
"No," he whispered, the first word he had spoken in hours. His voice was a raspy, unrecognizable wreck. "No, no, no..."
He stared at his hand—at the trembling, bloody finger that had just desecrated his only sanctuary. The pain wasn't good anymore. It was a searing, mocking reminder of his own violence. He had wanted to hold the memory, but he had ended up butchering it.
The realization that he had used Akito—even just a photo of him—as a tool to hurt himself made the good-for-nothing sentiment return with a crushing, suffocating weight. He wasn't just incompetent. He was dangerous. He was a monster in his own room.
After a while, the fire that had turned him into a devil—a creature that bled on memories and broke glass—finally flickered out, leaving behind nothing but cold, grey ash. His lungs, once desperate for air, settled into a shallow, mechanical rhythm. His inner demon hadn't left; it had simply gone dormant, curled up in the corner of his ribcage, exhausted by its own violence.
His eyes were fixated at the blood on the ruined photograph until they burned, the word Monster echoing in the hollows of his skull, eventhough the voice itself disappeared.
Toya didn't feel better. He felt empty.
He stood on his heels, his spine straightening with a ghostly, vestigial echo of the posture his father had beaten, his mother had carved into him. He wiped his stained finger against his leg, watching the red streak disappear into the dark fabric of his pants. It was a cold, clinical movement. The frantic boy who had been clawing at his own skin was gone, replaced by a hollow shell that functioned on muscle memory and duty.
There was one picture left.
It lay face down at the end of his feet, after letting it fell due to his own horror, untouched by the ink, the glass, or the blood. It was the only thing in the room that was still pure.
A strange, frozen clarity settled over him. He wasn't a monster right now; he was a curator of a tragedy. He reached out, his hand surprisingly steady—the steadiness of a man who has already lost everything and has nothing left to fear.
This is the last one, he thought. The thought wasn't a scream; it was a flat, factual statement.
I will look at this, and then I will disappear.
He picked it up gingerly, holding it by the very edges so his skin wouldn't smudge the gloss. He didn't rush. He waited until his vision was perfectly clear, until the "judging" bathroom light was the only thing he could hear, and then he turned it over. A precious memory flashed through his mind.
-...-...-...-...-...-...-...-...-...-...-…-...-…-…-...-
„Toya!“
As soon as Akito’s voice reached him, Toya turned around and saw his partner running through the crowd of the train station, straight towards him.
„Toya“, he said as he reached said boy, a genuine smile crawled onto his lips.
„Akito“, Toya said and returned the smile, but he didn’t notice the light blush on Akito’s cheeks.
-...-...-...-...-...-...-...-...-...-...-…-...-…-…-…-
Toya stared at the third picture. He wasn’t sure what to do, so he just… stared.
The last photo was a miracle of light and shadow. It was the only one that hadn't been touched by the ink, as if the memory itself were guarded by a barrier he couldn't breach.
He held it in his steady, robotic hands, but as his eyes traced the line of his own sleeping face on Akito’s shoulder, the coldness in his chest began to thaw—and the thaw was more painful than the freeze had been.
He remembered that day, that evening. He remembered the bone-deep exhaustion of a seven-hour practice session by the sea in Yokohama, and he remembered the way Akito had shifted his weight just slightly so Toya wouldn't slide off the seat. He remembered the warmth radiating from Akito’s side, a human furnace that had kept the winter chill of the train at bay.
In the photo, Akito wasn't looking at the camera as a partner; he was looking at Toya as if he were something precious. Something to be guarded. Something he deeply cared about. Something he loved more than anyting else in this world.
I wasn't a burden then, Toya thought, and the realization hit him like a physical blow to the stomach.
He didn't see a 'good-for-nothing.' He didn't see a 'monster.' He saw... me.
A single, hot tear escaped his eye, landing on the back of his hand—not on the photo. He wouldn't let himself ruin this one. The deliberate calm he had worked so hard to maintain shattered into a million jagged pieces. He realized what he was feeling wasn't just hatred or shame. It was-
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The two looked each other into the eyes, olive green orbs radiating warmth, while stormy grey orbs radiated calmness. The longer they stared, the more the world faded. Only they mattered to each other, nothing more, nothing less. They had created their own safety bubble, where no one could reach-
„The Train to Shibuya will arrive in a few minutes, passengers, please stand by“
Both seemed to realise that they were staring at each other long and intense, making them break eye contact. Akito rubbed his neck, while Toya just focused on something else, something that wasn’t Akito at that moment, since he felt embarrassed for staring at his friend for so long.
„So…uh…“, Akito started, trying to ease the awkward moment.
„uhm… the train is arriving?“, Toya muttered.
„Yeah…yeah…“, Akito coughed.
Their train to their home town arrived just on time, the two boys stepping into the train as soon as it was possible. After finding two empty seats, they settled down next to each other.
“Today's practise really wore me out...”, Akito sighed.
Toya chuckled.
“Eventhough it was your idea?”
“Oh, shut up. We have to give our everything if we want to surpass RAD WEEKEND.”
“Right...”
“Is everything okay?”, Akito asked, concern sneaking into his voice.
“Just thinking...”, Toya answered.
“About what?”
“You.”
Blood creeped onto the latter's cheeks as he realised what he had just admitted.
“Oh, uh... I feel honoured?” Surprise was definetely written all over on Akito's face, eventhough Toya couldn't meet his eyes.
“Don't take it the wrong way, I just-”, He was continuing to ramble, but Akito interrupted him.
“It's okay, partner, I don't mind, I rather appreciate being on your mind.”
He turned his face towards Toya's direction and smiled.
Toya was mesmerized by his partner's smile.
It was so... dazzling, as if the sun personally kissed the ginger's lips. It looked so carefree, so light, as if every single weight the smile might have carried vanished instantly. Akito's smile was unique, messy, etheral, even.
As Toya watched, he felt a strange, sweeping sensation in his own chest, like a heavy curtain being pulled back after years of darkness, years of being locked inside a cage - mainly his home. Every single burden inside Toya's head, his heart, the suffocating expextations of his father, the jagged fear of the future, the good-for-nothing whispers in the back of his mind - it all simply dissolved with the feather light weight of his partner's smile.
And for that one suspended moment, Toya didn't feel like a project - or a prodigy. He was just a boy standing in the glow of the basking sun that didn't expect him to be anythinf other than himself. Akito's smile was more than an expression; it was a sanctuary, an anchor, a life line. It was the only place Toya had every felt truly, undeniably free.
Akito's smile was-
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the only truth he ever knew, the only truth he will ever hold onto, because it was real, it was something only meant for him, it was something he appreciated, something he loved.
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Toya let out a yawn, Akito beside him chuckled.
“You must be tired, partner. Rest, I will wake you up when we are home, yeah?”
Toya was probably too exhausted to reply, because he only remembered giving his best friend a single nod, before drifting into a peaceful slumber. The latter didn't know what happened, but the ginger did.
Toya's head fell gently on Akito's shoulder, making him startle for a second, but as soon as he saw his partner's head resting on him, that fond smile from before returned on his mouth.
He took out his phone, and took a selfie showing himself looking softly at Toya rather into the camera, and Toya sleeping on his shoulder. Normally, Akito hated taking pictures, but seeing his partner resting next to him on the train, in a completely vulnerable state, made his chest ache.
Because Toya must really trust Akito if he is able to nap this fondly.
After putting his phone away, his eyes darted to Toya again, admiring his relaxed features, roaming over his closed eyes, his long lashes, his straight nose, his plumb lips, and that little mole right under his left eye.
Carefully, he wrapped an arm around Toya's shoulders to improve his sleeping experience of using Akito as his pillow.
Having his best friend this close was definetely something Akito could have never imagined. They were never really the pair of showing much physical affection, but rather voice it to the other per word. So seeing Toya so close to him was a brand new sight.
“We are arriving shortly in Shibuya. Please do not forget your personal belongings. The train's exit will open on the left side of the driving direction“
Akito wished they had more time, since he really, really didn't want this peaceful moment to end. So he waited a fee seconds before tapping Toya's shoulder gently.
“Tou, we are home”, he murmured.
Toya's eyes fluttered for a few seconds before they slowly opened, sunlight reflecting in his stormy grey eyes.
When he realised that he was leaning against Akito's side, he immediately sat up.
“Sorry, I didn't mean to make you-”, he started apologizing, but Akito interrupted him.
“It's totally fine, Toya, I really didn't mind it”, he reassured him.
“Oh... if that's the case, then... thank you”, Toya smiled.
“No need to thank me, partner. We agreed on trying to rely on each other more, didn't we?”, Akito returned the smile.
“Yeah, yeah... we did”, Toya sighed, the expression on joy not leaving his face.
The train soon came to a halt, and both boys stepped out of the train, a wave of fresh air greeting them as they left the station.
“I guess this is where we part”, Akito muttered as they arrived Scramble Crossing, disappointment written across his face.
“Then, I will see Akito tomorrow, yeah?”
That little comment on wanting to see him the next day erased Akito's dissapointment a little.
“Yeah... see ya tomorrow, partner... have a good evening!”
“Thank you, and you too!”, Toya waved him goodbye.
As soon as Akito was out of sight, he turned around and started heading home, if he can even call it one.
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The memory didn't fade; it shattered. One moment, Toya was bathed in that impossible, sun-kissed radiance—weightless and blessed — and the next, the sterile hum of the fluorescent bulb above him came rushing back like a physical blow.
The transition was violent. The warmth of the train car was replaced by the stagnant, cold air of the house. The smell of Akito's jacket was gone, chased away by the sharp, metallic tang of the blood on his own finger and the bitter scent of spilled ink.
Toya gasped, his lungs hitching as they struggled to process the sudden thickness of the air. He was no longer that carefree boy. He was back in the wreckage, back in the body that had failed its own heart. But most important, he was no longer with Akito.
He looked down at the photograph in his hands.
It was still perfect.
Still untainted.
It was a tangible piece of a life he had convinced himself he didn't deserve. The contrast was a new kind of agony—not the sharp sting of the paper cut, but a deep, visceral ache that felt like his soul was being pulled apart. He was a man standing in a graveyard of his own making, clutching the only flower that hadn't withered yet.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice cracking in the hollow silence.
The apology was a raspy, broken sound, stripped of the melodic precision he usually maintained.
He said it to the glossy surface of the photograph, an apology for the way his bloody thumb had nearly brushed the edge of that perfect, sun-kissed memory.
He felt like a blasphemer holding a relic, his very touch a threat to the only light he had left.
But the apology traveled further than the desk. It drifted toward the door, toward the miles of pavement and silence that separated him from the person who actually owned that smile.
He was sorry for being a riddle that couldn't be solved, a good-for-nothing
who had been given a masterpiece and didn't know how to do anything but tear it.
And finally, in the deepest, most suffocating corner of his mind, he whispered it to the boy in the photo—to the Toya who had been able to sleep without a nightmare.
I'm sorry I couldn't keep you safe, he thought, his chest heaving with a silent, dry sob.
I'm sorry I brought us back here.
The apology didn't make him feel better, didn't change a single thing.
It didn't fix the ink on the floor or the glass in the bin. Instead, it acted as an honest confession, a clearing of the throat before the real truth could be told.
He looked at the blank, white sheet of paper waiting for him. The first letter had been a scream; this one would have to be a heartbeat.
Dear Akito,
I found old pictures of us today, they were hidden in between classical music books. I looked at each other carefully, gripping them with cautiousness to avoid getting them dirty. Seems like I can’t even manage to do that. Now, the picture of us together under that huge willow tree is smeared with blood. My blood. Because I scraped my skin and decided I want to keep hurting myself with the photograph.
But then I snapped out of it, since it was our precious memory. I couldn’t bear cutting my skin open with one of the few memories that are still with me. Maybe you are able to recall it. That day, where we went to Shibuya Park to celebrate my birthday, just us, no one else. You set up a whole picnic – only for me. You told me that it was no big deal, that you would have done it for anyone, but I think we both know that was a lie. Not that I am accusing you of being a liar, I just never seen you close with other people.
You baked me cookies that reminded me of those my mother made, you sang the „Happy Birthday“ Song for me, you gifted me a pair of headphones – I still use them till this day. You said you wrote a song for me, and while you mumbled it, I noticed the dusted pink on your cheeks. I could only thought how adorable you looked in that moment, how much I appreciated you for recalling my birthday, how much warmth I felt when you prepared my favourite snack.
The song you wrote was well-written, thoughtful, and very emotional. I remember tearing up during your performance for me, I remember the way you asked if everything was fine because I looked like I was on the verge of crying – I was, but if I had, those would have been tears of joy. I remember the way you carefully asked whether I liked the song. I do, I really do, I remember hugging you to show my appreciation and gratefulness.
I remember you cautiously wrapping your arms around me. I remember how I felt safe, warm, comfortable – loved, though I supressed the last feeling as fast as possible, since there is no way someone so bright would ever feel towards anything like that towards a person with no resolve or passion. I remember the way we parted, and it suddenly felt like the temperature dropped. But I assume it was because you were warm, and I was cool.
I really miss those times, you know?
The other picture I observed was the one showing us in that photo booth in the arcade, holding our prizes. I never told you why I chose the grumpy looking orange cat - now I am.
It reminded me of you.
You being ever so grumpy towards others, but so sweet to me. It made me feel special, but at the same time, I felt unworthy of your attention, of your presence.
I will probably repeat myself one Million times, but I really can't picture me next to you when you surpass RAD WEEKEND. That image is foreign to me, because why would I stand next to you, if I am lacking passion, why would you choose someone who is a mess, who struggles to keep up? Why, Akito, why?
I personally can't see it. If I had the choice, then I would never even think of picking myself. Then I would feel treasured, appreciated, being thought of; but I am not worthy enough. I deserve to suffer, I was born to suffer, like I was born to follow my father's footsteps, but I ran away from my responsibility. I ran away from you, I ran away from myself.
Because I am a coward.
A coward who is not able to face his feelings, a coward who is not able to face people he cares about, a coward who cannot even take accountability of his father's dreams.
I am a scaredy cat, yet you chose me.
I am a coward, yet you chose me.
I am a mess, yet you chose me.
You have everything, the talent, the passion, the resolve, so why would you chose someone who represents the opposite of you?
I don't understand it, and I figured I probably never will, unless I asked you. Which was never an option in the first place, since I should not be wasting your time.
But I am a selfish person, so I will ask you: Why did you pick me?
Yours,
Toya