Chapter Text
The day where Todoroki Yosuke goes missing; gone in a blur, night sky basked in clouds hiding the stars from such terrible omen, the river swallowing him at once, is also the night where Odajima Yuken jumps after him, sunglasses thrown and forgotten on the bridge, hands pressed against the railing until he's on the other side.
They never retrieve the body, the stream as unforgiving as Oya High is with the remaining attackers. Sachio has to pull Odajima away from the riverbank with all his might, calm facade long cracked with worry. We could have lost you too, he doesn't shout, voice dying in his throat as how lost and soaked his friend is, trashing to go back into the deep waters where only doom is lurking.
Their relationship wasn't a secret; perhaps pretending to be fine would have been easier that way.
Odajima waits for days, wandering on the bridge, walking around the riverbed all for nothing. On the fourth day, Housen members find him sitting on the railing, legs dangling into the air, an absent expression on his face.
They tell Sachio.
There are screams on both sides, leadership unable to balance grief.
I quit, Odajima eventually throws in their face, sorrow twisting his smile into horror.
He isn't given permission to do so.
Funerals are an odd affair without a body to mourn and ashes to keep close. He avoids the ceremony, not belonging there in the first place. How could he, he absentmindedly reminds himself, when he couldn't even save one person.
Todoroki Yosuke is dead.
Odajima Yuken disappears.
Isn't it the same story? In another life, the roles could have been reversed—yet, would the ending be exactly the same? Ah, he does not bother grieving or getting lost in what-ifs. That's his carefree mind, the one he got scolded for by someone who couldn't break rules and hated nicknames.
Murayama calls him Todo-chan, at the funeral.
Odajima would have laughed at that, had he been present.
Instead, he stands on the railing, arms outstretched, feet balancing the weight from one side to another.
I hate you, he thinks, I hate you, Todoroki.
Sawamura tugs him down, hands firmly pressed against his shoulders.
Odajima shrugs.
In another life, college would still have been out of grasp. Smart, yet inept at studying, mind bouncing from one idea to another, body unsteady or too fast, unleashed like countless storms. Always the right answers, offered in the worst fashion. Basking in regrets doesn't do much anyway. He stripped himself of his identity upon leaving the town, golden hair cut and dyed away—the sensation of fingers threading gently among it now a dreadful feeling—last name disregarded as if he had always been Yuken, and nothing more.
Scornful voice sounding too much like his echoing in front of the wrong people, and suddenly he gets dragged into an easier hell. He laughs and laughs until he cannot feel anything at all.
☆ ☆ ☆
"Hey Arata, could you clean the remaining tables for me?"
Why asking, if it's more akin to an order. Rolling his eyes, he grabs a cleaning rag, going through the room in silence. The bar doesn't offer much space away from the long counter, mismatched stools decayed by age, tables surrounded by neon signs tucked away behind fake plants. He sighs at the familiar view, tarot cards spread on the bar counter, being turned over one after another. He hears the rattling sounds of bracelets around that guy's wrists, and the soft buzzing of the fridge where they keep food for the staff and a couple of customers.
We're not here to serve meals, only drinks, the boss reminds them sometimes, when she is present.
Most of the time, it's only the two of them, pretenses of communication thrown aside alongside last names and politeness. Arata doesn't dislike Noriyuki. Nor he appreciates him either. The bar is all he has, flat tucked upstairs, barely big enough for himself, let alone for the two of them. A good thing his coworker is known for wandering outside often, offering readings and trading 'truths and secrets' for whatever he can get.
"Can I catch a glimpse of your past?"
Using the broom he had started to clean the floor with, he swiftly hits the bothersome guy on the back of the head.
"I told you to cease with that nonsense."
Noriyuki offers a lazy smile while spinning around on his stool, holding the Emperor card.
"Ah yes, memories which cannot be retrieved. That's what you fear, hm, Arata?"
Arata. That's the name they gave him at the hospital, on the day he got discharged. A fresh start with a meaningful sense he found distasteful. Still, how was he meant to name himself without knowing anything about who he was?
Once more, he lifts the broom, although this time Noriyuki is fast on his feet, dodging with ease. Their boss hired both of them due to their circumstances, offering second chances Arata isn't certain are necessary. After all, for all he knows he is merely a stranger anywhere he goes.
Months of coma, nobody claiming him as their own. Only to wake up in a room too warm and uncomfortable blankets on top of him.
(Learning countless things from scratch, body and mind out of sync.)
As for Noriyuki—he has little care for his story, especially as the other returns to his precious cards.
"I'm going out."
"Heeeey?"
"My shift is over."
How long has it been? One year, eight months and six days since he woke up. That's odd, how easily he can keep track of certain things, without having a semblance of grasp of who he is supposed to be.
Cold streets are a relief, glasses getting foggy from the sudden change in temperature, fingers having to be tucked inside his pockets. The scar aches underneath black hair, and he tilts his head to the side without noticing. The sensation will vanish soon enough.
The casual tea shop, which doubles as a bookstore, he enjoys visiting on his days off is already closed, thus he is doomed to a silent walk. Noriyuki isn't that chatty, although he seems to produce some odd background static noise just by existing.
Should it be familiar by now? After working together for such length of time, he should at least have made an effort to step forward and get closer. Perhaps he has always been a solitary person, ah how is he meant to know.
Footsteps echo in the deserted street, and he makes no move to avoid the individual coming from the opposite direction, assuming they'll step back first.
What happens is that neither of them seems willing to do so and their shoulders collide in a painful manner. His muscles tense, fists ready for an argument—that happens often, when people get too close, as if he was still a teenager having something to prove. At such hour, people tend to let their tongue be loosened by alcohol and the lack of witnesses to judge their actions.
Isn't cowardly, to fight without any sense of glory or a goal? Only for the thrill of it—that does sound boring, if all you get is that couple of seconds where everything turns slow, your opponent crashing down.
He'd like to be able to enjoy it, if he has to fight.
As he stares, too late, at the person—immediately they give out an odd impression, hollow gaze not even bothering to linger on him, clothes unfit in a kind of way which feels like neglect, oversized jacket obviously borrowed without a return date—they let out a soft humming sound.
Arata notices though, the way the body shifts, one foot slightly behind the other, dominant arm pushed back to strike better seconds later.
"You weren't paying attention more than I was," he scoffs, unimpressed. As if dying once had turned him into some weird sage filled with wisdom—if it was the case, he wouldn't suffocate in a bar lacking space, surrounded by patrons who can only vomit their stories over and over, mistakes playing like a dying record.
Saying things like 'learn from what you have done' or 'don't cheat and then cry over yourself' why are such sentences forbidden? They would solve much more than pouring alcohol down their throats.
Suddenly, as he is about to lunge forward, stepping past the person to scare them, he notices their crestfallen expression. They have lifted their head, boyish face staring as if he were the result of a deranged mind, edges too sharp, and fingers lifted only to stop in mid-air.
"You."
"Me," he repeats, blood rushing to his face. Would this be the encounter he was waiting for? A glimpse of a past he had simply pushed aside, unable to mourn properly over what never was.
"You!"
"I don't know who you are," or who am I, or anything at all.
He loathes that insidious despair, how it can invade his senses after all this time. Throwing his story isn't what he wishes to do, pity bruising his ego and making little sense. Still, if that's his one chance—
"Memory loss due to an accident. Now, will you tell me—"
Laughter blossoms, cruel and harsh. It spreads into his veins until the man in front of him is too close, chin lifted to stare at his face, odd sunglasses covering his gaze. Would an old friend behave in such manner? He has no time to ponder over the answer, as he catches a fist being clenched from the corner of his eyes, barely dodging the hit which comes right for his ribs.
It dissolves into a series of blows from each side, battle started without consent. He has been a fighter—a capable one too, his body has told him so countless times. Reacting right away at danger, allowing him to avoid the worst patrons or Noriyuki dropping glasses on him in the middle of their shift. Out of breath, he realizes that his coat is getting in the way, and the other fights as if there was no tomorrow.
(That's what happens when you do not allow grief to take over, not even once.)
For that guy, perhaps it's the case.
They must be acquainted, a shame he cannot truly dwell on it when a foot crashes against his chest, making him fall. His body has forgotten less than his mind, yet he isn't as competent as he certainly was.
A sneaker presses against his stomach, until it's painful, the guy staring at him with a smile so off he wonders if he is one of these idiots who blows his mind off for reprieve, swallowing pills and everything in his reach.
"I'll tell you who you are, if you beat me, stranger" that's too cheerful, and the foot is removed, the violent creature crouching down and flicking his forehead, "next time though~"
And then he is gone before Arata is back up.
("Todoroki, I want a rematch too."
"You wouldn't beat me."
Laying on an old couch in a mindless school, a head surrounded by golden hair on his lap, fingers threading against it without aim.
"Hm, it's what I tell you about Mahjong and yet you still let me challenge you~"
An infuriated sigh, a body suddenly moving, lips pressed together.
"What if somebody sees us?"
"I don't care. Don't pretend you do either."
"Fine," someone relents, laughter echoing through the room.)
☆ ☆ ☆
He screams. Alone in the middle of nowhere, the chain of his sunglasses held so tightly the pattern is sinking into his skin. The dead should stay dead unless you want to beat them up, or something.
That man, who bears Todoroki's face, weak man who couldn't avoid his hits nor understand them; a stranger, changeling who stole what was left of his mind. Ah, that's not a lot, Yuken muses.
A rough hand grabs his shoulder, tugging him down. Nowhere doesn't exist as a reprieve if it's every place on Earth where he has been over the past year. Which boss is it? Namazuo? Ren? Their faces have long blurred into one, leaving imprints on his face and body when he isn't quick enough, not up for whatever job they have.
"Watcha' crying for, Yu?"
That's a joke, you know, between all the people he works for: you can give any task to Yuken, and he'll do it, because he doesn't care if he lives or not, yet you can't kill him because fate wants to keep him miserable.
"I have no idea," he hadn't even noticed the tears. Whatever, they are easy to wipe away. Accident, memory loss? So what, his boyfriend floated away and then ended up there? And he's simply what's left behind, remains of a life the other has long given up on. He grins until his jaw hurts, feeling like creating a disaster by saying the wrong thing once again.
A palm presses over his mouth though, forcing him to shut up. Street rules have no empty space on the tragedy bingo for compassion.
Oh, it's Ren. He kinda recognizes him now. Without caring about that detail.
Housen carried itself with pride, and himself, who was so close to Sachio—ah he has lost that too. The truth is that Yuken has never been worried of people who boil with anger, of shouts and rage. His parents had that into them, but only against each other. He grew up watching that strange show, yelling and cries for help becoming background noise.
"Did you get into a fight?"
Still he isn't allowed to answer properly, he doesn't say anything at all, hand holding his sunglasses against his back. He's glad he didn't have enough time to put them back on, or they would have been thrown aside without care. A lesson without a goal.
Annoyed, the man relents the pressure against his mouth only to grab dark hair, forcing him to raise his gaze to meet his.
Sachio, he thinks, could be terrifying, a force of nature. That guy is simply an idiot. Thus he sticks his tongue out, pretending that the blow he gets for that is at least a little bit funny.
(It's not.
He wants to hunt Todoroki down, to throw him back into the river himself.
No, he wants to jump with him, this time.)
"I have a job for you, you unstable brat, so listen for once."
"Yeah yeah, I'm paying attention," fingers press against the bruise on the corner of his lips. That's where Todoroki punched him, the first time they met. That's another fight he lost.
He's too smart to be abandoned, that's why he works for Ren or Namazuo or anybody. After all, that's not hard to get called 'crazy', he only has to pretend that it isn't a painful life.
(A voice screams his name, followed by hands shoving him on the concrete.
All he can see, for one moment, are the clouds above him.
Then, the three—no, none of them matter. They were aiming for him.
Instead, the person they push against the railing until they fall backwards is—
"Todoroki!)
It's his fault, isn't it?
He glares at his smartphone, job long done. Retrieving money with a smile and a dangerous voice, leaning too close to wave cheerfully at little children hiding in the back of the room. I'm sorry, he wants to say, but that's life. He is being cruel, even when he cannot beat these people up, can't find the will to attack so relentlessly for so little, and only warn them not to be late next time.
He has no place to go home to anyway. Sleeping from one couch to another, empty futon he refuses to share—hey, you have a pretty face Yuken, you know—he wants to kill them all, some nights. To say he misses dyeing his hair and having friends and not being alone on some shitty balcony in the middle of the night because the person he is sleeping at is having sex with—urg he doesn't even want to know.
Why aren't you putting money aside, they used to ask? He twirls his smartphone in his hands, switching to throwing into the air and catching it back as if there was no danger.
He doesn't want to belong, even less to be found. To be dragged back and have to say 'hey I met Todoroki the other day, he doesn't remember, please can we rewind time just once?' He doesn't miss Housen, he repeats all the time at the back of his head, wishing he could erase faces and memories as easily as Todoroki did. That's another horrible thought.
Hollow and upset he curls into himself, knees underneath his chin until he is crushing his ribcage.
Todoroki is alive, his mind chants, and rather than joy, it's laced with sorrow so deep he is the one who is drowning this time around.
☆ ☆ ☆
Noriyuki and Anko fuss over his state for days, the latter, caring boss, dragging him to the clinic to ensure nothing is broken. His ribs are a bit bruised, he'll live. He is excused from some shifts, abandoned into the flat whose walls are covered in colorful garlands which light up at night, and stars painted everywhere. Noriyuki isn't one to care about property damage, nor he minds borrowing his clothes without asking sometimes.
Laying on the futon, arms crossed over his chest, Todoroki drifts into possibilities.
Perhaps he had people like that before—since no one came, assuming that was from lack of care was easy.
Nonetheless, when he recalls the rage from that person, desperate moves trying to get him down—something is amiss, in his story.
He grabs shoes and jacket, unable to breathe suddenly.
Answers are out of his grasp, thus he drops them for now. Underneath bandages, he considers his body, how it has morphed into bruises and pieces which don't go together. That's what coma inflicts to you, physical therapy for months, and no chance to recover his memories. Doctors pretending it would be temporary, until there wasn't enough space left for lies on his chart.
The streets are safe as long as you follow lights without getting too close, neon signs beckoning curious customers inside clubs with promises of fame and affection. All you end up with are empty pockets and a bitter taste on your tongue. He slips through drunk people, laughter and music mixing into a dull sound which pounds against the scar above his ear. Blunt trauma, probably from hitting something in the river.
He should pick a sport, go to the gym—impossible to move properly inside the flat, to raise his arms without colliding with something—be ready for next time. The challenge should disgust him, right? Being told he'll get an explanation once he beats someone he doesn't even know. Then, why is a part of his heart aching for this? Ah, he supposes he has secrets too far gone to be retrieved.
On the steps of a club, a person is crying, face hidden behind a bag. Either a trick, or a semblance of honesty.
Uneasy, he walks by, keeping his gaze in front of him. Out he is out of view, the pitiful crying stops on its own. Perhaps because it was simply a ruse.
(Nurses repeating questions.
Do you have a name? Who are you?
What's your age?
Fatigue slowly invades the mind until everything is distorted.
Hey, are you human, do you exist?
Look at you, all alone.
He pretends to be asleep.
Do not feed the fears.)
Paths cross weeks later, another starless night, heaviness in his lungs as he walks back from the convenience store with dinner for Noriyuki and himself. Between two aisles, crouched down with red underneath his fingernails, he recognizes the enemy. Mystery of his past, oversized jacket offering the sight of a shoulder and a tank top which isn't enough for the weather. Unless you're fighting, body always too warm from rushing from one rival to another.
He sighs, plastic bag heavy in his hands, walking to the other and pressing it against his hair. He throws his head back, pushing away the bag without care.
"Oyo," bruised hand waving at him, hatred burning beneath colored lenses. At least it is how he interprets the sudden atmosphere, buzzing commercial from the speakers above them drowned by the presence on the floor.
The guy gets up, hand loosely holding a bag of chips and nothing more. He tosses it into the air, body leaning forward to observe him. Arata isn't a painting—far from a masterpiece meant to catch the eye—and that idiot is starting to piss him off. He could leave, rather than waiting for him to pay for his items; be faster onto the streets, blending among the population which shouldn't be out at such hour, exhausted salarymen and women holding their phone tightly in case of someone getting too close.
This country isn't safe or fair in the slightest.
"Aren't you coming?" He says instead, bandages long gone off his torso yet not eager to return.
With a wicked grin, the one who hasn't bothered to give out his name nods, stepping outside without bothering to pay for his chips, also grabbing a drink on the way. A glance at the tired clerk proves they haven't noticed, or that they couldn't care less.
If they were old friends, capable of peace, they would sit together, sharing a meal before bruising their fists in a meaningless fight, answers and truths screamed so loud they would make the world shake. A shame they haven't achieved such closeness. They probably won't, anyway.
Instead, they walk until they reach what used to be a playground, when it was still cared for. Now, rusty structures are on the verge of collapsing, and weeds have started to impose their presence over everything. He lowers his bag on a bench missing half of its planks.
His head is too close to the monkey bars, forcing him to duck to avoid cracking his skull open.
The other doesn't appear to care, pursuing his assault in the same fashion since the start; that's not meant to be a fight where both sides are equal.
Hands grab the structure, as his rival lifts his legs at once, aiming for a kick right into his ribs again, using the bars as leverage.
He trips on the floor to avoid getting hit, while the other has now managed to climb over the bars, standing on them as if he were on the top of the world. Except the sole things reflected behind him are menacing skies and a flickering lamppost.
Triumph lasts only for a couple of seconds, before the enemy crouches down on his throne.
"That's boring."
Without sunglasses, the piercing gaze is stronger—more honest too. Arata has left his glasses on the bench, alongside everything else, including his dignity apparently.
Why does he have to be the loser twice?
He does not.
He'll have to work harder next time—or he can attempt to make a change now.
"For you."
Pushing on his hands, he gets up, hands grabbing the other and throwing him down before he can react. That's a rough action, one which makes his palms sweaty and shoulder aching.
Rolling on the old playground, the other spends a moment silent, until he gets loud—voice rising way above the cruel mockery from before.
"Are you starting to remember? Was I careless?"
Ignoring blood dripping from his elbow, jacket torn off from the collision with rocks and sand, he gets up, clenching his fists again.
They are on completely different levels, yet—Arata grows more and more aware, as he dodges hits, trying to memorize patterns, of the other' shortcomings. When he grabs him, it's with both hands, and his punches do not carry as much strength as they are simply precise. Or rather they were, minutes earlier.
Exhaustion weights heavily on his face, to the point Arata notices how he seems to lose his balance as the fight goes on. That's too long, anyway. Neither of them has enough energy left, and he guesses the battle will be won by luck more than strength. It makes him bitter somehow.
All of this for the promise of a name—is it worth it?
(Body crashing against another, cheers erupting from one side, defeated silence on the other.
Arms wrapping around the figure using him as a crutch.
"You okay?"
"I'll live."
Bittersweet victory, where personal fights were lost.
Tired eyes watching, as sunglasses as retrieved from the jacket, one lens having to be pressed back properly with a clicking sound.
"I'm buying you a case next time I go out."
"Funny, coming from someone who used to throw his glasses carelessly."
"Who told you that?"
"Murayama."
"That was a long time ago. And you need them, so stop being an idiot."
Mischievous gaze behind colored lenses, tongue sticking out.
"Buy me the best case, then."
"You're getting the cheapest."
"You're treating me so badly!"
A far away laughter.
It's all gone.)
His fist closes around the jacket, fabric being almost torn off—that's an old prize which might be the sole real possession that the other has, edges of the sleeves starting to fall apart, gashes from fights multiplying—letting out a slight rasp.
As if he had long known he wouldn't win—no, as if he had never wanted the victory in the first place—his enemy ceases to struggle, eyes closed as he gets hit in the face. Arata only has to release his grip for him to stumble back after that.
He watches as he sits, then otps to lay on the ground, weeds surrounding him. The other has blood running down his face, jaw badly bruised.
That doesn't feel right.
The thrill, the joy of finally being on the right path—it's all gone within seconds as he sits next to the stranger who is staring at the sky without a word.
Maybe there are tears.
He pretends not to see them—troubled by what they would imply—head tilted back to observe the dark sky.
"You promised me my name, in exchange for beating you."
"I shouldn't have."
Words aren't as sharp as they should be, as if the person was struggling to say them. Considering their fight, that would make sense. Arata allows a reprieve, getting up to retrieve his things, and his, before sitting back. He opens the drink stolen earlier, pressing it against the cheek already bruising.
The hiss of pain almost makes him smile, and he cannot figure why. A hint of—something familiar he isn't allowed to get back.
"Here, sit up."
The can is grabbed, and he spreads his palm against the guy's back to help him upright.
"Todoroki Yosuke."
Oh.
Arata takes a moment to digest that, fingers fumbling with the package of his sandwich. He's exhausted. He's Todoroki Yosuke. The name doesn't bring anything concrete for now. It's only two words put together.
"They call me Arata here. You?"
"Yuken."
Nothing else is added, even after a pause. If it's a street name, Arata cannot judge. He has never used, outside of medical forms, the last name they gave him at the hospital. Only Arata. Once he manages to free his sandwich from his plastic prison, he takes a bite, ignoring how Yuken is slowly adjusting his position, knees against his chest, drinking while slightly rocking back and forth. The cold is absent, when their veins are boiling post-fight, thus he supposes it's a way to ease the tension.
Yuken isn't fine.
Arata isn't certain of how they met, of what Todoroki dared to do to get such hatred unleashed at him twice. He doesn't miss how the other stares at his damaged jacket, dejected at its state.
"Where did I live?"
He gets the name of the town, mumbled. Nothing else. He's pressing too far, and Yuken isn't willing to hold a conversation, sipping his drink as if it was stale.
"Are you from the same place?"
"No," that's a lie they both know it.
Unsteady, yet unable to stay in place, Yuke stands up, starting to walk away without even a goodbye.
You don't need me anymore, he seems to say.
Arata doesn't stop him.
☆ ☆ ☆
Todoroki will never return now that he has his name back. And he forgot his chips at the playground.
Which one is sadder?
Ah, definitely the chips.
(On a bridge, a lifetime ago, a trembling boy holding a bouquet of flowers. Another standing on a bridge.
"Jamuo, right? Can you hold onto this for me?"
A phone with a white and black case, dropped into clumsy hands, a phone which was supposed to be thrown into the river.
And then a boy waving goodbye, getting off the bridge, bag over his shoulder.)
He staggers back to whatever shithole is the closest, wiping blood with his sleeves until they are damp and uncomfortable. He throws the whole jacket in a trashcan, eyes blurry with tears which will leave his eyes painful if he doesn't grab artificial ones to ease the burning sensation later.
Sunglasses hide the redness well enough for now, as he makes his way into another terrible night. He's tired. He should have made up a fake name—ah, too late for that.
At least, the flat he intended to crash at is almost empty, except for a woman who was heading out for her shift at the bar when he arrived. It allows him to shower properly, patching each bruise. He shouldn't have thrown away his jacket, although it was dead and unusable—he has no money for a new one, and his old clothes have long been sold—he misses oversized cardigans, how warm they were.
Could always steal one, yeah.
Ah next time he gets paid, he'll try to make an effort. After throwing his clothes in the washer and getting changed with whatever he finds, he gets to bed.
That would be cruel to have left Todoroki one more time without saying farewell.
The next morning his eyes are so painful he has to head to the pharmacy, crumbled prescription taken from his pocket, to ask for new eye drops and artificial tears—his eye disease wouldn't have gotten so bad, hadn't he fucked up his treatment for the past year. He cannot remember at which place he left the others—and the pharmacist luckily takes pity on him.
He lays on a bench later, applying one drop after another, leg dangling in the air as he wonders if he could run to the train station or something—after all, if he were Todoroki he would throw himself back—that's a lie. Housen must hate him, he is too scared to ever return.
I'm sorry, for ruining everything, he tells the gods of this world as he receives a couple of texts about his next work. I'm sorry, but at least one of us will be happy now.
☆ ☆ ☆
It's overwhelming, to step inside a school only to be met with silence, as if he were a ghost haunting them. He couldn't call, couldn't bear to know how they would react, nor he managed to book a train at first. It took his boss putting the money in his hands, thanking him for his hard work.
No, that's wrong, Arata wanted to reply, my home is here.
Perhaps neither place is completely his.
There are footsteps echoing far away, someone calling a number as the rest stare. A group catches his attention, a bunch of people leaning against the second floor window, heaviness in their pose. One of them says that name which should be his. Todoroki.
He can accept that part.
Finding himself online, discovering the pitiful story of this place; Todoroki Arata, that's who he is right now. Time has come to a halt for a while, as they are still unsure, and so he is.
Then he hears a scream, in the midst of deafening silence, he blinks, turning toward the entrance getting hit by a fury which squeezes him so hard he loses his balance.
"Todo!"
Palms squish his face, and he instinctively tries to punch the other, who laughs with glee, dodging with ease. That's—kinder than what he expected.
"We had a funeral for you," the guy says, putting a foot in his mouth without difficulty, "that was lame."
Maybe there is something deeper behind the words, and the way one hand refuses to let go off his sleeve. Somehow—that's not so bad.
There are introductions, a myriad of old faces he has lost forever. He says it first, obviously. And they understand. Two men wrap him into a hug in an abandoned room, and although it only lasts a couple of seconds, Todoroki feels alive. Not that his life at the bar was a lie—he has just missed something he didn't know he had lost. They are quick to push him back with the others, where they talk for hours.
Stories of his younger day, of his arrival at Oya High, the way he attempted to rise without believing he could be stopped, that's kind of embarrassing. Although a part of him finds his past self's boldness refreshing.
(How long until the outsider is found, hiding in the broadcasting room.
Bodies pressed against each other, one reading, the second asleep against his chest. Secret hideout that people pretend to ignore.
"Oya High is too easy to slip into." One will say later, as he always does. For now, he has fallen into a well-deserved nap.
And the weight is appreciated, a reminder that neither of them is alone.)
As the visit ends, leaving him dizzy with the amount of information he received, someone calls out for him in the hallway. The young man, a frown on his face, steps forward, holding what appears to be a phone out.
"Is it mine?" that's the logical assumption, isn't it?
Jamuo shakes his head, keeping his grip on the object for a moment and refusing to give it up.
"I charged it earlier," he dodges the question, "he never came back for it so it should be yours."
Who is 'he'? He doesn't ask, Jamuo slipping the phone in his pocket before quickly exiting the hallway as the others return, asking him if he wants to get drinks with them.
Ah, hard to refuse.
The overwhelming emotion of being back only hits him that night, as he sleeps over at Shiba and Tsuji, unable to keep his eyes closed. Do they believe he has returned for good? Should he warn them about the train ride home the next day?
He's on a bridge, metaphorically, unsure of which way he should head towards. Well, apparently he doesn't have an excellent track record with bridges in general.
Sitting up, he grabs his glasses, slipping them on while researching for his coat's pocket.
The phone appears to be a decent one—not too old. The case is simple too, without a name or any distinctive sign to indicate the owner. When he opens it though, there is a date written on paper squeezed there. As he presses the lockscreen, a stray cat looking at the camera, an old picture, a bit blurry, he realizes it's probably the code to unlock it.
Todoroki—still getting used to being more than Arata, to have a beginning before the start, what feels like a previous life he can look at behind a glass without any interaction—expects countless possibilities.
Getting his heart crushed so abruptly isn't one of them.
On the screen, his past self smiles, a bit exasperated, arms wrapped around the shoulders of the person holding the camera.
Although the impression is totally different, prideful grin and blond hair, he recognizes the sunglasses, and the body leaning against his.
Shaky fingers find the gallery, filled with pictures taken together—sometimes without permission, blurry fingers aiming for the phone—sometimes of hands linked together, of schools and dates, restaurants and aftermath of brawls, everyone together.
Although it's late, he dares to press the play button on the latest video in the gallery, using his hand to muffle the sound.
"Todoroki, what do you like the most about me?"
"Which kind of question is that?"
"Hey, you don't know?"
"You asked too suddenly."
He hears laughter, the phone unsteady as he sees his own annoyed face for a second. They must have been laying together on that couch he saw earlier at Oya... But already the camera is back on the other person .
"What I love the most about Todoroki is—"
"Your hair."
"Hm?"
"It's soft. And your hands are great in mine. And your eyes—"
"Todoroki, what are you so romantic for all, of a sudden?"
He catches a glimpse of himself, stealing sunglasses, putting them away, one hand covering Yuken's eyes before he—swiftly steals the phone from him with a triumphant expression .
"What I love the most about Odajima is Odajima. That's all."
The video ends right there, leaving him smaller than he thought he could be. It's worse to have these memories. At least, by having nothing left, he was supposed to escape grieving a past which held no weight. Now—he recognizes Odajima Yuken as this enraged person who couldn't bear his presence each time they met.
A lover.
He hadn't imagined that.
Friendship, perhaps.
Silently, he turns off the screen laying on his back, not having anything to say.
He cries, without a sound, mourning for the first time.
Todoroki Arata—Yosuke isn't retrievable, river having licked off all sense of that self from him—stands in front of Housen, clenching the phone inside his pocket without daring to take it out. He couldn't ask Shiba and Tsuji about Odajima, without being sure of what stopped him.
Instead he makes his way as he will always do in this town; old spirit returned without having a shrine to rest his body, chin up high although surroundings are a blur without a beginning or an end, voices spiralling from surprise to a murmur he doesn't understand.
Housen's representatives come to him, staring past him as if they expected somebody else. One takes more careful steps, putting pressure against the floor, face unreadable.
"Todoroki."
He cannot return the greeting, as while he has been told names, he does not pair them properly yet, countless strangers attempting to slide into his memories at once. The wounds are still fresh, and should be treated with care.
"I saw Yuken," the familiarity wouldn't be as odd as using a last name that the other has gotten rid off.
Jinkawa, he'll learn minutes later, Sawamura taking him aside to narrate the whole story, slaps a hand against his shoulder. A question seems to be stuck at the back of his throat.
He notes the storm brewing in Ueda Sachio as they sit together, tempest which must have been raging underneath his veins for a long time. Getting worse and then leaving for a while. Is it what mourning is meant to be like? All he has in his chest is the painful video playing over and over, the playfulness and laughter unable to associate with the person he met, gnawing at his own wounds without care, making him pay for something which wasn't his fault.
"Tell us," a pause, "everything."
That's a demand which isn't fulfilled. Todoroki leaves blanks here and there, phone tucked safely away from them. Selfishness prevailing over the rest. If he dwells too deep, admitting where the other hangs—Arata isn't certain he has a home to return to—wouldn't he lose his sole chance to confront him? To, perhaps, if he has enough courage, returns the memories.
Yuken, the one he has met, would smash the phone against the ground, refusing to leave without erasing any trace of what could drag him back there.
He chooses to confide in how exhausted he seemed to be, odd personality, which apparently was already similar albeit not in the negative turn it seems to have taken.
"He left, not long after the—funeral," Sawamura explains, while Shida keeps on pacing from one side of the room to the other until Ueda shakes his head, forcing him back into a sitting position.
"We haven't managed to figure out his whereabouts."
Delinquents have a code. You mustn't get involved beyond what the other person wants, unless there is no other choice to keep them alive. Isn't it one of those cases? His gaze drifts towards Ueda, awaiting his judgment.
"Is he happy?"
The simplicity of the question takes Arata aback. He is aware of the answer, even after only crossing paths with Yuken twice.
"No."
"Would he let us back into his life?"
That one is more tedious, although he doesn't hesitate. He has seen patrons at the bar, similar circumstances, one tragedy throwing them off balance forever.
"No."
Ueda closes his eyes one moment, palms pressed against his knees.
"Will he live if he stays like this?"
"No."
"Save him," as he lifts his head, face hardened with resolve, he makes this demand directly to Todoroki.
To Yosuke, or to Arata?
He isn't certain.
Either way, anger is difficult to contain, against someone who pushed everyone away without care. He understands, without remembering the emotion exactly.
"I will do my best."