Chapter Text
Ever so slowly, the door hinges open in front of him. Through the metal bars, he sees the desk at the center toppled, a leg snapped in half, resting on the other three like a wounded deer. In the hollow space, the Velvet Room groans.
The walls are tarnished, Akira notes. The blue velvet padding isn’t ripped or clawed at in its decay. It grows old, tired, then simply becomes jagged rock the higher it climbs. There’s no state of movement or an in-between, neither is there a gradient of transition. It’s one thing, and then it’s suddenly become another. The ceiling caves in towards itself, domelike, and as it reaches its acme it grows dim, obscured. He can’t tell how high it goes. Only that it keeps going.
There’s no one here, either. No small wardens shaded in black, no silhouette of a man inexplicable. The Room is utterly devoid of the buzz that comes with presence. Outside, past the boundaries of velvet, Akira hears that dreadful hitting of metal on stone again. Breathes a deep, hitched breath. Doesn’t realize it’s there until his lungs fill and push against his ribs, and only then can he let it go.
He doesn’t have those chains from that dream where the old man spoke to him. None on his arms, none on his legs. Something like a chill makes its way under his skin, and Akira shivers.
He could leave. Tentatively, he takes a step forward.
He doesn’t wake up.
The Room still stands. The door’s still open. The walls still shield him from colder stone.
He takes another step. The thunk of his boot rings out, making its way into every other empty cell. Here, he notices that his door is the only one open. He’s not sure if they’re locked or just closed, but he knows for sure that his own is supposed to match. Heavy chains sit on the ground in a pile, leaving the cell barren, reflecting ambient blue. Akira touches the cell door as he walks by it. An unsurprisingly cold, polished thing.
His footsteps are loud as he comes to the center of the room, kneels next to the table. It’s leg has been almost gnawed off, if you could even call it that. It looks like there’s a bite taken out of it, as if to sate some kind of large, pig-sized termite. The remains of the leg end in sharp, splinter-heavy wood. There are parts where the varnish looks grated, like something grazed it off. Odd. He circles around, checks for drawers on the other side of the desk, something to look through. There! Right under the flat, dented surface, there’s a long, thin drawer. He slides it open.
…It’s a map.
Sprawled open, a shoddy rendition of doors and corridors lays on the bottom of the drawer. It looks scrawled, written quick. There are a few rooms marked with X’s, and a couple more circled in thick lines. A single word, off the side of one - “safe.” Reminds him of his own handwriting, the way it’s utterly indistinguishable.
Take it, someone whispers. So he does.
He dislodges it from under the desk, trying not to crease it. Watches it jump up into a roll the moment it’s free. When he wraps his fingers around it, a jolt of something runs through the tissue of his hand- he drops it.
And suddenly there is no desk. The floor shifts under him, the map rolls towards the side. Akira stumbles after it, grasps it tight in both hands and holds it to his chest. He cannot lose this, it’s one of the only things he’s found about this place, the only thing that shows there’s more to it. Stray light paints his knuckles gold as he grips, breaks paper.
Gold?
He looks down at the desk, where it was, and instead is greeted with a golden floor. The walls- there are no more cages littering this circle he’s standing in, there are no walls. Some semblance of gilded metal stretches high above his head, concave and ornate. Akira finds himself standing at the center of a golden birdcage.
It whisks all air from his lungs, the raw size of the cage. It dwarfs him, so tall that it leaves him feeling cold in his prison garb. And yet it feels like he’ll hit his head if he’s not careful, caught in an endless crouch. Out of some vile desperation, he tries to back into his cell, but his back hits the bars as he almost slips through the gaps. He gasps, the breath catches in his throat. Scrambles back when he sees the ground far below.
It’s a long way down.
He smells oranges. Hears whistling.
And finally, he wakes.
In a foreign room, the walls are dyed a familiar late night yellow. The light from the streetlamp bleeds in through the open windows, curtains drawn to either side. A draft blows through, gracing Akira’s shoulders with a chill. He sniffles, slowly sits up.
He’s not on the couch. Instead, Akira finds himself on a futon, tucked away in the corner of the room. When did he set this up? Last thing he remembers is folding his clothes - he looks over at the couch, sees them separated into piles. So that part did happen. Well, then when did he… Sighing, he pats off some of the dust on his clothes, his hair. God, he needs a shower.
Stepping up to the window, he looks outside. The whole world is absolved of movement, save for the gentle sway of tree leaves and faraway bushes. Briefly, he’s tempted to open the window fully and sit on the sill, dangle his legs in the night air. He thinks of sliding his way down the wall. Thinks of breaking into a run, getting on the next train and going to Tokyo. No bag, no nothing. He just wants to be somewhere far from here.
Instead, he just sticks his head out. The wind nips at his collar, his ears. Especially without his coat, it seems the nights are cold. It was the same a couple days prior too, a chill cutting through the still air of the train station. Akira realizes he doesn’t know what day it is.
…
He takes a big, crisp breath of air, feels it draw against his chest. Lets it go.
He slides his head back in and latches the window. It’s a bit taut, the latch. He has to wrench it to make sure it actually locks. One of the screws that attaches the handle to the window itself seems kind of loose, and unfortunately Akira doesn’t think his little flathead is enough to make do. He’ll just have to be careful with it.
Closing one window, he motions to the other one behind the desk, and notices a bowl of rice sitting there. His stomach growls rather loudly at the reminder of food. He feels heat rise to his face. What time is it? It might be too late to eat now, he thinks, especially if it’s midnight or maybe even later. Checking his phone, he’s greeted with the beautiful, beautiful hour of 4:52am.
Hm. Well, sometimes he’s allowed not to justify everything. He scarfs it down.
Unfortunately for his circadian rhythm, especially now that he’s had something to eat, Akira is deeply awake and very antsy. Being able to feel the grease in his hair isn’t helping either. He needs to work on something. His palms itch for contact. He moves to the metal rack near the door, with the calendar from winter 2012, and begins to make space for his clothes.
It’s mostly empty anyways, save for a speaker on the bottom rack and a stack of CDs. There’s a lot of old rock, some jazz, a bunch of artists he doesn’t know. He wants so very badly to slot one of them into place and have the music sweep the room, but it might be too late (too early?) for that. Another time, he supposes, but it’s nice to imagine swaying to something right about now.
He’s apparently left out a shirt or two while folding, which he goes back and rectifies. It feels good when everything’s in it’s place. He’ll just have to find a sheet or something to cover the top rack, so that the dust doesn’t settle on his clothes.
Checks the time again. It’s nearing 6. He hadn’t even realized how much time had passed while he was clearing out the room. Dojima might be waking up.
He weighs his options… He could either wake Dojima up and steel himself for another lengthy lecture, or he could go find the bathroom himself and incur Dojima’s wrath later. He sighs. There’s a clear winner here.
Bouncing his leg off the side of the couch, he texts Dojima; a short, polite thing about using the shower. Biting the inside of his cheek, Akira waits.
He doesn’t have to wait long, because in the next half hour, Dojima replies succinctly:
“Why are you awake”
Um. He raises a good point.
As he’s typing and retyping to find an answer that’s, well, distant enough, Dojima replies to himself.
“Hold on”
“Coming”
He hears a shuffle from the other room. Thin walls. He’s glad he didn’t play any jazz, he might have woken up the whole house. Readying himself for whatever Dojima’s like at 6am, Akira gathers his clean clothes.
There’s a knock on the door, and Dojima comes in. He looks into him, sharp eyes with an ever present hollowness, and Akira does not let that shiver run through him.
“Bathroom’s downstairs. Come with me.”
He nods, and follows. Dojima nods as well, seemingly pleased. They walk in gentle silence for a couple steps.
“Slow when you’re going down the stairs,” he says over his shoulder, “Nanako’s asleep.” Akira nods again, then realizes Dojima can’t see him.
“Alright.”
Dojima shows him to a little room right at the base of the stairs, says, “Bathroom’s small, but we make do. Tap gets hotter the more you turn it to the left. You can use my shampoo for now. Got it?”
“Yes,” he says, “thank you.”
Dojima huffs. “Stay here for a sec, I’ll bring you a clean towel.”
Akira watches him disappear up the stairs. Takes this time to look around.
There’s a little journal on the table around the corner, right in front of the phone. He flips through the entries. School, friends, various places… This must be Nanako’s. He wants to look more, but… It feels personal. So he doesn’t.
He steps into the bathroom. Idly, he squeezes a little bit of toothpaste on his rinsed finger, starts brushing his teeth. It’s been a couple days, and feeling the plaque has been really bothering him.
He looks at himself in the mirror. Eyes red, hair greasy and flat, he looks a little bit shit. His curls have fully deflated, making his hair a bit more triangular rather than the more rounded look that he likes. He tries to blink away the bloodshot of his eyes, and when it doesn’t work, he takes a bit of water into his other hand and splashes it on his face. Well. Now he just looks wet and shitty.
Just as he rinses out his mouth, Dojima knocks on the door.
“This might be a little small, but it’s the only clean one we’ve got,” he hands him a folded, light pink towel with sequins sown onto the border. Akira stares at it in his hands.
“Yes, it’s one of Nanako’s older ones. We really only got four towels, but two of them are in the wash right now, so… You’ll just have to deal with it.” Akira nods. It’s not that big a deal anyways.
“Thank you,” he says.
“I’m leaving for work in half an hour. Go straight upstairs when you’re done,” Dojima says, “I’ll know if you’ve messed around." Voice lower, more serious. Akira pushes his tongue against the side of his teeth, catches the tip of it between. Bites down, hard. Nods.
“Good.”
And he leaves.
Akira gets undressed, steps into the shower, and washes off the final viscera of Kofu.
Nanako really wants to meet the new kid.
Dad’s being weird and cagey about him. Especially given how sudden everything is, she thinks she deserves a little bit of information. She’s honestly surprised she’s not more upset about this. There’s some man in her house because his parents didn’t want him in theirs. He’s going to be eating their food, using their bathroom. Staying in her brother’s room, sleeping in his bed, sitting at his desk. She should hate him, really, watching him live like someone he’ll never measure up to. But she doesn’t. And she doesn’t understand why.
He’s not allowed to leave Yu’s room, Dad said, and she’s not allowed in, and she thinks that’s kind of stupid but that’s neither here nor there. What is here right now is that she heard an unfamiliar step on the wooden stairs, which means - new kid’s out of his room.
Her heart jumps up higher in her chest. It’s totally him. She hears shuffling, hears her dad say something. Then a lighter, smaller voice speaks, briefly - oh my God, that’s him. She heard him speak. That’s so cool.
She’s so excited, in the weirdest, most inexplicable way. This kid in her house, what’s he like? Is he a bad boy? A punk? What if he has a fringe and spiky hair? He could show her the music he likes and she could pretend to enjoy it. Or maybe she’d actually enjoy it… That’s kind of interesting to think about. What if he’s got good taste?
Oh, she so wonders what he looks like. Is his hair bleached? Does he have piercings? Tattoos? Wait, didn’t he punch someone? Maybe he has bruised knuckles, from fighting in secret underground rings. Huge biceps, too. What if they’re the size of her head…?
That’s kinda scary. Maybe instead he looks like a teddy bear and everything is beautiful.
She gathers her courage, and looks through her keyhole. All she sees is a shape of black moving down the stairs - not like a silhouette, just sort of a round… thing. She has no idea what it could be. Maybe he’s carrying laundry. That wouldn’t be very bad boy of him, though, so maybe she just made it up. Maybe she was just looking for something to see.
She watches them trek the steps, then cracks her door open slightly. Wanders to the top of the stairwell to eavesdrop. She can’t hear much, they’re speaking in hushed tones. Or - not hushed, necessarily, just… quietly. This is kind of annoying, just waiting for something to happen. Maybe he’ll say something mean to Dad? That could be kind of exciting. She wouldn’t really like it, but it could be exciting. Maybe they’ll argue, and she can swoop in and save the day or something.
… She glances off to the side, scratches at her neck. Or something.
Shuffling back a little to avoid the creaky stair, she listens to them talk. It’s mostly her dad, talking about what he’s supposed to do and not do, whatever. She wants to hear him talk. Talk back, even. That would be fun, right? This delinquent that’s supposedly punched a guy, maybe even three times his size, isn’t he supposed to be super confident? Shouldn’t he not be letting this old guy boss him around?
A gentle thank you from downstairs, and Nanako realizes something horrific.
This kid’s kind of boring.
What if… What if he’s just a guy? Surely not, right? He’s got that emo backstory, with the criminal record and everything. There’s no way he’s just a highschooler.
But now she hears steps on the wood floor, so she bolts back to her room and ever so carefully shuts the door. Putting her ear up to it, she listens. Dad is sorting through closets and drawers, shutting cabinet doors and tossing fabric aside. She hears the fwomp of clothes hitting the floor as he looks for, presumably, extra pyjamas or a shirt or something to give him. After a minute or five, she hears a sigh paired with the creak of a door. Watches him head back down through her keyhole.
A little bit more, and she can go downstairs. She just has to catch new kid in the little slot of time before he goes back to his room and before Dad leaves. That might be a bit tight. She should also probably change out of her tank top… It might be good idea to look a little bit more presentable in front of someone she’s never met. She opens her closet so quietly, changes into her cute berry shirt, and waits for Dad to come back up the stairs.
When she hears the door lock and Dad start to clatter around, she takes her chance and sneaks down the stairs. Skipping over the top step and waddling her way down, she’s met with running water behind a locked door. Nanako sits on the sofa and waits.
The small pink towel turns out not to be that small. It absorbs a fair amount of water from his hair even after he’s used it to towel himself off. In fresh clothes, Akira feels great. He’s not quite sure what to do with the towel, though, so he hangs it up onto one of the silver metal hooks behind the door. He hopes that’s not overstepping anything, though he’s sure Dojima will have some words about whatever he does anyways.
Creaking open the door with one hand, he holds his dirty clothes in the crook of the other, steps on lower ground with the thin brown slippers he was handed, and makes immediate eye contact with a little pink thing sitting on the sofa.
Nanako Dojima.
Akira turns on his heel and starts booking it up the stairs.
“Wait-!” she says, quick, “Wait, I just want to talk.” Akira pauses, one foot on the step, hand on the railing.
“Okay,” she whispers, maybe to herself. She’s standing next to the table now, small and straight, hands out like she’s taming a large beast, “Okay. Hi. I’m Nanako. What’s your name?”
“... Akira.”
“Hi,” she says, a little breathless. Akira doesn’t move, “It’s nice to meet you.”
He nods, glances back upstairs. He needs to make a break for it as soon as possible.
“He leaves in like 10 minutes, it’s fine,” she says, “What are you doing in Inaba?”
Um.
He has to admit, he wasn’t prepared at all for an interaction with the local landmine. He’s short-circuiting a little.
Nothing will happen unless Dojima finds out, right? He just has to keep it short.
“I was going to Tokyo,” he says, trying to keep his voice down, “and the train broke down.”
“Inaba was closest?” He nods.
“Something like that.”
“That’s kind of cool…” she trails off, “I’ve never been outside of town, so I don’t really know how the trains work. I just know they’re kind of far. Did you walk all the way here?”
He shakes his head, “They, um. They had a shuttle for us.”
Nanako nods, “That’s good. My dad always drives there. Are you going to highschool here?”
Akira thinks. He doesn’t actually know how long ‘temporary’ is, but he should probably leave before he gets involved with any legal documents. “Not sure,” he says instead, “Probably not. He said it was temporary.”
Nanako looks a little disappointed by that fact. “I’m in 6th grade now, and I’m going to go to Yasogami for high school. That’s probably where you’ll go, too. The other ones are too far. You’d have to drive,” she says. Then after a moment, “I’m kind of scared of driving, I don’t like cars. Do you have a license?”
“No. I’m sixteen,” Akira responds. Nanako’s eyes widen.
“Wow… For some reason, I thought you were older."
(Ryotaro, realizing he doesn’t have any clean ties left in his own closet, slowly opens Nanako’s door. He hears no breathing, no shifting of sheets. Opening the door fully, light from the hallway streaks in through the entrance. She isn’t there.)
Nanako speaks at him for a little bit more, stopping here and there to ask him questions, like how’s your hometown? or you play baseball? She seems to really enjoy the fact that he’s not doing much of the talking, giving her more chances to speak her mind.
“You look different than what I expected, you know,” she says, “you’re kind of short. I thought you’d be a lot more…” and she gestures wildly to her upper body. What could that possibly mean?
He cocks his head, she sighs. “You know! A little… scarier.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“No! Well, no, but- Yes. Wait,” she’s flustered now. Akira snickers.
“Waiiiit,” she draws it out, “that sounds bad. I promise I don’t mean it in a bad way. I just-”
Akira can’t help the one-sided smile that comes up onto his face. “It’s fine,” he laughs, small, “I don’t really care.”
“Ugh,” Nanako groans, head in her hands.
(Rushing over to Yu’s room, Ryotaro swings open the door. The window’s closed, the room is empty. He puts two and two together.)
“It’s fine, really,” he says, “I get that a lot.”
“You do?” Nanako asks, incredulous.
“People tell me I look scarier without my glasses.”
And there is a loud footstep at the top of the stairs, and Akira’s blood runs cold. He turns, slowly, to find the glowering face of Officer Ryotaro Dojima staring back at him. Akira feels his shoulders pull up taut, feels his heart shake where it rests. Dojima comes down the stairs, silent and fuming, and when Akira tries to step back and back, he finds that he’s backed himself up against a wall.
“Dad-” Nanako starts.
“I don’t want to hear it.” and so he stays silent.
“What did I tell you?” and Dojima’s in front of him now, backing him up further. There’s nowhere to go. He holds his dirty laundry up to his chest, praying it’ll shield him from his wrath.
“Dad-”
“What did I tell you?” he yells, Akira’s shirt suddenly bunched up in his hand. Pulls him up towards himself, and Akira gasps, “What did I tell you not to do? What?”
Akira’s jaw is locked. He can’t speak.
“Answer me, goddamn it!”
“It’s not his fault-”
“I don’t care! He should have known better!”
“I found him!” Nanako’s raising her voice now as well, “He was going upstairs. I kept him. I wanted to talk.”
“Nanako, I told you, I don’t-”
“Why won’t you tell me anything, huh? Why is this always how it ends?” And Dojima grits his teeth.
Akira is trespassing.
“He knows well enough what he’s not supposed to do. Don’t you?” he spits, drawing him closer. Akira hugs the laundry tighter, wincing inadvertently. He nods.
“I was going to the bathroom. He was leaving. So what if we talked? What’s so bad about that, huh?”
Dojima breathes in, electric, and slowly breathes out of his nose.
“You can’t say anything, ‘cause there’s nothing to say. You don’t know why you’re keeping him from me, do you?”
“Nanako.”
“What? What is it?”
“I told him clearly to stay away-”
“Why?” she insists. Akira’s gut is roiling. He wants to run. Would he make it, he wonders, if he sprinted out the door now, barefoot? Where would he go?
(Back to the inn, some part of him says.)
(He misses his sister.)
A silence falls over the living room. There’s lighting in his veins, jittering and shaking him from within. Early morning, the sun has started coming through the blinds. Dojima’s hand is still screwn between cloth, Nanako’s still standing at the table. Morning light hits the side of her face, painting her from behind. He can hear Dojima breathing.
“Go to your room, Nanako.”
“Why?” she states. It’s flat, final.
“I’m taking him upstairs,” he says, and grabs Akira by the shoulder. Peels him off the wall, shoves him towards the stairs. He doesn’t stumble, “Go to your room.”
Nanako’s silent too, now, in disappointment rather than submission. Akira takes one step up, before she speaks.
“He didn’t do anything.” Dojima grunts.
“Up,” he commands Akira.
Just a little bit more. Just a couple more days until he can figure out living in Tokyo, then he’ll leave. It’s just a bit more.
He takes a step through the doorway into the room, and a calloused hand lands rough on his shoulder. Akira can’t hide the jolt.
Silence.
“Text me if you need anything.”
And he’s gone.
Time passes.
It’s too late now to go back to sleep, so Akira remains viciously and completely awake with nothing to do. He fidgets with the straps on his backpack, fixes a zipper that gets stuck. Works through his nerves.
He gets to cleaning. Everything’s accumulated quite the dust, so he looks through the drawers to find any sort of rag or cloth to wipe it down with. Thankfully, there’s an old, navy blue hand towel that Akira pours a little bit of his thermos water onto. He starts with the desk, dusts off some of the books on the top shelf of it. He finds some novels with broken spines, and an English Proficiency 2 guide. Toweling down the cover, he flips through the pages. At least he still recognizes some of the tenses.
Perhaps a little nosily, he opens the desk drawers. He doesn’t know what he hopes to find.
That’s a lie.
He looks for the map.
Instead, he finds rolls of receipts, some eyedrops, sunscreen, a thin bracelet… Checks the second drawer. Cables, a flashlight. A train ticket, issued from Kyoto to Yasoinaba. He furrows his brows, rolls back in the office chair.
Did someone use to live here?
He assumed it was storage, but… Seeing these signs of life, Akira begins to doubt. Was this Nanako’s old room, perhaps? Or was there someone else?
Regardless. It’s none of his business. He finishes up at the desk, wipes down the drawers and the metal shelves, and plops down on the couch. Unplugging his phone from the charger, he checks his notifications. Nothing.
He wonders if he should call Rei.
Unlocking his phone, he wanders around for a bit on the different screens. He needs to go through and clean it out, now that he’s no longer… well, home. He’s been trying not to consciously think too much about what to do next, because God knows he’s doing enough introspection already. Swipes left - the app is there again, the red eye with the lines coming off of it. It’s so creepy. He’s almost sure he deleted it once already, but he supposes it must have been a dream. He tries to press and hold, drag it into the trashcan-
His phone freezes. Oh no. Akira taps on the screen frantically, hoping that something will budge. He must have accidentally clicked it. Nothing is working.
No, no no no. This cannot be happening now. He has no money to get a new phone, he’ll be ruined if this one’s bricked. He can’t begin to-
The birds stop chirping outside.
A horrible, sudden dread perches on his shoulders. On empty lungs, Akira turns, slow, to look out the window.
The town is dead.
There’s a sparrow swooping, in mid-air. Wings poised, its beak is agape, aiming for something between the tall grass. As if a raptor preserved in an exhibition, it looks to be upheld by fishing line, staggered between the pressures of air. A couple more birds sit on the gutter of a nearby house, the smoke from its chimney hanging in the air like it’s pinned on a clothesline. The trees have ceased their movement, stuck with their arms reaching out to the side. The whole world is archived between ground and solid sky.
Out of the corner of his eye, Akira sees something spark. He whips his head around, and comes face to face with… himself. There, on the television, is his face. Too far to be an actual reflection, it mirrors him mockingly, widening its piercing golden eyes. He watches it morph, watches its features narrow down into a grin. The TV smiles at him, teeth almost too large for its face. There’s something vile, unsettling in its face, proportions just a little bit wrong. Akira watches it change, contort into something more harrowing and much bigger.
Flame.
For a moment, he is a housefire.
He can feel his back heating up from under his shirt, his wrists and stomach getting warmer. Feels his face start burning up. Nausea takes over. His breath grows short, quick. He can’t tear his eyes away from the melting of plastic, of wood on fire and red hot metal. The heat is unbearable. The inferno grows, burns off the door, the walls, the floor, and just like that, Akira is stuck in here.
The arm of the couch catches on fire, and he clambers back. The side of his foot touches heat, he jolts. The fire leaps from fabric to fabric, and suddenly it’s flush to his skin. His pant leg burns up, he feels his ankle start to char, his leg hairs burn up. The room smells like seasoned meat. He stumbles off of the couch, tries to pat it out- it latches onto his hands, climbs up his arms to his neck, his face. Fire spreads to the wooden floors. Someone’s laughing. He’s going to die. He can’t breathe. He wants to go home.
Don’t keep me waiting, someone whispers.
And with a gasp, he’s back on the couch. A swoop from outside, and he just catches the sparrow lifting off the ground and back into the air. Someone rings a bike bell. The wind rustles the trees, gently, and Akira just stares.
He lowers his gaze to his hands. Clean. No scars, no lifted, raw flesh. Wipes at his mouth. Risks a glance to his right.
The television stares at him, blank.