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1 [Yahaba] yellow
Temperature was the first sense Yahaba regained. Everything was exceptionally cold. His hands laid on top of a thin scratchy blanket, moving his hands underneath for cover wouldn’t do much. His shoulders and arms were cold too, but also, his joints felt horridly stiff.
The rhythmic beep Yahaba recognized from movies and nursing homes came next. He was now fully aware he was not at home in his bed. He tried to open his eyes not realizing how weighted his lids were. Bringing attention to his face, still unable to open his eyes, he’s third sense was the unpleasant metallic and dry taste in his mouth.
When his eyes finally obeyed, yellow was the first thing he saw.
The monitor he assumed was next to him beeped only slightly faster alerting Yahaba of his accelerating heartbeat. It was too loud for his liking and he willed himself to slow it down. He didn't want to wake the stranger who was lent over the side of his hospital bed.
His hospital bed.
The patient band on his wrist was extra proof. He inspected the band with hopes it would say why he was there, but he didn't know the codes. He only recognized his name and noticed the date was all wrong. It must have been a typo someone punched in on a number pad.
His parents were nowhere in sight, only the boy who looked to be of high school age. His bleached blond head was face down into his crossed arms centimeters away from Yahaba’s left knee. He didn't know how long the boy was there but he was asleep in a chair and should have been very uncomfortable. Yahaba was not comfortable himself, his head hurt and his neck was sore even though he was propped up in a very low sitting position.
He tried to shift his weight into a position that rested his neck more but nothing seemed to work and only hurt worse. His head felt lighter, a dizziness was creeping in. He gave up trying to reposition with a semi loud huff of defeat.
The blond was no longer asleep but his face was turned towards Yahaba, his eyes slowly and shockingly widening. They were piercing, honey brown eyes, which sunk in around the hints of purple and flushed skin. He couldn't read the emotion on the stranger's face. Sadness or maybe remorse.
“Shigeru,” the boy choked out.
Yahaba scrunched his face at his given name coming from the lips of a pure stranger. His face felt tight and tighter around his scalp.
Are there bandages on my head?
The boy was hitting the button that called for a nurse. Seconds later a nurse walked in with his mom.
“Shigeru,” his mom hovered over him, now holding his right hand. It was easy to see she was relieved but still worried.
“How are you feeling?” the nurse asked, looking over a tablet Yahaba assumed contained his electronic medical chart “can you tell us?”
He couldn't. His face was also sore for some reason and he hadn't realized how helpful the extra oxygen running into his nose was until he tried to take a breath to talk.
“It's ok you don't have to talk,” she held up a small flashlight to Yahaba's eyes “please look at me.”
She did a few simple tests nurses could do, like watch Yahaba’s eyes tracking her finger. She also asked a few simple questions Yahaba could answer with the smallest nod or lack thereof.
The blond was fidgeting. Yahaba started to conclude that perhaps he was a bystander who witnessed whatever landed him in the hospital. Maybe he stayed here to give the paramedics more information on what happened or report to police officers. He would have to thank him later. Even though he didn't look like a good kid, he had to have been to stay this long with someone he doesn't know.
“And lastly, before the Doctor gets here any minute now, Yahaba do you know why you are in the hospital today?” she smiled brightly at her nearly finished tasks.
Yahaba slowly shook his head, no.
“Are you aware that there was an accident at your school that led you to be here?” her eyes narrow only slightly.
Again, no.
“That's normal right?” his mom asked the nurse, she turned her attention back to Yahaba “You recognize me, don't you sweety?” she half-heartedly laughed with new wrinkles around her mouth that were not there the day before. Yahaba knew she was trying to joke to hide her growing concern.
He nodded, yes.
“And Kentarou?” she smiled and nodded towards the blond who sat across from her.
You know him? Yahaba wanted to ask, his brows furrowed, perhaps too much.
The nurse left the room in a hurry, presumably to get the doctor. His mother revealed she also had new forehead lines when Yahaba didn't respond right away. The blond frowned, he looked pissed but definitely sadder. He did call Yahaba but his given name, why? The monitor beeps picked up speed again.
The doctor entered the room holding the tablet and the nurse was whispering to him looking at the blond boy too.
“Shigeru,” his mom locked eyes with him, “Kentarou, do you know who that is?” there was underlying panic in her voice and she rubbed at his hand a little harder.
His lips parted, the first word Yahaba was able to say-
“Who?”
2 [Kyoutani] enough
It radiated in his ears, burning dully and much louder than Yahaba actually spoke. It didn't feel real. But it was. There was no way Yahaba wasn't serious or lying. He was not the kind to be this petty. To get back at him for the intense fight they had just the other night. This was real.
Curiosity and fear fought for control of Yahaba’s facial expressions. His mother was now standing, asking the Doctor something, and said Kyoutani’s name a few times. But he could not put the words together to understand what they were saying.
What the hell is happening.
“Baby, do you really not know who this is?”
“No,” Yahaba's voice was certain. It was soft and scratchy but burned in Kyoutani’s ears like torture from the afterlife.
“Yahaba,” the Doctor finally addressed his patient, “what year is it?”
“2010”
His mother was now on her phone, frantically typing, presumably to call Yahaba’s father. The nurse was next to her now, giving words of assurance. Yahaba was starting to breathe heavier. If Kyoutani was functioning normally he would have told him to, ‘slow down idiot’ but, given the circumstances, that would have made things worse, because-
“It seems you are having a little memory loss,” the doctor continued, he was the only person in the room to display total calm “you had to have surgery yesterday after…”
What the hell is happening.
Kyoutani stood without thinking, he was now looking down at the boy in the hospital bed whose eyes intensely stared at the doctor. His mother was now on the phone, demanding her husband to return immediately. Because Shigeru was now awake but something was wrong. He could hear his muffled father’s voice say she was probably exaggerating. The nurse continued her out-of-practice speech about temporary memory loss and how it can be completely fine.
But it didn't stop the hot coals from making their way into Kyoutani’s throat. He could feel the foreign heat tearing away at him from the inside. It didn't stop the questioning looks from Yahaba as his eye flickered back and forth to all the members in the room. It didn't stop Kyoutani’s legs from moving on their own as he turned to exit the room.
No-one stopped him. He thought maybe he heard Yahaba's mother call his name but he couldn't be sure. He didn't want to trust any sound he just heard. Especially not the gentle crying sobs coming from Yahaba.
What the hell is happening.
This was a shock, Kyoutani was in acute physiological or mental shock and he didn't know how to react to anything. Not the staff workers asking him if he needed help, nor the bystanders on the streets asking, ‘you okay kid?’
His body was on autopilot and a nonexistent external force guided him home. His head heard the word who in a hellish never-ending loop. It pounded harder each time but slowly transitioned from stinging to dull. Form cuts to blunt force. From pain to another pain. who
He has heard countless words from Yahaba. All of them were beautiful as they left his lips, regardless of the tone. Even the spiteful, angry, hurt, and ugly words. All were beautiful. He could lecture Kyoutani for not stretching properly or whisper something sweet and incoherent. His laughs were like audible nectar only meant for deities. The rare spouts of wrath or depressed driven mumbling would tug at Kyoutani’s heart, but the voice was still beautiful. It didn't matter the contents, he quickly learned to love each and everything that escaped from Yahaba’s lips.
Except for that. That one word would haunt him for only the gods know how long.
He didn’t announce that he was home. Yahaba couldn't ‘see’ him so why should anyone else. He didn't deserve to be seen or heard. Blame appeared in his long list of thoughts. If he hadn't, if he just, why didn't he. I'm the reason we didn't walk to school together.
“Ken?” the familiar feminine voice sounded distant and sloshy like he heard it while being underwater.
He bent to untie his shoes. It was a mistake, he should have kicked them off. Not letting the weight on his back become present. Not let the navy and yellow woven string come into view. The view of everything blurred. The hot coals that were in this throat while he was in the hospital returned. His face and chest hurt almost as much as his heart.
“Kentarou,” his sister, the kindest woman on the planet, with all her grace and care swiftly encased the younger Kyoutani in her slender arms.
They sat on the floor just in front of the door. She held her younger brother as she had done many times when he was little. Their body language and wordless communication reflective of the time they lost their mother. She didn't know what happened at the hospital, to the boy who should now be awake after surgery. She didn't know what caused the boy, who made her brother smile so often, to fall so early in the morning. But she did know now much Shigeru meant to Kentarou and that was enough.
She didn't say anything, she didn't have to. For now, her arms around him were enough.
3 [Yahaba] scrapbooks
Yahaba knew he was gay back in middle school, but finding scrapbooks, who even makes scrapbooks, not photo albums, scrapbooks, from high school made him wonder if he was out. They looked stereotypical ‘girly,’ which he didn't mind, he was just worried if that was ‘okay.’ Was he made fun of at school? Was he a loner? Or did he have supportive friends? Maybe he joined the art club, he did like using his hands, and hands-on activities were always suggested for his anxiety. So perhaps it wasn't that bad. But, his family didn't tell him about the books. He found them himself, on the top shelf in his closet tucked under a now old jacket that was too small.
Embarrassed at his former self he was still thankful to him. Maybe this would help him remember something. He had been home from the hospital for three days now, after spending two more nights there to monitor him and to teach him how to properly care for his healing head and shoulder.
He placed the books down next to his bed and looked over at the mirror by his desk. From the front, you couldn't see the missing patches in his hair. But purple and greenish water-colored stains were smudged over the left side of his lower cheek, neck, and shoulder. He hated not being able to move his arms to their full range of motion. He itched to have his hands up, especially when he looked at the volleyball on the floor.
There were three scrapbooks, the thinnest one labeled ‘Aoba Johsai,’ another book was labeled ‘VBC.’ The last one, obviously the most expensive didn't have a title. It had a slot for a picture on the front. It was a picture of him in his afterschool clothes. His smile was enormous and cheesy, one hand thrown up in a victory sign and his other arm slung over the shoulder of someone else. The guy from the hospital, no one else could possibly have hair like that. He had a grumpy expression on his face, he didn't look at the camera and blush was undoubtedly on his cheeks.
Of course, that was the scrapbook he had to look at first. Each page consisted of handwriting that only belonged to Yahaba himself. There weren't any cheesy stickers. Just neatly organized photos, sticky notes, and a few receipts held on the pages with clear straight-lined tape. He cared about the placement, he could see that clearly in his own work. Yahaba knew he never did anything half-assed. And he could tell he did this wholeheartedly.
“Hiking” “Arcade night” “Karaoke with Watari” “Christmas” “New year's” “Shrine visit” “Valentines Day” “Surprise Spicy Curry eating contest, I lost lol” and it just kept going. Maybe a year or even a year and a half of this.
Page after page, two familiar people were on every page. A few pages had others thrown in but still, every single damn page included Yahaba and him. He was mad. He wanted to throw the book across the room. But after lifting his right arm with the book at the ready to be thrown he couldn't bring himself to do it. Yahaba still made this. It was his handwriting. His dumb little hearts and smiley faces scribble on a few pages. His smile in the pictures. His memories.
He was mad because he wanted to know. He wanted to know who these two were. Who this version of himself was and who he was so blissfully happy to be with.
He didn't finish looking through the scrapbook. He only really looked at the details in the photos on a few pages. He mostly paid attention to the titles and the dates. Three years of his life was gone. Less like a hole but more of a large gap stretching over a vacuum of space and time.
Yahaba’s emotions were all over the place, he held it together the first few days for his mother’s sake. His mother was a naturally calm person but this was nothing the family had ever experienced before. And apparently, no one knew what led him to be on the roof of the school anyway. He certainly didn't know. His brother said he had left early that morning for practice after being upset the night before. He couldn't check his phone either, muscle memory did nothing for the passcode. It was an older phone and he tried to guess but it kept locking itself into shutdown. His dad said he would get him a new phone since he needed a new one anyway. His phone did beep with notifications a few times, but he was never able to read a full message and there wasn't any point if he didn't recognize the names either.
After gently placing the scrapbook back down, now with less anger in his mind. He started flipping through the other two. The Volleyball Club one was his favorite. It did have stickers, they were all the same style and sports theme. His family gave him a rundown on what he was missing, he was told he was captain of the volleyball club but seeing himself wear jersey number one underlined was breathtaking. Not necessarily in a good way. He was proud but at the same time envious. He looked happy in pictures but he felt so far from it now. He was lost and that was a level of frustration he would never be able to explain.
He thanked himself again for this scrapbook in particular. There were more notes, names he could match more faces to, and even a section for contacts like emails and phone numbers. He must have had a lot of free time to create something so elaborate and full of details.
When he was finished looking at the books, not by choice but out of his growing frustrations, he stacked them neatly on his desk next to the plastic hospital bag. The bag originally contained his uniform, phone, wallet, house keys, and anything else in his pockets from that day. Only one thing was left. A small, thin, handmade yellow and navy piece of woven string. Yahaba grabbed the bracelet and reopened the scrapbook on top to a page he thought would make the most sense. “Summer Festival '' was written at the top in gold and in almost calligraphic writing. His past self must have spent time on this page.
There were four photos total, how did I even print all these? The first was a picture of the gates with the bustling festival, people, stands, and lanterns sprawled out behind it. The next one was of the boy his mother told him was Kentarou, in a plain navy-colored yukata, not looking at the camera but at a seemingly random dog. He was smiling and handsome. The third was of the two of them, most likely at the beginning of the adventure since they were standing together and it was sunnier than the rest. Yahaba was also in a yukata, slightly taller but also thinner than his partner. Yahaba assumed someone else took the photo but it was in front of a house he didn’t recognize. The last photo was the one he was looking for. It was a selfie of Yahaba, smiling like an idiot, holding out his wrist to show off the bracelet he was now holding in his hand. Kentarou was looking at him, not at the camera again. He looked happy. He looked happy looking at him.
‘We made each other bracelets and we both picked the same colors!’ The caption was in his best penmanship, he spent time here. The piece of string was important to him and being in his hospital bag, he must have been wearing it that morning too.
Yahaba was unsure of the actions his heart was partaking in without his permission. He was emotional and stressed. He was happy looking at his own smiling face but it was always overrun with frustrations. It was probably why nothing was being remembered, he never kept going. He would just get mad and give up. Or his heart would race, anxiety and the fear of never remembering turned in his stomach.
He laid the bracelet in the crease between the two pages, a little more carefully than he anticipated, and closed the book. His hands were cold but steady. He raised them off the desk to place them back on the top shelf of his closet. He covered them with old clothes just like he found them. He felt as if he was burying a secret. Or perhaps his heart.
Yahaba was now exhausted, three hours of flipping pages passed before he realized it. Thinking was tiring, given his last few days, he was still heavily recovering. But he was impatient and didn't like being lost. Being left behind in the dark.
4 [Yahaba] passing
Meeting with the school counselor was weird. Yahaba was a student with nearly perfect scores, made scrapbooks in his free time, apparently had time to do activities to fill said scrapbooks, and was not only Captain of the club but was still participating in it just two weeks ago when realistically he should have been done with the club already and handed it down to the second years. He had passed all his final exams, so on a technical standpoint, he earned his spot at graduation. The doctors also advised the school that the memory loss should not be permanent but the time frame of recovery was unknown. Yahaba said a silent prayer, thankful he could graduate because he knew he would not be able to catch up with himself. His parents were also thankful but they began to discuss what happens next, private tutoring was an option if his memories didn't return in the coming months. They wanted Yahaba to go to college, Yahaba wasn't sure what he wanted.
It had been almost two weeks since his not so little fall off the top of the school. News traveled fast as every person he walked past stared at him. It wasn't often parents who also came for student counselor meetings in the middle of the day, but, no one would argue his situation wasn't unique. The bruises on the upper left side of his cheek and neck were still there, just more yellow instead of the fresh purplish green. He was able to fashion his hair to hide the missing spots and the few remaining stitches. He still felt self-conscious about it and really wished he could wear a beanie.
“Yahaba?” The voice came from a third year with a buzz cut and brilliant grey eyes.
Yahaba identified a major con of going to a private high school, none of his friends from middle school followed him. He involuntarily frowned.
“Will you be at graduation?” grey eyes asked, he was holding something, or someone, behind him. It was the blond.
It was hard to process the question along with the new visuals next to him. Seeing his honey brown eyes again, but this time live and in person. The only word he heard from him was Yahaba’s own name, broken and fragile. Thankfully, his mom answered for him.
“He will,” she chimed. She had gotten better at addressing people on his behalf. The near two weeks gave her time to return to her calm self and be what Yahaba needed. “Perhaps, if Shigeru feels up for it, we can plan to do something small after, would that be alright?”
The grey eyes thanked her and bowed. They seemed to already know each other well. The honey eyes never looked away from Yahaba. Eyes are a funny thing. Each pair is exceptionally unique, but they all now asked slightly the same question. Of all the pairs of eyes he saw in passing, the honey ones were the most intense.
The day of graduation was a haze. It started by dressing into the worn uniform he only remembered wearing a handful of times, muscle memory guided him through his probable routine. His mother wanted to take his picture with his brother. This could be the last time she had two sons in school uniforms and she tried not to get emotional but failed. He put on his best fake smile for her, his brother didn't notice but she could see right through it. She told him it would be okay as he left to walk to school.
Yahaba had gotten used to asking for help or where things were. He had to. He didn't want to stand out today and being lost or confused would harbor just that. He could only recognize only a handful of names, either from his scrapbooks or perhaps middle school classmates he was never really friends with. Lacking the energy to focus he failed his only task to not stand out as he almost missed his name being called, thankfully the student next to him nudged him a little.
Fortunately, the school day was finally over, Yahaba headed home alone again. He was always alone. He didn't know how to approach people. He must not have been likable since no one approached him first.
“Congrats!” It was a tall guy, a second-year with black spiked up hair “Sorry I haven't seen you sooner, when you left the club we got really busy.”
He motioned at the other guy with him. Also, a second-year but his black hair went down.
“We assumed you needed space,” the other one spoke in monotone.
“I tried to call,” the tall one had to be a middle blocker, the height and taped fingers gave it away.
“I got a new phone,” Yahaba replied, he felt good. He liked talking with someone that wasn’t family or hospital personnel “I umm, don't remember the passcode to get into my old one”
Yahaba rubbed the back of his neck, careful of the bruises that lingered there. He laughed, he was nervous but talking to people who he recognizes as his friends was refreshing. He remembered the faces and names written in his VBC book.
“So you need our numbers again then!” It was grey eyes from behind him. His smile was enormous and his flower pinned to him was crushed, perhaps too much hugging. He seemed like a hugger.
“Congrats to you too, Watari,” the two high fived “where's Kyoutani?”
“He was with his sister last I saw him,” Watari cleared his throat, “said they were going to visit their mother.”
“Who?” Yahaba didn't mean to let that slip out. He was enjoying their company but hadn't heard of a Kyoutani before. The name was not familiar and not written in any of his books. So his curiosity got the better of him.
The stares he got from the others, however, terrified him. They looked at him as if he used a swear word, but like, a forbidden one. Anxiety came in, busting right past the mental doors he used to keep it out. He preferred to be in a haze than to panic and react to their looks. Why are they looking at me like that?
“Ramen,” the one Yahaba figured was Kunimi from his notes, said, “the volleyball club always celebrates with Ramen, we should go together.”
His face was less expresfull than the others, but he did react, even if it was only for a second, at Yahaba’s earlier question.
“That's a great idea,” Watari flipped his joy switch back on “we can fill you in there if you want?”
Yahaba just nodded. He was hungry. The haze of the day washed out his hunger but now it was here. Aside from just ramen, he was hungry for answers too.
5 [Yahaba] the same
In the two months of self subject research, listening to stories, and rebuilding friendships with a few of the volleyball members, Yahaba learned two things: (1) Yahaba in high school was both a badass and an ass, and (2) he was only an ass when Kyoutani was around and Kyoutani was a dick.
He wondered if maybe that's why Kentarou wasn't around. The blond always looked sad on the few occasions they passed by each other. Yahaba was probably an ass around him too and he cursed at the faceless Kyoutani character who his teammates said always got him worked up. He could only guess he dated honey eyes, why else would he have a scrapbook dedicated to just the two of them. Probably in secret since none of his friends brought up his name. And they also probably broke up since the scrapbook was hidden under the pile of books and under a few items of clothing. He signed heavily. He brought his knees to his chest and worked on controlling his breathing. They had to have been together for a while. There were too many pictures for them to not be. Yahaba assumed he had to have done something terrible to keep him away. If he knew his number or where he lived he might have had the courage to outright ask. But he didn't and he knew, with his anxiety, he probably wouldn't either way.
“Satoshi?”
“Hmm,” his younger brother was working hard on his summer homework on the floor while Yahaba stayed on the couch, still hugging his legs to his chest. Satoshi was the academic type, always too busy studying something. Yahaba didn't mind, to each their own.
He wasn't sure how to ask the question that came to mind every time his eyes found two parallel lines. His mother only mentioned Kentarou a few times but Satoshi never did. He went on about Kyoutani and after learning the name it made him roll his eyes every time. Why did his brother like someone that irritated Yahaba so much? How did they even meet? And did he never tell his brother about Kentarou?
“Did I ever talk about a Kentarou to you?” he thought he would feel a lot more saying it out loud, but surprisingly he was fairly calm.
“Well, yeah! Only, like, all the time,” his brother snorted.
What was with that answer? All the time? How had he never mentioned this before? If Yahaba knew his older brother had a boyfriend that would be the first thing he would tell him if the roles were reversed. But he didn't, so there was more evidence they weren't together anymore. Or perhaps it was a secret, so his family really didn't know.
“What's he like?”
“Kyoutani’s great!” he didn't look up and kept working. “I like him the best out of all your friends, your reactions around him are always funny and he is a fast learner. You always complain about my interests being too nerdy but he never seemed to mind what I wanted to talk about.”
Satoshi leaned back and faced his brother. His face got dark for the first time since Yahaba was home from the hospital, “I think the two of you got into a big fight the last time you spoke. I don't know why Kyoutani hasn't been around and I hear he recently moved to Sendai.”
“Okay, first,” Yahaba sighed deeply annoyed at his dodged question, “I don't complain that much-”
“To me you do,”
“Second!” Yahaba rubbed his temple “I asked about Kentarou, not Kyoutani. I get enough stories about him from Kindaichi and Watari.”
“Shigeru,”
“What!” Even more annoyed.
“That's the same person.”
What
“His name is Kentarou Kyoutani, the blond guy with the lines in his hair” Satoshi used his finger to draw imaginary lines just above his ear.
“Fuck”
“Language!” with perfect timing his mom came home and walked over to the kitchen with a grocery bag in each arm.
“Kentarou and Kyoutani are the same person?”
She dropped the tomatoes.
6 [Kyoutani] hate
Sendai sucked. Kyoutani hated everything, mostly himself. But he was still damn good at volleyball.
In a few ways, volleyball reminded him of his favorite pair of brown eyes that shined like polished silver.
Spikes and service aces were not bad either.
Kyoutani tried nearly every day to push away the negative thoughts that would flood his mind. What if he only made it worse? What if he only remembered the bad? This caused him to only remember the bad. Granted, even with the bad; the arguments, the shoving, the stupid misunderstandings that only led to completely avoidable stress. Yes, even with the ‘bad’ all of his memories of Yahaba were always good. However, he couldn't help himself from thinking, maybe it’s better this way.
An excuse after excuse always came to mind when he thought of running to the Yahaba household and word vomit all of his feelings.
He got along well enough with Yahaba’s Mother. He knew she had her suspicions about the two but Yahaba said he wasn't ready to tell his family yet. And the younger brother, Kyoutani enjoyed his company and would even miss his smart-alec comments from time to time. But, Yahaba still wasn't ready, so if he were to run back to the boy’s house he so desperately missed he knew he would only make it worse. Yahaba wouldn't believe him or he’d be out to his family or hell even to himself. Kyoutani didn't know how any of the memory loss really worked.
He also knew how overbearing Yahaba’s Father was. He wasn't around often, but his everlasting effects on Yahaba, and by default Kyoutani as well, was enough to keep Kyoutani away. Yes, the thought, maybe it’s better this way.
So, Kyoutani hated everything, mostly himself. But he was still damn good at volleyball.
7 [Yahaba] tiny
His memories still were not back and Yahaba was in no way prepared for college. So his parents got him a private tutor. Satoshi loved it, Yahaba did not. He did, however, enjoy spending time with his younger brother. In a way, he got the best of both worlds for being a middle child. His older brother, Senzo, played Volleyball and introduced him to the sport. He practiced with him when he was in middle school and missed him like crazy now that he was still away at university. Now his time was filled with Satoshi as they studied together. He was now a first-year at Aoba Johsai but he didn't play any sports. That was fine, he enjoyed the company of a Satoshi that was a little older than his memories served him. He was sad to learn of the milestones, major and minor, he missed over the last few years. Satoshi apparently had a girlfriend for a while. It didn't work out but Yahaba still wished he didn't miss that. Technically he didn’t miss it, he was apparently the one who convinced Satoshi to give the girl the second button off his uniform. But of course, he didn't remember. He didn't remember the conversations, the excitement or the nerves. So in his mind, he wasn't there for his younger brother when he should have been.
Yahaba couldn't have picked a better person to study with, even if Satoshi was four years younger.
“Okay, well, I’m just stupid then.”
“No, it's,” Satoshi leaned over and started marking Yahaba's paper “you’re just bad at communicating.”
“Obviously,” Yahaba gave his brother the new look. The look referring to the event that happened two months prior. The look that stated, no shit.
Satoshi snorted. Yahaba was thankful his brother was in advanced classes. And that he never judged him for being so behind.
“We should take a break, I want Ikura don.” Yahaba leaned back, his weight on his wrist behind him and his head backwards so he could only see the ceiling. No more pain in his shoulders but he still didn't want to overwork his brain. Accident or no accident.
He looked back to his brother who looked almost offended.
“I know you ‘enjoy’ studying but I'm hungry and it's my-” he cut himself off.
“It’s your favorite,” Satoshi put down his red pen and straightened his back. “It's only been your favorite since your second year. Before that you hated it.”
“That’s right.”
“I read somewhere that those things don't change. Like your mental age and the skills, you've learned. You’d probably still be really good at volleyball if you tried.”
“I don't have a team to play on and I'm too busy with all this,” He motioned at the books and notes the two of them had scattered across the living room floor.
“I,” Satoshi smiled just a tiny bit, “still think it's a good sign.”
Yahaba did not agree. He didn't feel any different. He liked food and to him, it felt more like he just decided it was his favorite at that moment, not that he remembered it. But his brother was happy. Maybe he was remembering things without realizing he was. He was shit at communicating, which was established late. And everyone he re-friended said he acted just the same, well some of them.
There were a few people he assumed he didn't get along with as well, who told him he was different. They told him all the things he didn't want to hear. That he was someone else. A stranger. He hated that feeling the most.
8 [Yahaba] out
Going out was a terrible idea, but it was his idea. Yahaba wanted to try to be more independent. He wanted to accept that maybe he just won't remember. That starting over was his only option, not waiting around to pick up where he left off. But now he just wanted to give up and go home. Clubbing was the worst.
“This is the worst.”
“No, it’s not,” Senzo, the older brother, was totally and completely on board with Yahaba starting over and taking those steps.
He was super supportive in general and, apparently, one hell of a partier now. Senzo also just thought of going out meant clubbing with his younger brother who is now old enough. While yahaba thought of cafes or an onsen out of town.
“It's too loud! I can't tell what's music or my heart beating on my rib cage.”
“It's the music! And this is fun!”
Senzo only did ‘fun.’ He played Volleyball for fun, he wasn't even a starter on his team but he didn’t care. To him, practices were still fun, and cheering in the stands was fun. He would probably say he graduated just for fun and moved to Tokyo for fun. Yahaba knew he shouldn't be surprised that he was now a partying college kid. He has so much to be thankful for towards the partying college kid. To both of his brothers. They had always been close to one another, each around four to three years apart from the next. They all looked the same too, just younger or older versions on the same set of genes. Their personalities on the other hand, way off. There was the firstborn partier who changed his major three times now and didn’t have a care in the world. The try-hard (former) athlete who somehow made straight A’s but was surprisingly still an idiot. Then, the mega genius who hated his PE class and was probably going to be an engineer and hopefully invent something to make the family a lot of money. Yahaba started to think he was definitely the failure of the trio and his face must have shown it.
“You don't have to go to college, you know.”
“Dad wants me to.”
“Ha! Me too but look at me now! I'm almost four years in but only have one year's worth of credit towards graduating, haha!”
“Is there a reason you don't take it seriously?” It was a genuine question. Yahaba didn't want to disappoint his dad more than he already had.
“Because, I know what happens next,” Senzo's face became serious, “when I get whatever degree I get, I'm gonna work at Dad's company, alright?”
This was news to Yahaba. Senzo fought that outcome any chance he got. He went off about wanting to be his own person and how his brothers should too.
“I get him now and it's not bad work, just busywork. But I won't be like him, I'm still me”
“Does he know?”
“Well, yeah,” he snorted and sipped on his drink, his eyes following a few figures swaying across the club “you will never disappoint him you know. None of us. So you can stop trying so damn hard.”
A slap landed across Yahaba’s back and he was thankful his brother was formerly a middle blocker, not a wing spiker, or it would have hurt tons worse.
“Sure, I'll try,” he finally smiled.
9 [Yahaba] cigarettes
It was too hard and so damn stressful. Cramming in three years of work in a few months was humanly impossible. At times it wasn't bad. He had to remember something since he understood the notes and lessons well. Or maybe that's not something you forget, like it's stored in a different part of the brain?
It didn't matter. What matters was Yahaba failed his first college entrance exam and he had another one coming up and his nerves had practically vibrated off. Here he was, nine months post-accident, no memory, no scholarship, and a new craving for nicotine and disgusting smoke.
He hated it. But he couldn't stop. The dried-up brown tobacco leaves wrapping in thin paper kept his hands still and prevented him from picking at the skin on his fingertips. He traded one bad habit for an even worse habit.
Captain of the Volleyball Team Yahaba would be pissed to see this is what he had become. Hell, even the ever so supportive senpai, Oikawa, would probably be beyond disappointed in him. But he keeps his struggles mostly to himself. He liked Oikawa for some reason, even though he had only seen him once or twice, that he knew off.
[Oikawa] Just ask (:
The message was four hours old now. Yahaba turned off his overthinking with a cigarette. He didn't want to ask anymore. Or be told anymore. He hated forgetting. He hated it all.
10 [Yahaba] forgetting
It had been months since the thought of the relationship he had. He could feel himself forgetting. Like the cold of the winter months creeping in slowly. As the warmth of fall left, so did his searching for Ken- Kyoutani.
He told himself he needed to move on. They weren’t together. If they were the other would have found him by now.
[Watari] Oh by the way!
[Watari] Yahaba
[Watari] There’s a get together coming up
[Watari] Next month
[Watari] your coming right?
[Watari] You’re*
[Kunimi] all of that could have been one text.
[Yahaba] I will consider it.
[Watari] pleeeeeeeease
[Kindaichi] I hate to interrupt your interruption, but back to what I was saying.
Kindaichi was asking for help with a conflict that was going on with the first years. Yahaba lost interest. He was done with drama, he didn't even want to keep up with his own. But he liked Kindaichi, so he tried to put in some effort.
He texted his short replies, only half paying attention. He enjoyed being a part of a friend group and chatting with people outside his family. But, he wondered, what's the point? After they graduate they’ll never have to deal with each other again. It sounded like to the younger club members, it was just a sport to play, not a commitment. comminment
He was lonely. Included in the conversation, asked to hang out, smile at and waved to on the street, always told goodnight by family. But heart crushingly lonely. Like there was a void, some gap, a missing piece. And Yahaba knew why. He just didn't want to admit, not thinking about someone was worse than missing them.
I wish I could forget ‘you’
11 [Yahaba] terrible
Yahaba considered not going. He finally told Watari he would but with the sudden downward turn in the weather, he wished he didn't. He didn't want to talk with people he didn't know but should know either. It had been almost a year but the memories of faces looking at him with pity over time contorted into disgust. People were gross. Rotten personalities and germ-carrying. He felt no different from them either.
He painfully reminisced on the picture of his slightly younger self. Happy and with a friend, beaming smiles and matching bracelets.
‘Summer Festival’ was what was written on the page of his scrapbook with the two happy high schoolers showing off their yellow and navy pair of strings around their wrists.
Yahaba sighed heavily, it was still pressed against the spine of that book surrounded by page after page by his former jubilant self.
As much as he actually tried to forget this one small detail of his past, he couldn't. The gap in his memories was meant to be filled with yellow, his favorite color.
Fuck it
He gathered his keys, wallet, and hand sanitizer because yes, people are gross, and informed his family that after his private tutoring, he would be leaving for the not a reunion, reunion.